.,£ 


fc«: 


PROSE  WRITERS  OF  AMERICA, 

1706—1870. 


THE 


PROSE     WRITERS 


OF 


AMERICA. 


WITH 


A    SURVEY    OF    THE    INTELLECTUAL    HISTORY,    CONDITION, 
AND  PROSPECTS    OF   THE  COUNTRY. 


BY 


RUFUS    WILMOT    GRISWOLD, 


NEW    EDITION,    REVISED    AND    ENLARGED. 


WITH    A     SUPPLEMENTARY    ESSAY     ON    THE    INTELLECTUAL 
PROSPECTS     AND     CONDITION     OF     AMERICA, 

BY    PROF.    JOHN   H.    DILLINGHAM. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

PORTER     &     COATES, 

822     CHESTNUT     SI-REE  T. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1870,  by 

PORTER  &  COATES, 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 

HEARS  *  DUSENBERY,  STEREOTYPERS.  SHERMAN  ft  CO.,  PRINTERS. 


PREFACE. 


THIS  volume  contains  a  brief  survey  of  our  intellectual  history,  condition, 
and  prospects,  followed  by  more  than  seventy  biographical  and  critical  notices 
of  authors,  chronologically  arranged,  and  illustrated,  in  most  cases,  by  some 
fragments  or  entire  short  compositions  from  their  works.  'I  have  not  attempted 
to  describe  the  merely  successful  writers,  but  such  as  have  evinced  unusual 
powers  in  controlling  the  national  mind,  or  in  forming  or  illustrating  the  national 
character ;  except  in  a  few  instances,  in  which  productions  of  an  artificial  and 
transient  popularity  are  mentioned  as  indications  of  dangerous  tendencies  or 
influences. 

With  Dr.  Channing,  I  consider  books  of  every  description,  whether  devoted 
to  the  exact  sciences,  to  mental  and  ethical  philosophy,  to  history  and  legislation, 
or  to  fiction  and  poetry,  as  literature ;  though  it  is  common  thus  to  distinguish 
none  but  such  as  have  relation  to  human  nature  and  human  life.  As  a  com 
plete  and  intelligible  reviewal  of  all  our  authors,  however,  would  necessarily 
occupy  several  volumes  like  this,  and  involve  discussions  of  many  subjects  of 
little  interest  to  the  general  reader,  I  have  confined  my  attention  chiefly  to  the 
department  of  belles  lettres,  only  passing  its  boundaries  occasionally  to  notice 
some  of  our  most  eminent  divines,  jurists,  economists,  and  other  students  of 
particular  science,  who  stand  at  the  same  time  as  representatives  of  parties  and 
as  monuments  of  our  intellectual  power  and  activity. 

It  seems  necessary  to  a  due  understanding  of  an  author's  mind,  that  some  of 
the  circumstances  of  his  education  and  general  experience  should  be  known  to 
us.  To  be  able  to  think  with  him  and  feel  with  him,  we  must  live  with  him ; 
and  to  do  this  with  contemporaries  is  sometimes  to  invade  a  privacy  which  is 
dearer  than  fame,  though  a  privacy  which  to  some  extent  is  forfeited  by  the  very 
act  of  publishing.  In  the  sketches  in  this  volume,  I  have  endeavoured  to  keep 
in  view  the  legitimate  scope  and  object  of  such  performances,  to  be  accurate  m 
statement,  liberal  in  principle,  and  just  in  criticism ;  to  select  and  arrange 
materials  with  taste,  and  to  form  and  express  opinions  with  candour. 

In  discussing  the  difficulties  and  dangers  in  the  way  of  American  literature, 
I  have  frequently  referred  to  the  refusal  of  our  government  to  protect  the  copy- 

A2  5 


PREFACE. 


rights  of  foreigners,  in  a  manner  suggested  by  attentive  personal  observation  of 
the  influence  of  the  present  system.  A  short  time  before  Mr.  Washington  Irving 
was  appointed  Minister  to  Spain,  he  undertook  to  dispose  of  a  production  of 
merit,  written  by  an  American  who  had  not  yet  established  a  commanding  name, 
in  the  literary  market,  but  found  it  impossible  to  get  an  offer  from  any  of  the 
principal  publishers.  "They  even  declined  to  publish  it  at  the  author's  cost," 
he  says,  «  alleging  that  it  was  not  worth  their  while  to  trouble  themselves  about 
native  works,  of  doubtful  success,  while  they  could  pick  and  choose  among  the 
successful  works  daily  poured  out  by  the  British  press,  for  the,  copyright  of 
which  they  had  nothing  to  pay."  And  not  only  is  the  American  thus  in  some 
degree  excluded  from  the  audience  of  his  countrymen,  but  the  publishers,  who 
have  a  control  over  many  of  the  newspapers  and  other  periodicals,  exert  them 
selves,  in  the  way  of  their  business,  to  build  up  the  reputation  of  the  foreigner 
whom  they  rob,  and  to  destroy  that  of  the  home  author  who  aspires  to  a  compe 
tition  with  him.  This  legalized  piracy,  supported  by  some  sordid  and  base 
arguments,  keeps  the  criminal  courts  busy ;  makes  divorce  committees  in  the 
legislatures  standing  instead  of  special ;  every  year  yields  abundant  harvests  of 
profligate  sons  and  daughters  ;  and  inspires  a  pervading  contempt  for  our  plain 
republican  forms  and  institutions.  Injurious  as  it  is  to  the  foreign  author,  it  is 
more  so  to  the  American,  and  it  falls  with  heaviest  weight  upon  the  people  at 
large,  whom  it  deprives  of  that  nationality  of  feeling  which  is  among  the  first 
and  most  powerful  incentives  to  every  kind  of  greatness. 

Portions  of  this  volume  have  been  prepared  hastily.  The  field  surveyed  is 
extensive,  and  lingering  over  pleasant  portions  of  it,  I  may  have  given  to  others 
less  attention  than  was  necessary  for  the  formation  of  accurate  opinions.  I  have 
in  no  instance,  however,  trusted  to  the  reports  of  others.  I  have  examined  for 
myself,  with  more  or  less  care,  all  the  works  I  have  attempted  to  describe,  and 
if  in  any  case  I  have  erred  in  judgment,  I  believe  I  have  in  none  failed  to  write 
with  entire  sincerity. 

PHILADELPHIA.  May,  1847. 


PUBLISHERS'    PREFACE. 


SINCE  the  last  revision  of  this  work  by  Dr.  Griswold,  many  authors  who 
were  then  making  their  fame  have  added  unfading  lustre  to  their  names  and 
to  the  cause  of  American  Literature ;  some  of  whom,  such  as  Irving,  Cooper, 
Paulding,  Kennedy,  Prescott,  Willis,  Halleck,  have  since  deceased,  while 
others  are  enjoying  their  well-earned  laurels.  Others,  who  were  at  that 
time  neophytes  in  literature,  have  produced  works  which  are  entitled  to  an 
honorable  mention  in  the  list  of  the  Prose  Writers  of  America. 

To  complete  the  records  to  the  present  time  of  those  commenced  by  Dr. 
Griswold,  and  to  add  accounts  of  those  authors  and  their  works  which  have 
since  become  entitled  to  a  position  in  this  work,  has  been  our  aim.  We 
claim  no  great  originality  of  thought  or  arrangement,  criticism  or  selection, 
but  simply  a  clear  statement  of  the  facts  of  each  biography  and  the  character 
of  the  writings. 

The  most  difficult  task  has  been  to  make  a  proper  selection  from  the 
many  names  offering  for  criticism  or  mention.  To  give  entire  satisfaction 
would  be  impossible ;  many  will  miss  their  favorite  author,  others  will  con 
demn  certain  selections  made,  or  think  it  strange  that  more  space  has  been 
allowed  to  one  writer  than  to  another  whom  they  esteem,  and  perhaps  justly, 
far  his  superior.  To  these  latter  it  may  be  said  that  we  have  endeavored 
to  select  such  passages  as  would  not  only  give  a  fair  idea  of  an  author's  style, 
but  also  be  of  interest  to  the  general  reader ;  and,  in  some  of  the  most  im 
portant  authors,  it  was  found  well-nigh  impossible  to  do  so,  unless  a  larger 
extract  was  taken  than  our  limited  space  would  permit.  While  strict  atten 
tion  had  to  be  paid  to  the  limits  of  this  work  to  keep  it  within  proper  bounds, 
no  favoritism  has  been  shown,  and  no  representative  of  any  one  particular 
class  or  ism  has  been  admitted  to  the  exclusion  of  others  who  were  entitled 
to  proper  mention. 

We  would  also  call  attention  to  the  additional  survey  of  the  progress  of 
American  Literature  by  Prof.  Dillingham  in  a  later  part  of  this  volume. 

THE  PUBLISHERS. 
PHILADELPHIA,  December,  1870. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 
INTELLECTUAL    HISTORY,   CONDITION,   AND  PROSPECTS 

OF   THE    COUNTRY 13 

Literature  a  Source  of  National  Glory  and  Happiness 13 

Obstacles  to  its  Cultivation  in  America 13 

In  Young  Nations  often  Imitative 14 

Cur  Institutions  favourable  to  Intellectual  Development     ....  14 

Iiternational  Copyrights 15 

Nationality  in  Literature 16 

Oaracter  of  the  Pilgrims 16 

Newman,  Eliot,  and  Mather 17 

Edwards  and  his  Antagonists 17 

Th«  Contemporaries  and  Successors  of  Edwards 18 

Livtig  Theological  Writer* 18 

Historical  Literature 18 

Oratws 21 

Politbal  Economists 22 

Jurist) 24 

Biblici!  Criticicm  and  Classical  Learning 25 

Ethnology 26 

Natural  Science 26 

Novelists  and  Romancers ...28 

Tale  \Triters 32 

__JIumour,  Comedy,  and  Satire 34._ 

**ssayisfe  and  Critic 38* 

American  Reviews  and  Magazines  (Note) 38 

•-   writersof  Voyages  and  Travels 43 

LiteraryiWomen 44 

Poets  and  Poetry 45 

The  Draina 46 

Painting  ind  Sculpture 46 

The  Future         47 

JONATHAN  EDWARDS 53 

BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 57 

The  Way  fo  Wealth 63 

Morals  of  Chess    . 65 

Dialogue  wilh  the  Gout 67 

To  Madame  Helvetiu 69 

An  Arabian  Tale 69 

The  Ephemera;  an  Emblem  of  Human  Life 70 

Apologue  on  War 70 

THOMAS  JEFFERSON 71 

The  Head  and  (be  Heart 73 

Society  in  France  and  America 77 

Pa^sase  of  the  Potomac  through  the  Blue  Ridg 77 

Party  Spirit  and  Good  Government 78 

JAMES  MADISON 79 

—  Vagueness  of  Philosophical  Distinctions 80 

The  Responsibility  of  our  Country  to  Mankind  .......  SO 

TIMOTHY  DWIGHT 81 

Approach  of  Evening  on  Lake  George 82 

Scene  on  the  Kaa'skills 82 

The  Notch  of  the  White  Mountains 83 

The  Pleasure  derived  from  the  Beauty  of  Nature 84 

JOHN  MARSHALL 85 

ALEXANDER  HAMILTON 89 

The  Fate  of  Andre » 93 

Effects  of  a  Dissolution  of  the  Union 94 

FISHER  AMES 96 

The  Obligation  of  Treatie* 97 

—•  Intellect  in  a  Democracy 99 

Freedom  of  the  Press  and  Liberty 99 

•  Liberty  not  secured  by  the  Death  of  Tyrant 99 

Great  Men  the  Glory  of  their  Country 99 


Page 

JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS IOC 

The  Character  of  Desdemona. 103 

Ancient  and  Modern  Eloquence 106 

The  Fathers  of  New  England 106 

CHARLES  BROCKDEN  BROWN 107 

The  Defence  of  Wieland Ill 

Yellow  Fever  in  Philadelphia 114 

Interview  between  Mervyn  and  Welbeck «...  115 

Scene  with  a  Panther 119 

Influence  of  Foreign  Literature 120 

WILLIAM  WIRT 121 

The  Blind  Preacher 123 

Who  i«  Blannerhasse'lt  ? 125 

Patrick  Henry  against  the  Parsons 125 

Monticello 128 

JOSIAH  QUINCY 129 

The  Invasion  of  Canada 130 

*  An  Embargo  Liberty , 130 

The  Founders  of  Harvard  College 130 

WASHINGTON  ALLSTON 131 

Conscience  and  the  Will 133 

The  Two  Students 133 

The  Poet  and  his  Critics 134 

The  Atheist 135 

Love  Matches 136 

A  Summer  Noon  in  Rome 136 

An  Italian  Sunset 136 

Thoughts  from  the  Artist's  Studio 136 

On  a  Picture  by  Caracci 137 

Sunrise  among  the  Alps 137 

JOSEPH  STORY * 138 

Indian  Summer  in  New  England 140 

Persecution 140 

The  Indians 140 

Destiny  of  the  Republic  141 

The  Field  of  Peace 141 

Classical  Studies 142 

JAMES  KIRKE  PAULDING 143 

New  Year  in  Elsingburgh 145 

The  Quarrel  of  Squire  Bull  and  his  Son 146 

A  Night  Adventure  during  the  Old  French  War 147 

Death  in  the  Country  151 

Kentucky  Hospitality 151 

TIMOTHY  FLINT 152 

A  Thunder  Storm  in  Mexico 154 

Country  of  the  Sewaserna 154 

The  Marriage  of  Baptiste 155 

^Heroism  of  the  Indian 156 

The  Mississippi 157 

WILLIAM  ELLERY  CHANNING 158 

Poetry 162 

Dancing 162 

The  Theatre •  .  .  .  • 163 

Religion  and  Pleasure 163 

The  Sense  of  Beauty 164 

Books 164 

The  Book  of  Book 164 

Spiritual  Freedom 165 

Freedom 166 

Peace  . 166 

Death  of  a  True  Wife 160 

The  Present  Age 67 

Literature  of  the  Present  Age 67 


10                                                               CONTENTS. 

WILLIAM  ELLERY  CHANNINO. 

Page 

Page 

.  168 

The  Murder             • 

Ideal  Character  of  a  True  Life  

RICHARD  HENRY  WILDE    

....  26! 

,  174 

JAMES   FENIMORE  COOPER    

....  263 

.  178 

^        .           ** 

Address  to  'he  Survivors  of  the  Baltic  of  Bunker  Hill     .... 

.  ISO 

ALEXANDER  H.   EVERE1T     ...        . 

284 

Literary  Character  of  Adams  and  Jefferson    

.  IS1 
.  181 

.    .      287 

Public  Opinion                                                                         .          .    . 

.  182 

.  183 

JAMES  HALL    .    

.    .    .   .  296 

.  184 
.  185 
.  185 

HENRY  ROWE  SCHOOLCRAFT    

Shin»ebiss                                . 

....  301 
301 

,  186 
.  186 
.  186 

ORVILLE   DEWEY      

.    .   .    .304 

.  192 

194 

JARED  SPARKS          ... 

....  307 

.  194 

The  Deer  Hunt    

.  195 

.  196 

.  196 

The  Duel   

...       319 

...       320 
.       321 

The  Garrone,  the  Wye,  and  the  Hudson  
England  in  1808                                                 .             .... 

.  199 
200 

323 

.  200 

.  206 

...       332 

A  '  1                                                         '    *    * 

333 

333 

Rip  Van  Winkle       

.  218 

....  340 

.  219 
.  219 

A  Letter  from  Mustapba  Rub-a-dub  Keli  Khan  to  Asem  Hacchem, 
Principal  Slave-Driver  to  His  Highness,  the  Bashaw  of  Tripoli    .  220 

Old  Lawyers                

....  343 
.                  345 

....  347 

.    .    .       365 

.         .       366 

367 

.238 

Isabellaof  Spain  and  Elizabeth  of  England  .    •    •    • 

374 

242 

247 

...    .  381 

CONTENTS. 

11 

Page 

GEORGE  B.  CHEEVER. 
The  Mer  de  Glace    

Page 

384 

CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN 

Ben  Blower's  Story  :  or  How  to  relish  a  Julep     .    .    . 

393 

CAROLINE  M.  KIRKLAND    . 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Doubleday       . 

WILLIAM  WARE      

...  398 

....  466 

NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE 

A  Rill  from  the  Town  Pump     .... 

404 

Virginia 

406 

N.  P.  WILLIS      .    ;    

Th.e  Cherokee's  Threat     .    •    .    . 

New  Netherlands  and  New  York  

.    .    .  408 

Trenton  Falls           . 

.    .    .412 

HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW  

Lives  of  Scholars      ., 

Where  should  the  Scholar  live  ?     .    .        .        . 

WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS    

JOSEPH  C.  NEAL  

The  Fall  of  the  House  of  U-her      

HENRY  THEODORE  TUCKERMAN  

....  532 

/       ROBERT  MONTGOMERY  BIRD     

Love      

....  535 

.    .    .436 

....  539 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  

Naples  

....  541 

....  642 

The  Mission  of  Hobblesliank     .... 

...  445 

GEORGE   B.  CHEEVER  

» 

CONTENTS   TO    SUPPLEMENT. 


SUPPLEMENTARY  ESSAY 557 

JAMES  KENT 575 

The  Law  of  Nations 575 

ALEXANDER  WILSON....                                        ..  577 

The  Blue  Bird 581 

The  Bald  Eagle 583 

BENJAMIN  SILLIMAN 584 

Excursion  to  Mont  Blanc 585 

GEORGE  TICKNOR 587 

Don  Quixote 588 

Prescott's  Method  of  Living 589 

EDWARD  HITCHCOCK 591 

Science  and  the  Bible 591 

Geology  and  Religion 592 

SAMUEL  GRISWOLD  GOODRICH 593 

The  Coup  d'Etat 594 

HENRY  C.  CAREY 595 

The  Warrior  Chief  and  the  Trader 596 

Man  the  subject  of  Social  Science 596 

HORACE  MANN 597 

The  Choice 597 

Temperance  in  Eating 598 

JOHN  GORHAM  PALFREY 599 

Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers 599 

ALBERT  BARNES 601 

Life  at  Three-score  and  ten 602 

JACOB  ABBOTT 603 

Doing  our  Father's  Business 603 

HORACE  BUSHNELL 605 

Uses  of  Physical  Danger 605 

Uses  of  Winter 606 

JOHN  S.  C.  ABBOTT 608 

The  Battle  of  Waterloo 609 

CAROLINE  LEE  HENTZ 613 

The  Fatal  Concert 613 

RICHARD  HILDRETH 615 

The  Effect  of  American  Naval  Victories 616 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 617 

Pilgrim's  Progress 618 

Autobiographies 618 

Milton  and  Ellwood 619 

Death  of  Baxter 619 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 620 

Conversation 621 

The  Inner  Nature 622 

ORMSBY  MCKNIGHT  MITCHEL 623 

The  First  Predicted  Eclipse 624 

Kepler's  Discovery  of  the  Third  Law 625 

HORACE   GREELEY 626 

My  Farming 627 

The  Great  Senators ..  628 


HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 

The  Mother's  struggle 

Candace's  Opinions 


THEODORE  PARKER 

The  Perishing  Classes  of  Boston, 
Thoughts  for  a  New  Year 

HENRY  WARD  BEECHER 

Business  and  Religion 

Christ  the  Door 

Faults 


JOHN  LOTHROP  MOTLEY 

The  Second  Siege  of  Leyden 

ANDREW  JACKSON  DOWNING.... 
Citizens  Retiring  to  the  Country 

RICHARD  H.  DANA,  JR 

A  South-Easter 


HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU. 
My  House 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL... 

New  England 

Witchcraft  .... 


JOSIAH  GILBERT  HOLLAND 

Female  Society — The  Woman  for  a  Wife. 

HERMAN  MELVILLE 

Polynesian  Life 

Outbreak  of  the  Crew 


JAMES  PARTON 

Henry  Clay's  Popularity 

Henry  Clay's  Last  Years 

Duel  between  Hamilton  and  Burr., 

DONALD  G.  MITCHELL 

Happy  at  Last 

Lighted  with  a  Coal 

SARA  JANE  LIPPINCOTT 

The  Baby  in  the  Bath  Tub 


FRANCIS  PARKMAN 

La  Roche's  Colony 

GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS 

My  Chateaux 

Our  Best  Society 

Romance  of  the  Desert 

Gone  to  Protest 

Saratoga 


BAYARD  TAYLOR 

Christmas  and  New  Year  in  Germany 
Saved  by  Roger 


THEODORE  WINTHROP 

To  Save  and  to  Slay 

T.  DE  WITT  TALMAGE 

Champs  Elysees 

Our  Spectacles 


PAGE 
629 
631 

635 

636 
6o7 
638 

639 
640 
641 
641 

642 
643 

652 
653 

655 
656 

657 
658 

660 
661 
661 

662 
663 

665 
6P6 
667 


670 
671 

672 
673 
675 

676 
676 

679 

679 

681 

682 
683 
684 
085 
686 

687 
089 
690 

692 
693 

697 
697 
699 


THE 

INTELLECTUAL  HISTORY,  CONDITION  AND  PROSPECTS 


OP 


THE  COUNTRY. 


I  NEED  not  dwell  upon  the  necessity  of  Literature  and  Art  to  a  people's 
glory  and  happiness.  History  with  all  her  voices  joins  in  one  judgment  upon 
this  subject.  Our  legislators  indeed  choose  to  consider  them  of  no  conse 
quence,  and  while  the  states  are  convulsed  by  claims  from  the  loom  and  the 
furnace  for  protection,  the  demands  of  the  parents  of  freedom,  the  preservers 
of  arts,  the  dispensers  of  civility,  are  treated  with  silence.  But  authors  and 
artists  have  existed  and  do  exist  here  in  spite  of  such  outlawry ;  and  notwith 
standing  the  obstacles  in  our  condition,  and  the  discouragements  of  neglect, 
the  Anglo-Saxon  race  in  the  United  States  have  done  as  much  in  the  fields  of 
Investigation,  Reflection,  Imagination  and  Taste,  in  the  present  century,  as 
any  other  twelve  millions  of  people — about  our  average  number  for  this  period 
— in  the  world. 

Doubtless  there  are  obstacles,  great  obstacles,  to  the  successful  cultivation 
of  letters  here ;  but  they  are  not  so  many  nor  so  important  as  is  generally  sup 
posed.  The  chief  difficulty  is  a  want  of  Patriotism,  mainly  proceeding  from 
and  perpetuated  by  the  absence  of  a  just  law  of  copyright.  There  is  indeed 
no  lack  of  that  spurious  love  of  country  which  is  ever  ready  to  involve  us  in 
aimless  and  disgraceful  war ;  but  there  is  little  genuine  and  lofty  national  feel 
ing  ;  little  clear  perception  of  that  which  really  deserves  affection  and  applause  ; 
little  intelligent  and  earnest  effort  to  foster  the  good  we  possess  or  acquire  the 
good  we  need. 

It  has  been  the  fate  of  colonists  in  all  ages  to  consider  the  people  from 
among  whom  they  made  their  exodus  both  morally  and  intellectually  superior  to 
themselves,  and  the  parent  state  has  had  thus  a  kind  of  spiritual  added  to  her 

B  13 


14  INTELLECTUAL  HISTORY,  CONDITION, 

political  sovereignty.  The  American  provinces  quarreled  with  England,  con 
quered,  and  became  a  separate  nation ;  and  we  have  since  had  our  own  Presi 
dents  and  Congresses ;  but  England  has  continued  to  do  the  thinking  of  a  large 
class  here — of  men  who  have  arrogated  to  themselves  the  title  of  critics — of 
our  sham  sort  of  men,  in  all  departments.  We  have  had  no  confidence  in 
ourselves;  and  men  who  lack  self-reliance  are  rarely  successful.  We  have  not 
looked  into  our  own  hearts.  We  have  not  inquired  of  our  own  necessities. 
When  we  have  written,  instead  of  giving  a  free 'voice  to  the  spirit  within  us, 
we  have  endeavoured  to  write  after  some  foreign  model.*  We  have  been  so 
fearful  of  nothing  else  as  of  an  Americanism,  in  thought  or  expression.  He 
has  been  deemed  greatest  who  has  copied  some  transatlantic  author  with  most 
successful  servility.  The  noisiest  demagogue  who  affects  to  despise  England 
will  scarcely  open  a  book  which  was  not  written  there.  And  if  one  of  our  coun 
trymen  wins  some  reputation  among  his  fellows  it  is  generally  because  he  has 
been  first  praised  abroad. 

The  commonly  urged  barriers  to  literary  advancement  supposed  to  exist  in 
our  form  of  government,  the  nature  of  our  institutions,  the  restless  and  turbu 
lent  movements  of  our  democracy,  and  the  want  of  a  wealthy  and  privileged 
class  among  us,  deserve  little  consideration.  Tumult  and  strife,  the  clashing 
of  great  interests  and  high  excitements,  are  to  be  regarded  rather  as  aids  than 
as  obstacles  to  intellectual  progress.  From  Athens  came  the  choicest  litera 
ture  and  the  finest  art.  Her  philosophers,  so  calm  and  profound,  her  poets, 
tlie  dulcet  sounds  of  whose  lyres  still  charm  the  ears  of  succeeding  ages, 
wrote  amid  continual  upturnings  and  overthrows.  The  best  authors  of  Rome 
also  were  senators  and  soldiers.  Milton,  the  greatest  of  the  prose  writers  as 
well  as  the  greatest  of  the  poets  of  England,  lived  in  the  Commonwealth,  and 
participated  in  all  its  political  and  religious  controversies.  And  what  repose 
had  blind  MaBonides,  or  Camoens,  or  Dante,  or  Tasso  ?  In  the  literature  of 


*  The  literature  of  other  countries,  says  M.  Sismondi,  has  heen  frequently  adopted  by  a  young  nation 
with  a  sort  of  fanatical  admiration.  The  genius  of  these  countries  having  been  so  often  placed  before  it, 
as  the  perfect  model  of  all  greatness  and  of  all  beauty,  every  spontaneous  movement  has  been  repressed  in 
order  to  make  room  for  the  most  servile  imitation,  and  every  national  attempt  to  develope  an  original  cha 
racter  has  been  sacrificed  to  the  reproduction  of  something  conformable  to  the  model  which  has  been 
always  before  its  eyes.  Thus  the  Romans  checked  themselves  in  the  vigour  of  their  first  conceptions  to 
become  emulous  copyists  of  the  Greeks ;  and  thus  the  Arabs  placed  bounds  to  their  intellectual  efforts 
that  they  might  rank  themselves  among  the  followers  of  Aristotle.  So  the  Italians  in  the  sixteenth, 
and  the  French  in  the  seventeenth  century,  desirous  only  of  imitating  the  ancients,  did  not  sufficiently 
.consult,  in  their  poetical  attempts,  their  own  religion,  manners,  and  character. — Literature  of  the  South 
of  Europe. 


,  AND  PROSPECTS  OF  THE  COUNTRY.  15 

Germany  and  France,  too,  the  noblest  works  have  been  produced  amid  the 
shocks  of  contending  elements. 

Nor  is  the  absence  of  a  wealthy  class,  with  leisure  for  such  tranquil  pursuits, 
to  be  much  lamented.  The  privileged  classes  of  all  nations  have  been  drones. 
We  have,  in  the  Southern  states  of  this  republic,  a  large  class,  with  ample  for 
tunes,  leisure  and  quiet ;  but  they  have  done  comparatively  nothing  in  the 
fields  of  intellectual  exertion,  except  when  startled  into  spasmodic  activity 
by  conflicts  of  interest  with  the  North. 

To  say  truth,  most  of  the  circumstances  usually  set  down  as  barriers  to 
aBsthetical  cultivation  here  are  directly  or  indirectly  advantageous.  The  real 
obstacles  are  generally  of  a  transient  kind.  Many  of  them  are  silently  disap 
pearing  ;  and  the  rest  would  be  soon  unknown  if  we  had  a  more  enlightened 
love  of  country,  and  the  making  of  our  law's  were  not  so  commonly  confided 
to  a  sort  of  men  whose  intellects  are  too  mean  or  whose  principles  are  too 
wicked  to  admit  of  their  seeing  or  doing  what  is  just  and  needful  in  the  pre 
mises.  That  property  which  is  most  actual,  the  only  property  to  which  a  man's 
right  is  positive,  unquestionable,  indefeasible,  exclusive — his  genius,  conferred 
as  by  letters  patent  from  the  Almighty — is  held  to  be  not  his,  but  the  public's, 
and  therefore  is  not  brought  into  use.*  The  foreign  author,  by  the  refusal  to 
'recognise  his  rights,  is  driven  into  inveterate  enmity  to  our  institutions  and 
interests,  and  at  the  same  time  such  advantage  is  given  him  in  addressing  the 
popular  mind  as  to  make  opinion  here  in  a  large  degree  dependent  on  his  will. 

Nevertheless,  much  has  been  accomplished ;  great  advancement  has  been 
made  against  the  wind  and  tide ;  and  at  this  time  the  aspects  and  prospects 


*  All  "  arguments"  against  copyright,  as  universal  and  perpetual  as  the  life  of  a  book,  are  but  insults  to 
the  common  sense.  Some  of  them  are  ingenious,  and  may  be  admired  on  the  same  principle  that  the 
ingenuity  of  a  picklock  is  admired.  The  possession  of  lands  is,  by  privilege,  conceded  to  the  indi 
vidual  for  the  common  benefit.  The  right  of  an  author  rests  on  altogether  different  grounds.  The  in 
tangible  and  inalienable  power  by  which  he  works,  is  a  direct  and  special  gift  to  him,  to  be  used  in  sub 
jection  only  to  the  law  of  God,  who  mocks  at  the  petty  ranks  which  men  establish,  by  setting  the  seal  of 
His  nobility  and  conferring  His  riches  upon  whom  He  will.  The  feudal  chief  by  rapine,  or  the  specu 
lator  by  cunning,  wins  an  estate,  and  the  law  secures  him  and  his  heirs  in  its  possession  while  there  are 
days  and  nights.  An  author  creates  a  book — which,  besides  diffusing  a  general  benefit,  yields  a  re 
venue,  as  great  perhaps  as  that  from  the  estate  which  has  been  acquired  by  force  or  fraud,  and  the 
law,  without  alleging  any  fault,  seizes  it  and  bestows  it  on  the  mob.  The  question  is  commonly  dis 
cussed  as  one  of  expediency.  No  one  has  a  right  so  to  consider  it.  But  if  the  argument,  even  upon 
this  principle,  were  intelligently  and  honestly  conducted,  the  result  would  invariably  be  in  favour  of 
the  author.  There  is  among  men  of  sense  no  actual  difference  of  opinion  on  this  subject.  The  plunder 
of  the  foreign  author  is  sanctioned  and  enforced  under  an  erroneous  impression  that  something  is 
gained  by  it,  and  because  an  honest  law,  as  it  would  in  a  very  slight  degree  increase  the  prices  of 
new  books,  might  endanger  the  seat  of  the  member  of  Congress  who  should  vote  for  it 


16  INTELLECTUAL  HISTORY,  CONDITION, 

of  our  affairs  are  auspicious  of  scarcely  any  thing  more  than  of  the  succe^ful 
cultivation  of  National  Literature  and  National  Art. 

I  use  the  word  National  because  whatever  we  do  well  must  be  done  in 
a  national  spirit.  The  tone  of  a  great  work  is  given  or  received  by  the  people 
among  whom  it  is  produced,  and  so  is  national,  as  an  effect  or  as  a  cause. 
While  the  spirit  which  animates  the  best  literature  of  any  country  must  be  pecu 
liar  to  it,  its  subjects  may  be  chosen  from  the  world.  It  is  absurd  to  suppose  that 
Indian  chiefs  or  republican  soldiers  must  be  the  characters  of  our  works  of  imagi 
nation,  or  that  our  gloomy  forests,  or  sea-like  prairies,  or  political  committee 
rooms  must  be  their  scenes.  Paradise  Lost  and  Utopia  are  as  much  portions  of 
British  literature  as  Alfred,  or  London  Assurance.  It  may  be  regarded  as  one  of 
the  greatest  dangers  to  which  our  literature  is  exposed,  indeed,  that  so  many  ar*. 
mistaken  as  to  what  should  distinguish  it.  Some  writers,  by  no  means  destitute 
of  abilities,  in  their  anxiety  to  be  national  have  merely  ceased  to  be  natural. 
Their  works  may  be  original,  but  the  men  and  manners  they  have  drawn  have 
no  existence.  Least  of  all  do  they  exist  in  America.  The  subjects  for  the 
novelist  and  the  poet  in  our  own  country  are  to  be  preferred  because  they  are 
striking  from  their  freshness,  and  because  the  physical  condition  of  a  country, 
having  a  powerful  influence  upon  the  character  of  its  inhabitants,  naturally  fur 
nishes  the  most  apposite  illustrations  of  their  feelings  and  habits ;  but  a 
"  national  work"  may  as  well  be  written  about  the  builders  of  the  Pyramids  as 
about  the  mound  builders.  In  our  literature  we  must  regard  all  men  as  equal 
in  point  of  privilege,  the  church  as  the  whole  company  of  God's  acceptable 
worshippers,  the  state  as  a  joint  stock  in  which  every  one  holds  a  share.  It 
must  be  addressed  to  the  national  feelings,  vindicate  the  national  principles, 
support  the  national  honour,  be  animated  by  an  expansive  sympathy  with 
humanity.  It  must  teach  that  the  interests  of  man  are  the  highest  concern 
of  men. 

Our  forefathers — the  men  who  from  Great  Britain  or  the  continent  settled 
this  new  world — were  the  product  of  an  age  prolific  in  excitements.  Their 
hearts  were  busy,  some  with  plans  of  personal  ambition,  some  with  great 
problems  for  the  benefit  of  humanity.  Whatever  they  found  to  do,  they  did, 
with  directness  and  earnestness.  The  chief  causes  of  their  emigration  were 
religious ;  the  spirit  which  animated  them  when  here  was  religious  ;  and  their 
literature — the  permanent  expression  of  their  character — was  a  religious  litera 
ture.  Their  first  works  were  quaint  and  curious :  many  of  them  were  original 
ana  profound.  It  may  be  that  in  some  cases  they  gave  their  flour  to  the  devil, 
and  reserved  their  bran  only  for  the  Lord ;  but  they  certainly  produced  the 


AND    PROSPECTS   OF  THE  COUNTRY.  17 

flour.  They  were  acute,  powerful,  and  independent  in  argument  and  conclu 
sion.  They  commanded  the  admiration  of  those  who  thought  with  them,  and 
startled  the  defenders  of  old  and  false  opinions  by  their  thunders,  heard  and. 
echoed  across  the  seas.  In  theology,  from  the  first,  our  writers  were  un 
shackled  by  foreign  models  or  authorities.  They  acknowledged  no  infallible 
head  but  God  Almighty,  and  no  patristic  guides  to  faith  and  practice  but  the 
holy  company  of  the  prophets  and  apostles. 

The  history  of  Newman,  whose  Concordance  of  the  Bible,  made  by  the 
light  of  pine  knots  in  his  cottage  at  Rehoboth,  was  for  more  than  a  century 
admitted  to  be  the  most  perfect  work  of  its  kind  in  existence  ;  of  the  pious  and 
learned  Eliot,  greatest  of  all  uninspired  missionaries,  who  reduced  a  barbarous 
language  to  order,  and  laboured  year  after  year  to  translate  into  it  the  scriptures; 
and  of  Cotton  Mather,  the  first  American  Fellow  of  the  Royal  Society  and 
one  of  the  greatest  scholars  of  his  times,  of  whose  three  hundred  and  eighty- 
two  works  one*  at  least  is  preserved  in  the  standard  religious  literature,  prove 
that  from  the  beginning  there  was  in  America  no  deficiency  of  scholastic  learn 
ing  or  literary  industry. 

Early  in  the  eighteenth  century  appeared  Jonathan  Edwards,  styled  by 
Dr.  Chalmers  "  the  greatest  of  theologians,"!  of  whom  Sir  James  Mackintosh 
says,  that  "  in  power  of  subtile  argument  he  was  perhaps  unmatched,  cer 
tainly  was  unsurpassed  among  men."J  « If  literary  ambition  had  been  the 
active  element  of  his  mind,"  remarks  Taylor,  "  what  higher  praise  could  a 
scientific  writer  wish  for  than  that  of  having  by  a  single  and  small  dissertation 
reduced  a  numerous  and  powerful  party  in  his  own  and  other  countries,  and 
from  his  day  to  the  present  time,  to  the  sad  necessity  of  making  a  blank  pro 
test  against  the  argument  and  influence  of  his  book  ?"§  But  there  are  some 
questions  which  are  always  to  vex  the  brains  of  thinkers.  Human  pride  and 
ambition  will  never  permit  a  universal  acquiescence  in  any  conclusion.  New 
ton's  Principia  and  the  doctrines  of  Edwards  have  been  attacked  with  equal 
earnestness  by  our  living  scholars.  Dr.  Tappan,  Mr.  Bledsoe,  and  others, 
have  laboured  with  ingenuity  and  candor  to  establish  the  self- determining  power 
of  the  will.  The  antagonists  of  Edwards  become  weary  of  saying  «  his  rea 
soning  must  be  sophistical  because  it  overthrows  our  doctrines." 

*  «  Essays  to  do  Good,"  which,  says  Franklin,  «  perhaps  gave  me  a  tone  of  thinking  that  had  an 
mfluence  on  some  of  the  principal  future  events  of  my  life." — Memoirs,  p.  16. 

-f-  Letter  to  Dr.  Stebbins.  *  Review  of  Ethical  Philosophy,  p.  109. 

§  Essay  on  the  Application  of  Abstract  Reasoning  to  the  Christian  Doctrines ;  by  the  author  01 

The  Natural  History  of  Enthusiasm,  &c. 

3  B  2 


18  INTELLECTUAL  HISTORY,  CONDITION, 

Among  the  contemporaries  or  immediate  successors  of  Edwards  were  the 
eloquent  and  independent  Jonathan  Mayhew ;  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson,  the  father 
of  the  American  Episcopal  Church ;  Dr.  Hopkins,  whose  name  is  so  closely 
identified  with  the  New  England  theology  of  the  last  century;  President  Styles, 
famous  for  acquirements  in  almost  every  department  of  profane  and  sacred 
learning ;  the  younger  Edwards ;  Bellamy,  and  Dwight,  and  Emmons,  all  ofw 
whom  were  men  of  great  abilities  and  scholarship,  whose  works  have  still  a 
powerful  influence  on  opinions. 

In  the  present  day  no  country  can  boast  of  a  list  of  theological  writers  more 
justly  distinguished  for  learning,  logical  skill,  or  literary  abilities,  than  that 
which  includes  the  names  of  the  Alexanders,  Albert  Barnes,  George  Bush, 
Charles  Hodge,  John  Henry  Hopkins,  Samuel  Farmer  Jarvis,  Charles  P.  Mcll- 
vaine,  Andrews  Norton,  Edward  Robinson,  Moses  Stuart,  Henry  Tappan, 
William  R.  Williams,  James  Walker,  Leonard  Woods,  and  others  whose 
talents  and  acquisitions  have  secured  to  them  a  general  influence  and  good 
reputation. 

James  Marsh,  of  Hampden  Sidney  College  in  Virginia,  and  at  a  later  pe 
riod,  of  the  University  of  Vermont,  deserves  particular  and  honourable  mention 
in  every  survey  of  our  intellectual  advancement  and  condition.  He  was  a  calm, 
chaste  scholar,  an  earnest  and  profound  thinker,  and  a  powerful  and  eloquent 
advocate  of  the  highest  principles  of  religion  and  philosophy,  whose  life  had 
that  simplicity  and  grandeur  which  are  constituted  by  a  combination  of  the 
rarest  and  noblest  of  human  virtues.  His  principal  published  writings  are 
devoted  to  those  elevated  and  spiritual  principles  of  philosophy  of  which  Cole 
ridge  and  Kant  were  the  most  celebrated  European  asserters.  Though  nearly 
agreeing  with  these  great  men,  he  was  not  less  original  than  they,  and  before 
the  works  of  the  Englishman  or  the  Prussian  were  known  on  this  continent,  by 
the  independent  action  of  his  own  mind  he  had  formed  theories  similar  to 
theirs  and  taught  them  to  his  classes. 

Many  others,  dead  and  living,  whose  names  the  present  limits  do  not 
admit,  have  been  among  the  foremost  teachers  of  religion  and  philosophy,  and 
have  vindicated  by  results  the  relation  of  civil  to  intellectual  liberty  and 
advancement. 

There  are  few  if  any  kinds  of  composition  requiring  a  higher  order  of  genius 
or  more  profound  and  varied  acquirements  than  History ;  and  it  might  be  sup 
posed,  therefore,  that  it  would  be  among  the  last  of  the  fields  in  which  the 
authors  of  a  new  nation  would  be  successful.  Yet  our  literature  embraces  a 


AND   PROSPECTS   OF  THE  COUJNTRY.  19 

fair  proportion  of  historical  works  of  such  excellence-  that  any  people  would 
refer  to  them  with  a  proud  satisfaction.* 

What  the  estimate  of  Mr.  Prescott  would  be  among  ourselves,  but  for  the 
concurrent  judgment  of  the  best  European  critics  that  he  has  no  superior  if  he 
has  an  equal  among  contemporary  historians,  it  might  be  difficult  to  tell.  His 
fame,  however,  is  so  high,  so  universal,  and  so  firmly  established,  and  cheap 
newspapers  have  made  foreign  opinions  of  him  so  familiar  here,  that  the  silliest 
of  those  persons  who  found  claims  to  reputation  for  taste  upon  expressions  of 
contempt  for  what  is  American,  are  in  the  habit  of  making  an  exception  of 
his  writings  from  their  condemnation.  How  fortunate  for  him — if  he  cares  for 
this  home  popularity — that  his  subjects  are  of  such  general  interest  as  to  have 
made  scholars  of  all  countries  the  judges  of  his  merit. 

Ferdinand  and  Isabella  and  The  Conquest  of  Mexico  are  not  only  among 
the  finest  models  of  historical  composition,  but  in  a  very  genuine  sense  they 
are  national  works,  breathing  so  freely  the  liberal  spirit  of  our  institutions 
that  translators  abroad  have  had  to  change  utterly  their  tone  as  well  as  their 
language  to  make  them  acceptable  to  the  subjects  of  arbitrary  power. 

The  words  of  panegyric  have  been  wellnigh  exhausted  in  commentaries 
upon  the  Claude-like  beauty  of  Mr.  Prescott's  descriptions,  the  just  proportion 
and  dramatic  interest  of  his  narrative,  his  skill  as  a  character  writer,  the 
expansiveness  and  completeness  of  his  views,  and  that  careful  and  intelligent 
research  which  enabled  him  to  make  his  works  as  valuable  for  their  accuracy 
as  they  are  attractive  by  all  the  graces  of  style. 

Mr.  Bancroft  has  remarkable  merits,  of  a  somewhat  different  nature,  and 
some  faults,  though  not  of  such  sort  or  magnitude  as  to  prevent  his  being 
placed  in  the  very  front  rank  of  great  historians.  He  is  emphatically  an 
American.  He  thinks,'  feels,  and  acts  the  American.  He  surveys  the  train  of 
the  ages,  and  perceives  that  humanity  is  progressive.  In  our  own  polity,  our 
institutions,  our  universal  and  safe  liberty,  he  sees  the  farthest  point  to  which 
the  race  has  yet  a'tained.  He  looks  hopefully  into  the  future,  far  as  the 
human  eye  can  see,  and  his  powerful  mind  kindles  with  enthusiasm  as  he  finds 
our  country  fulfilling  her  mission,  in  the  subversion  of  false  opinions,  the  over 
throw  of  tyrannous  dynasties,  the  liberation  of  mankind.  All  this  is  well. 
But  Mr.  Bancroft  is  perhaps  too  ardent  a  politician,  and  too  deeply  imbued  with 


*  Bancroft,  Prescott,  and  Sparks,  have  effected  so  much  in  historical  composition,  that  no  living 
European  historian  can  take  precedence  of  them,  but  rather  might  feel  proud  and  grateful  to  be  admit- 
vd  as  a  companion. — Frederick  Von  Raumer. 


20  INTELLECTUAL  HISTORY,  CONDITION, 

the  principles  of  his  party,  to  be  a  calm  spectator  of  the  present,  or  an  un 
prejudiced  reviewer  of  the  past.  He  may  serve  the  spirit  of  his  age,  instead 
of  wrestling  with  it,  and  placing  himself  on  an  eminence  from  which  to  survey 
the  historical  drama  of  the  wrorld.  However  these  things  be,  his  work  is 
elaborately  and  strongly,  yet  elegantly  written ;  it  is  altogether  the  most  accu- 
rate  and  philosophical  account  that  has  been  given  of  the  United  States  ; 
and  parts  of  it  may  be  reckoned  among  the  most  splendid  in  all  historical 
literature. 

Mr.  Sparks  is  the  author  of  no  one  extensive  and  elaborate  work  which, 
perhaps,  entitles  him  to  be  ranked  among  the  great  historians ;  but  his  various 
and  numerous  contributions  to  historical  biography  and  criticism,  made  accu 
rate  by  laborious  and  philosophical  research,  constitute  a  claim  to  the  country's 
admiration  as  well  as  its  gratitude. 

To  Mr.  Cooper's  admirable  Naval  History  of  the  United  States;  the 
learned  History  of  the  Northmen  by  Mr.  Wheaton ;  Mr.  Irving's  classical  His 
tory  of  the  Life  and  Voyages  of  Columbus ;  Dr.  Holmes's  Annals ;  Dr.  Bel- 
knap's  History  of  New  Hampshire,  and  other  histories  of  individual  states 
which  are  admitted  to  be  eminently  creditable  to  their  authors,  I  can  here 
refer  only  in  this  brief  manner.  It  will  be  conceded  that  in  the  department  of 
History  our  national  literature  is  not  deficient  in  extent,*  in  distinctiveness,  or  in 
any  of  the  qualities  which  should  mark  this  kind  of  writing. 

Our  works  in  Historical  Biography  are  numerous,  and  many  of  them  are 
executed  with  singular  judgment  and  ability.  The  lives  of  Washington  by 
Marshall  and  Sparks ;  Tudor's  Life  of  Otis,  Austin's  Life  of  Gerry,  Wirt's 
Life  of  Patrick  Henry,  Wheaton's  Life  of  Pinckney,  the  Life  of  the  elder 
Quincy  by  his  Son,  the  Life  of  Franklin  by  Sparks,  the  Life  of  Jefferson  by 
Tucker,  the  Life  of  Hamilton  by  his  Son,  Biddle's  Life  of  Sebastian  Cabot, 
Gibbs's  Life  of  Wolcott,  Cooper's  Lives  of  the  Naval  Commanders  of  the 
United  States,  many  of  the  lives  in  Sparks's  Library  of  American  Biography, 
and  others  of  the  same  character,  will  be  remembered  as  productions  of  per 
manent  interest  and  importance. 

The  Historical  Correspondence  of  the  Revolutionary  Age  constitutes  a  very 
remarkable  portion  of  American  literature,  and  it  equals  if  it  does  not  surpass 
any  similar  correspondence  in  any  language,  not  only  in  the  higher  qualities  of 
wisdom  and  patriotism,  which  make  it  chiefly  valuable  to  us,  but  in  literary 


*  More  than  four  hundred  large  historical  works,  most  of  which  relate  to  our  own  country,  have 
been  written  in  the  United  States. 


AND  PROSPECTS  OF  THE  COUNTRY.  21 

excellence — the  graces  of  expression  and  felicitous  illustration.  The  letters 
of  George  Washington,  John  Adams,  Benjamin  Franklin,  Thomas  Jefferson, 
John  Jay,  Gouverneur  Morris,  Alexander  Hamilton,  and  some  of  their  compa 
triots,  will  always  possess  a  peculiar  value  besides  that  which  they  derive  from 
their  authorship  and  the  gravity  of  their  subjects. 

The  Public  Speeches  of  a  nation's  chief  legislators  are  among  the  most 
luminous  landmarks  of  its  policy,  the  most  lucid  developments  of  the  charac 
ter  and  genius  of  its  institutions,  and  the  noblest  exhibitions  of  its  intellect. 
The  speeches  of  many  of  our  greatest  orators  have  not  been  preserved,  and  like 
those  of  Demades  the  Athenian,  who  was  deemed  by  some  of  the  ablest  of  his 
contemporaries  superior  to  Demosthenes,  they  are  forgotten.  Of  the  orations 
of  Otis,  which  were  described  as  "flames  of  fire,"  we  have  but  a  few  meager 
reports.  We  are  persuaded  of  the  eloquence  of  Henry  only  by  the  history  of 
i-s  effects.  The  passionate  appeals  of  the  elder  Adams,  which  "  moved  his 
hearers  from  their  seats,"  are  not  in  print.  But  for  tradition  it  would  be  un 
known  that  Rutledge  was  one  of  the  greatest  of  orators.  There  is  in  exist 
ence  scarcely  a  vestige  of  the  resistless  declamation  and  argument  of  Pinkney. 
Some  of  the  speeches  of  Fisher  Ames  have  come  down  to  us,  with  their  pas 
sages  of  chaste  and  striking  beauty,  and  they  constitute  nearly  all  the  recorded 
eloquence  of  the  time  in  which  he  was  an  actor. 

Of  the  great  orators  of  a  later  day— Webster,  Clay,  Calhoun  and  others 
— we  have  the  means  of  forming  a  more  accurate  judgment.  Their  works 
belong  to  our  Standard  Literature.  They  are  thoroughly  imbued  with  the 
national  spirit.  They  glow  with  the  feelings  of  the  people. 

Daniel  Webster  has  written  his  name  in  our  history.  He  has  graven  it 
indelibly  on  the  rocks  of  our  hills.  He  has  associated  it  in  some  way  with 
all  that  is  grand  and  peculiar  about  us.  Whatever  may  be  the  effects  of  Time 
upon  his  reputation  as  a  politician,  unless  the  world  return  to  barbarism  it  can 
not  destroy  his  fame  as  an  author.  If  I  were  to  compare  him  to  any  foreigner 
it  would  be  to  Burke.  But  he  is  a  greater  man  than  the  Irish  Colossus.  His 
genius  is  more  various.  He  is  more  chaste.  His  style  and  argument  are  not 
Jess  compact.  And  his  learning  is  as  comprehensive  and  more  profound.  The 
literature  of  the  language  has  no  more  splendid  rhetoric  or  faultless  logic.  Bom 
almost  contemporaneously  with  the  nation,  he  has  grown  with  its  growth, 
strengthened  with  its  strength,  and  become  an  impersonation  of  its  character 
—such  an  impersonation  as  we  proudly  point  to  when  we  remember  that  we 
also  are  Americans. 


22  INTELLECTUAL  HISTORY,  CONDITION, 

The  distinguishing  characteristic  of  the  speeches  of  Henry  Clay  is  an 
eminent  practicalness.  They  are  not  imaginative,  nor  poetical,  nor  impas 
sioned.  They  lack  the  solidity,  compactness  and  inherent  force  of  Webster, 
and  the  philosophic  generalization  of  Calhoun  ;  Wright  is  more  plausible  and 
ingenious,  Preston  is  more  graceful  and  fervid,  and  Choate  more  brilliant  and 
classically  ornate.  Yet  there  is  an  unaffected  earnestness  of  conviction,  a  pro 
found  heartiness  of  purpose,  a  frank  and  perfect  ingenuousness,  a  manly  good 
sense,  exhibited  in  the  works  of  this  great  statesman  which  commend  them  to 
the  reader's  understanding  and  approval.  Although  the  manner  of  the  orator 
adds  force  and  significance  to  the  matter,  so  that  his  speeches  should  be  heard 
to  be  justly  estimated,  they  are  found  to  bear  a  value  in  the  closet  not  possessed 
by  the  productions  of  many  who  have  enjoyed  the  highest  eminence  in  the 
senate,  the  forum  and  the  world  of  letters. 

Mr.  Calhoun  is  another  author  of  the  highest  rank,  and  his  works,  though 
Li  many  respects  very  different  from  those  of  the  great  orators  I  have  men 
tioned,  are  scarcely  less  peculiar  and  national.  It  has  been  too  much  the  habit 
to  consider  him  only  as  a  politician.  His  claims  as  a  philosopher  have  been 
almost  overlooked.  No  one  has  more  skill  as  a  dialectician.  His  sententious 
and  close  diction,  his  remarkable  power  of  analysis,  his  simplicity  and  dignity 
— his  doctrines,  and  all  the  elements  of  the  power  with  which  they  are  main 
tained — will  secure  for  his  works  a  permanent  place  in  the  world's  considera 
tion. 

I  may  here  allude  to  John  Quincy  Adams  as  altogether  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  men  of  this  century,  in  whose  various  and  voluminous  works  there 
is  not  only  marked  nationality,  but  a  wisdom  which  astonishes  by  its  univer 
sality  and  profoundness ;  to  Edward  Everett,  as  an  orator  of  the  most  compre 
hensive  learning,  elegant  taste,  and  noble  spirit ;  to  Hugh  S.  Legare,  as  one  of  the 
finest  of  our  senatorial  rhetoricians  ;  to  Tristram  Burgess,  and  many  others,  whose 
speeches,  when  their  histories  as  partisans  are  forgotten,  will  be  regarded  as 
portions  of  the  classical  literature  of  the  country,  fit  to  be  ranked  among  the 
finest  works  of  their  kind  produced  in  the  most  cultivated  ancient  or  modern 
nations. 

No  other  of  the  immortal  company  by  whose  genius,  virtue  and  suffering 
our  independence  was  achieved  and  our  government  established,  has  suffered 
so  much  from  misrepresentation  as  Alexander  Hamilton,  of  whom  Guizot  says 
'ustly  that  "  there  is  not  one  element  of  order,  strength  and  durability  in  our 
constitution  which  he  did  not  powerfully  contribute  to  introduce  into  the 


AND  PROSPECTS  OF  THE  COUNTRY.  23 

scheme  and  cause  to  be  adopted."*  He  was  the  first  of  our  great  legislators ; 
and  though  the  world  has  made  some  advances  since  his  time  in  political 
philosophy,  his  works  are  still  resorted  to  by  the  judicious  as  a  storehouse  of 
the  profoundest  wisdom.  Much  of  his  celebrated  Report  on  Manufactures 
combats  objections  to  the  protective  policy,  which  are  no  longer  urged,  and 
has  therefore  now  only  an  historical  value,  but  The  Federalist  will  always  be  a 
text  book  among  statesmen.! 

The  writings  of  Madison,  though  less  important  than  those  of  Hamilton, 
show  that  he  also  was  a  consummate  statesman.  They  are  distinguished  for 
an  extent  and  fulness  of  information,  soundness  of  reasoning,  and  sagacity, 
which  characterize  but  few  even  of  the  most  celebrated  works  in  their 
department. 

The  political  writings  of  John  Adams,  Dickinson,  Jefferson,  Jay,  and  others 
of  that  age,  are  likewise  remarkable  for  great  and  peculiar  merits. 

A  very  large  proportion  of  our  works  in  Political  Economy  relate  to  the 
Circulating  Medium  and  Manufactures,  and  have  been  occasioned  by  the 
movements  of  parties  or  the  immediate  wants  of  the  country.  Those  on  cur 
rency  and  banking  by  Mr.  Gallatin,  Mr.  Raguet,  Mr.  Tucker,  and  some  others, 
with  the  discussions  of  this  subject  by  our  leading  statesmen  in  the  legislative 
assemblies  and  through  the  press,  have  shown  a  depth  of  research  and  an  acute- 
ness  of  understanding  very  rarely  equalled.  Commerce  as  affecting  manu 
factures  has  constantly  engaged  public  attention  since  the  days  of  Hamilton 
and  Madison.  Parties  have  been  for  or  against  the  American  System — for  free 
trade  or  for  protection.  Jefferson  engaged  in  the  controversy,  but  to  suit  tem 
porary  purposes,  and  without  consistency.^  Dr.  Cooper,  when  in  Pennsylva 
nia,  wrote  forcibly  in  favour  of  protection,  and  subsequently,  when  in  South 
Carolina,  against  it.  Mr.  Clay  has  advocated  the  protective  system  with  con 
sistency  and  a  lucid  ability  hardly  ever  surpassed.  No  man  has  been  more 
successful  in  his  treatment  of  the  subject  in  its  secondary  aspects,  though  he 
may  have  produced  little  which  will  survive  the  changes  of  the  times. 
Mr.  Webster  has  written  ably  on  both  sides  of  the  question,  as  the  circum 
stances  of  the  country  seemed  to  require ;  before  1824  for  free  trade,  and 


*  Washington,  par  M.  Guizot.     Paris,  1840. 

f  It  ought  to  be  familiar  to  the  statesmen  of  every  nation. — De  Tocqueville. 

It  exhibits  an  extent  and  precision  of  information,  a  profundity  of  research,  and  an  acuteness  ol 
understanding  which  would  have  done  honour  to  the  most  illustrious  statesmen  of  ancient  or  modern  times. 
— Edinburgh  Review,  No.  xxiv. 

*  See  his  letters  to  B.  Austin  in  1816,  and  a  letter  written  by  him  on  the  same  subject  in  1823. 


24  INTELLECTUAL  HISTORY,  CONDITION, 

since  for  protection.  Mr.  Calhoun  has  in  both  periods  been  opposed  to  Mr. 
Webster,  and  he  is  now  undoubtedly  the  ablest  economist  of  his  party.  The 
protective  policy  has  also  been  defended  by  Mr.  Mathew  Carey,  Mr.  Alexan 
der  H.  Everett,  Mr.  Lawrence,  and  Mr.  Greeley ;  and  a  perfect  freedom  of 
trade  advocated  by  Mr.  Condy  Raguet,  Mr.  Bryant,  Mr.  Clement  Biddle,  Mr. 
Legget,  and  Mr.  Walker.  Many  other  writers  have  been  more  or  less  pro 
minently  engaged  in  this  controversy.  Works  on  Political  Economy  have  also 
been  written  by  Mr.  Cardoza,  Professor  Dew,  Dr.  McVickar,  Dr.  Vethake,  Dr. 
Wayland,  Mr.  C.  Colton,  Mr.  Middleton,  and  Mr.  Raymond,  several  of  which  are 
text-books  in  the  colleges.  Mr.  Everett  is  also  the  author  of  a  work  on  New 
Principles  of  Population,  and  Mr.  Henry  C.  Carey  has  written  largely  ajid  with 
ability  on  Population,  the  Production  of  Wrealth,  and  Wages.* 

Among  our  writers  in  Jurisprudence  have  been  many  of  great  ability.     Our 
oooks  of  Codes,  Statutes,  Reports  and  Essays  on  Rights,  Crimes  and  Punish- 

*  Wayland,  Tucker,  Dew,  etc.,  agree  very  well  with  Ricardo  and  Malthus.  Mr.  Carey  does  not, 
and  he  has  attempted  to  show  that  a  proper  examination  of  the  facts  that  are  before  us  prove  that 
their  views  are  unsound.  Ricardo  teaches  that  profits  fall  as  wages  rise — that  the  one  must  fall  with 
the  rise  of  the  other — that  rent  is  paid  because  of  a  constantly  increasing  difficulty  of  obtaining  food, 
as  population  increases,  and  consequently  that  the  interests  of  landlord  and  labourer  are  always 
opposed ;  the  one  fattening  upon  the  starvation  of  the  other.  This  whole  system  is  one  of  discords. 
Mr.  Carey  holds,  on  the  contrary,  that  wages  and  profits  both  tend  to  increase  with  the  growth  of 
capital  and  the  increase  of  production,  but  that  with  the  increased  productiveness  of  labour  the 
labourer  obtains  a  constantly  increasing  proportion,  leaving  to  the  capitalist  a  constantly  decreasing 
proportion,  but  to  both  an  increased  quantity.  Thus  if  at  one  time  the  labour  of  a  man  produces 
fifty  bushels,  of  which  the  landlord  takes  half,  and  at  another  one  hundred,  of  which  he  takes 
only  one-third,  both  are  improved,  although  the  apparent  condition  of  the  landlord  is  deteriorated  from 
half  to  one-third. 

50  100 

Labourer,— 25  67 

Capitalist,— 25— 50  33—100 

The  rent  of  land  is  held  to  be  subject  to  the  same  law,  it  being  only  profit  of  capital,  under  another 
name.  With  the  increased  facility  of  obtaining  food,  as  capital  is  applied  to  the  land,  the  landlord 
takes  a  constantly  decreasing  proportion,  and  the  labourer  has  a  constantly  increasing  one.  The  in 
terests  of  all  therefore  are  in  perfect  harmony  with  each  other,  and  all  are  benefited  by  every  mea 
sure  tending  to  the  maintenance  of  peace  and  the  growth  of  capital. 

Every  part  of  Political  Economy  is  included  in  the  great  law,  "  Do  unto  your  neighbour  as  you  would 
have  your  neighbour  do  unto  you."  Security  of  person  and  property  succeed  the  growth  of  capital — 
physical,  moral  and  intellectual  improvement  are  a  necessary  consequence  of  such  growth,  and  with 
every  step  in  his  material  or  moral  advancement  man  becomes  more  conscious  of  the  existence  of 
political  rights,  and  more  able  to  maintain  them.  Democracy — self-government — is  therefore  a  neces 
sary  consequence  of  the  growth  of  wealth,  and  it  arises  out  of  the  change  of  proportions,  above  noted. 
With  every  increase  in  the  proportion  which  capital  bears  to  labour,  their  relative  value  changes — 
labour  goes  up  and  capital  down — but  only  so  far  as  proportions  go — not  quantities. 


AND   PROSPECTS   OF  THE  COUNTRY.  25 

ments,  have  had  a  powerful  influence  on  the  common  and  positive  laws  of 
Christendom.  Bradford  and  Livingston,  with  many  others,  entitled  themselves 
to  gratitude  by  efforts  to  overthrow  the  tyranny  of  Revenge,  which  until 
recently  has  been  the  first  principle  in  criminal  legislation.  Their  influence 
has  been  widely  acknowledged  in  Europe  as  well  as  in  America.  I  need  but 
refer  to  the  great  Marshall,  to  Hamilton,  "  the  first  of  our  constitutional  law 
yers  ;"*  to  Parsons,  who  had  no  superior  in  the  common  law ;  to  Kent, 
whose  decisions  are  "  more  signally  entitled  to  respect  than  those  of  any  Eng 
lish  chancellor  since  the  American  Revolution,  with  the  single  exception, 
perhaps,  of  Lord  Eldon;"f  to  the  voluminous  and  able  works  of  Story;  or  to 
those  of  Livingston,  Wheaton,  Stearns,  Duer,  Verplanck,  Philips,  Greenleaf, 
Binney,  and  others  whose  names  are  associated  with  these  in  the  memories  of 
the  legal  profession. 

In  archaeological,  oriental  and  classical  learning  our  scholars  may  claim  an 
equality  with  any  contemporaries  except  the  Germans.  In  Biblical  Criticism^ 
the  names  of  J.  A.  Alexander,  Albert  Barnes,  George  Bush,  Charles  Hodge, 
Andrews  Norton,  Edward  Robinson,  Moses  Stuart, §  James  H.  Thornwell,  and 
others,  are  everywhere  honourably  distinguished.  Professors  Lewis,  Felton, 
and  Woolsey  have  published  editions  of  Greek  classics  eminently  creditable  to 
themselves  and  their  respective  universities,  and  Dr.  Robinson  had  acquired  an 
enduring  fame  as  a  Hellenist  before  he  established  a  new  era  in  the  study  of 
sacred  antiquities.  ||  Few  Americans  have  written  much  in  the  Latin  lan 
guage. 11  The  occasions  for  its  use  are  less  frequent  than  formerly.  It  is  com 
monly  taught  however  in  our  schools,  and  numerous  works  of  unquestionable 


*  3  Sergeant  and  Rawle,  1 94. 

f  Justice  Gibson:  3  Rawle,  139. 

t  Our  American  neighbours  are  really  outstripping  us  in  Biblical  Literature. — Samuel  Lee,  Professor 
of  Arabic  and  Hebrew  in  the.  University  of  Cambridge. 

§  Bloomfield,  in  his  Notes,  Critical,  Philological  and  Exegetical  upon  the  New  Testament— the 
most  elaborate  and  popular  work  of  its  sort  produced  in  England  in  the  present  age— acknowledges 
that  he  has  made  large  use  of  Stuart ;  and  he  might  say  of  his  last  edition  that  it  owes  its  chief  value 
to  Stuart  and  Robinson. 

||  Professor  Ritter,  of  Berlin,  wrote,  on  reading  Dr.  Robinson's  Researches — «  Now  just  begins  a 
second  great  era  in  our  knowledge  of  the  Promised  Land." 

1  The  number  of  Latin  orations  before  our  colleges  has  been  very  large.  Among  the  principal  other 
Latin  works  by  natives  of  the  country  are  the  Pietas  et  Gratulatio  addressed  to  George  III.  by  the 
President  and  Fellows  of  Harvard  College ;  Telemachus,  in  hexameter  verse,  by  the  Abbe  Veil,  of 
New  Orleans ;  the  Life  of  Washington,  by  Francis  Glass,  of  Ohio ;  and  a  System  of  Divinity,  by 
Bishop  Kendrick,  of  Pennsylvania. 

4  C 


26  INTELLECTUAL  HISTORY,  CONDITION, 

merit,  among  which  those  of  Mr.  Leverett  and  Dr.  Anthon  may  be  particu 
larly  referred  to,  have  appeared  here  to  facilitate  its  study. 

The  philological  labours  of  Dr.  Webster  are  universally  known  and  appre 
ciated.  After  the  devotion  of  nearly  half  a  century  to  his  Dictionary  he  saw 
it  become  the  most  generally  approved  standard  of  English  orthography.*  The 
services  of  the  late  Dr.  John  Pickering  and  others  in  this  department  are 
likewise  honourable  to  American  scholarship. 

The  Crania  Americana  of  Dr.  Morton,  a  work  of  immense  research,  in 
which  are  described  the  cranial  peculiarities  of  many  races  which  in  this 
respect  were  little  known,  is  one  of  the  most  important  ethnographical  works 
produced  in  this  age.  Mr.  Gallatin — on  many  accounts  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  of  men — is  perhaps  to  be  longest  remembered  for  his  profound 
investigations  of  the  languages  of  the  American  continent.  To  the  laborious 
and  ingenious  Schoolcraft  future  ages  are  to  owe  the  most  valuable  part  of 
their  knowledge  of  the  habits  and  intellectual  character  of  the  Indian  race. 
Mr.  Catlin,  Mr.  Hodgson  and  other  American  travellers,  and  our  noble  com 
pany  of  missionaries,  whose  heroism  puts  to  shame  all  that  is  recorded  of  the 
ages  of  chivalry,  have  likewise  contributed  very  largely  to  our  knowledge 
of  the  families  of  mankind. 

The  cultivation  of  purely  mechanical  and  natural  science  has  been  carried 
much  too  far  in  this  country,  or  rather  has  been  made  too  exclusive  and 
'  absorbing.  It  is  not  the  highest  science,  for  it  concerns  only  that  which  is 
around  us — which  is  altogether  outward.  Man  is  greater  than  the  world  of 
nature  in  which  he  lives,  and  just  as  clearly  must  the  science  of  man,  the  philo 
sophy  of  his  moral  and  intellectual  being,  rank  far  above  that  of  the  soulless 
creation  which  was  made  to  minister  to  his  wants.  When,  therefore,  this 
lower  science  so  draws  to  itself  the  life  of  any  age,  as  to  disparage  and  shut 
out  the  higher,  it  works  to  the  well  being  of  that  age  an  injury.  Still  it  is 
only  thus  in  comparison  with  a  nobler  and  more  lofty  study,  that  the  faintest 
reproach  should  be  cast  upon  that  natural  science,  which  in  no  slight  degree 
absorbs  the  intellectual  effort  of  the  present  generation.  Regarded  as  related 
to,  and  a  part  of,  a  complete  system  of  education,  with  a  powerful  influence 


*  The  American  Dictionary  of  the  English  Language  was  published  in  two  quarto  volumes  in  1828, 
after  more  than  thirty  years'  laborious  study  by  the  author.  It  contained  about  twelve  thousand 
words  and  more  than  thirty  thousand  definitions  not  found  in  any  similar  work.  Dr.  Webster  soon 
after  commenced  a  new  edition,  which  he  completed  and  published  in  1841. 


AND  PROSPECTS  OF  THE  COUNTRY.  27 

upon  the  purely  sesthetical  character  of  the  people,  it  becomes  most  important 
and  necessary,  and  its  cultivation  even  to  apparent  excess  a  source  of  the 
highest  hope. 

In  Mathematics  our  first  names  are  Rittenhouse,  Bowditch,  and  Nulty. 
The  great  work  of  Bowditch  is  his  translation  of  the  Mecanique  Celeste  of  La 
Place,  which,  with  his  commentary,  was  published  in  four  very  large  quarto 
volumes  in  the  years  1829,  1832,  1834  and  1838.  It  is  more  than  half  an 
exposition  of  the  original,  which  was  complex  and  obscure,  and  a  record  of  new 
discoveries.  It  was  remarked  in  the  London  Quarterly  Review,  on  the  ap 
pearance  of  the  first  volume,  that  the  "idea  savoured  of  the  gigantesque," 
and  that  even  if  not  completed,  the  work  should  be  considered  "highly  credit 
able  to  American  science,  and  as  the  harbinger  of  future  achievements  in  the 
loftiest  fields  of  intellectual  prowess." 

The  study  of  Meteorology  has  been  pursued  with  more  success  in  the  United 
States  than  in  any  other  country.  At  least  here  the  most  splendid  results  have 
been  reached  in  this  important  branch  of  philosophy.  The  grand  discove 
ries  of  Franklin*  in  electricity  are  of  course  familiar,  but  it  is  not  so  generally 
known  that  some  of  his  observations  contain  germs  of  the  more  recent  doc 
trines  of  storms.  The  investigations  of  this  subject  by  Mr.  Redfield  and  Mr. 
Espy,  and  their  ingenious  theories,  have  commanded  the  respect  and  admira 
tion  of  scholars  ;f  and  though  some  of  the  principles  of  each  are  still  subjects 
of  controversy,  it  is  everywhere  acknowledged  that  those  they  have  established 
are  of  the  highest  interest  and  importance.  The  writings  on  Meteorology  by 
Dr.  Hare  and  Mr.  Loomis,  and  the  theory  of  Dew  by  Dr.  Wells,  are  also  most 
honourable  to  our  science. 

In  Chemistry  it  is  necessary  only  to  refer  to  the  labours  of  Rumford,  Web 
ster,  Silliman,  Hare  and  Henry ;  in  Mineralogy,  to  those  of  Cleveland,  Dana, 
and  Beck;  in  Geology^  to  those  of  Maclure,  Hitchcock,  Silliman,  Mather, 

*  His  genius  ranks  him  with  the  Galileos  and  the  Newtons  of  the  old  world. — Lord  Brougham. 
The  most  rational  of  philosophers.     No  individual,  perhaps,  ever  possessed  a  juster  understanding, 

or  was  so  seldom  obstructed  in  the  use  of  it  by  indolence,  enthusiasm,  or  authority. — Lord  Jeffrey. 

Antiquity  would  have  raised  altars  to  this  mighty  genius. — Mirabeau. 

f  See  article  vi.  Edinburgh  Review,  No.  cxxxiii.  by  Sir  David  Brewster ;  Proceedings  of  British 
Association,  1840  ;  Report  on  Mr.  Espy's  Theory  to  the  French  Academy  by  MM.  Arago,  Pouillet 
and  Babinet. 

*  The  explorations  which  have  been  made  by  authority  of  the  local  governments  into  the  Geology 
and  general  Natural  History  of  the  principal  states  of  the  Union  are  among  the  proudest  achievements 
of  the  present  day,  and  I  believe  are  altogether  unparalleled  in  other  countries.     The  published  Re 
ports,  in  nearly  one  hundred  large  volumes,  are  splendid  monuments  of  intelligent  enterprise  in  the 
cause  of  science.     They  will  be  of  incalculable  value  to  students  and  inquirers  for  ages  to  come. 


28  INTELLECTUAL  HISTORY,  CONDITION, 

Emmons,  Vanuxem,  Rogers,  Jackson,  Troost,  Percival,  Houghton,  and  Hall 
and  in  Botany  to  those  of  Bartram,  Barton,  Elliott,  Bigelow,  Gray,  Torry,  and 
Darlington.  There  have  been  no  European  Ornithologists  during  this  century 
to  be  ranked  before  or  even  with  Wilson  and  Audubon.*  The  works  on  Ento 
mology  by  Mr.  Say  and  Mr.  Le  Conte,  on  Herpetology  by  Dr.  Holbrook,  on 
Icthyology  by  Dr.  Mitchell,  Dr.  Holbrook  and  Dr.  Storer,  on  Mammalogy  by 
Dr.  Bachman,  and  on  Conchology  by  Mr.  Lea,f  have  very  great  merits,  which 
have  oeen  universally  acknowledged.  The  writings  of  Godman,  Hays,  and 
other  zoologists  have  likewise  merited  and  received  general  applause. 

The  field  of  romantic  fiction  has  for  a  quarter  of  a  century  been  thronged 
with  labourers.  I  do  not  know  how  large,  the  national  stock  may  be,  but  I  have 
in  my  own  library  more  than  seven  hundred  volumes  of  novels,  tales  and 
romances  by  American  writers.  Comparatively  lew  of  them  are  of  so  poor  a 
sort  as  to  be  undeserving  a  place  in  any  general  collection  of  our  literature. 
Altogether  they  are  not  below  the  average  of  English  novels  for  this  present 
century  ;  and  the  proportion  which  is  marked  by  a  genuine  originality  of  man 
ner,  purpose,  and  feeling,  is  much  larger  than  they  who  have  not  read  them  are 
aware. 

Charles  Brockden  Brown,  the  pioneer  in  this  department  of  our  literature, 
was  a  gentle,  unobtrusive  enthusiast,  whose  weak  frame  was  shattered  and 
wrecked  by  the  too  powerful  pulsations  of  his  heart.  He  was  no  misanthrope, 
but  the  larger  portion  of  his  life,  though  it  was  passed  in  cities,  was  that  of  a 


*  Audubon's  works  are  the  most  splendid  monuments  which  art  has  erected  in  honour  of  Ornithology. 
-Cuvier. 

He  is  the  greatest  artist  in  his  own  walk  that  ever  lived. — Professor  Wilson. 

f  Mr.  Lea  has  been  much  the  largest  contributor  to  the  Transactions  of  the  American  Philosophical 
Society,  having  elaborate  and  important  papers  upon  his  favourite  science  in  all  the  volumes  from  the 
third  to  the  tenth.  This  is  a  publication  of  great  value  and  interest,  not  only  on  account  of  the  in 
trinsic  excellence  of  the  papers  it  contains,  but  because  it  furnishes  an  authentic  record  of  the  progress 
of  science  in  America.  Voluntary  associations  of  men  devoted  to  scientific  investigations,  such  as  the 
American  Philosophical  Society,  are  the  only  means  for  extending  and  rendering  vigorous  that  spirit  of 
research  and  that  intellectual  enthusiasm  upon  which  these  studies  rely  for  prosperous  and  beneficent 
cultivation ;  for  unhappily  in  the  United  States  such  men  can  look  with  slight  confidence  to  the  local 
or  federal  governments  for  aid  or  encouragement.  The  late  National  Exploring  Expedition  under  Cap 
tain  Wilkes,  and  the  scientific  surveys  of  the  different  states,  however,  are  indications  that  a  better 
spirit  is  prevailing  in  the  legislatures.  The  published  Transactions  of  several  other  societies,  and  the 
important  Journal  of  Professor  Silliman,  and  other  periodicals,  deserve  also  to  be  mentioned  as  reposi 
tories  of  our  scientific  literature.  The  papers  by  Mr.  Lea,  referred  to  in  the  beg  nning  of  this  note, 
are  the  most  valuable  contributions  that  have  been  made  to  the  study  of  Conchology  in  this  century. 


AND    PROSPECTS   OF  THE  COUNTRY.  29 

recluse.  He  lived  in  an  ideal  and  had  little  sympathy  with  the  actual  world. 
He  had  more  genius  than  talent,  and  more  imagination  than  fancy.  It  has 
been  said  that  he  outraged  the  laws  of  art  by  gross  improbabilities  and  inconsis 
tencies,  but  the  most  incredible  of  his  incidents  had  parallels  in  true  history, 
and  the  metaphysical  unity  and  consistency  of  his  novels  are  apparent  to  all 
readers  familiar  with  psychological  phenomena.  His  works,  generally  written 
with  great  rapidity,  are  incomplete,  and  deficient  in  method.  He  disregarded 
rules,  and  cared  little  for  criticism.  But  his  style  was  clear  and  nervous,  with 
little  ornament,  free  of  affectations,  and  indicated  a  singular  sincerity  and 
depth  of  feeling. 

Mr.  Paulding's  novels  are  distinguished  for  considerable  descriptive  pow 
ers,  skill  in  character  writing,  natural  humour,  and  a  strong  national  feeling, 
which  gives  a  tone  to  all  his  works.  The  Dutchman's  Fireside  and  Westward 
Ho !  have  the  fidelity  of  historical  pictures,  and  they  are  the  best  we  have  of 
the  early  settlers  of  New  York  and  Kentucky. 

Timothy  Flint  is  better  known  by  other  works  than  his  novels,  but  Francis 
Berrian  and  the  Shoshonee  Valley  are  books  of  merit.  Their  dramatic  inte 
rest  is  not  very  great,  but  they  are  marked  by  an  unstudied  na'ivet&  and  freedom 
from  pretence  ;  they  abound  in  striking  and  graphic  descriptions ;  and  their 
characters  are  clearly  drawn  and  well  sustained.  In  every  department  in 
which  this  author  wrote  at  all,  he  wrote  like  a  scholar,  a  man  of  feeling,  and  a 
gentleman. 

While  the  author  of  The  Spy  receives  the  applause  of  Europe  ;*  while  the 
critics  of  Germany  and  France  debate  the  claims  of  Scott  to  be  ranked  before 
him  or  even  with  him,  his  own  countrymen  deride  his  pretensions,  and  Monikin 
critics  affect  contempt  of  him,  or  make  the  appearance  of  his  works  occasions 
of  puerile  personal  abuse.  I  shall  not  discuss  the  causes  of  this  feeling,  further 
than  by  remarking  that  Mr.  Cooper  is  a  man  of  independence  ;  that  he  is  aware  of 
the  dignity  of  his  position  ;  that  he  thinks  for  himself  in  his  capacity  of  citizen; 
and  that  he  has  written  above  the  popular  taste,  in  avoiding  the  sickly  sentimental-  , 
ism  which  commends  to  shop-boys  and  chamber-maids  one  half  the  transatlantic 
novels  of  this  age.  In  each  of  the  departments  of  romantic  fiction  in  which 
he  has  written,  he  has  had  troops  of  imitators,  and  in  not  one  of  them  an  equal. 
Waiting  not  from  books,  but  from  nature,  his  descriptions,  his  incidents,  his 


*  The  Empire  of  the  sea  has  been  conceded  to  him  by  acclamation ;  in  the  lonely  desert  or  untrod 
den  prairie,  among  the  savage  Indians  or  scarcely  less  savage  settlers,  all  equally  acknowledge  his 
dominion.  "  Within  this  circle  none  dares  walk  but  he." — Edinburgh  Review,  cxxiii. 

c2 


30  INTELLECTUAL  HISTORY,  CONDITION, 

characters,  are  as  fresh  as  the  fields  of  his  triumphs.  His  Harvey  Birch, 
Leather  Stocking,  Long  Tom  Coffin,  and  other  heroes,  rise  before  the  mind  each 
in  his  clearly  defined  and  peculiar  lineaments  as  striking  original  creations,  as 
actual  coherent  beings.  His  infinitely  varied  descriptions  of  the  ocean  ;  his  ships, 
gliding  like  beings  of  the  air  upon  its  surface  ;  his  vast,  solitary  wildernesses  ; 
and  indeed  all  his  delineations  of  nature,  are  instinct  with  the  breath  of  poetry. 
He  is  both  the  Horace  Vernet  and  the  Claude  Lorraine  of  novelists.  And  through 
all  his  works  are  sentiments  of  genuine  courtesy  and  honour,  and  an  unob 
trusive  and  therefore  more  powerful  assertion  of  natural  rights  and  dignity.  I 
shall  not  pretend  to  say  how  far  a  good  plot  is  essential  to  a  good  novel. 
Doubtless  in  a  tale,  as  in  a  play,  the  interest,  with  the  vulgar,  is  dependent  in 
a  large  degree  upon  the  plot ;  but  the  quality  of  interesting  is  of  secondary 
importance  in  both  cases.  It  must  be  confessed  that  Mr.  Cooper's  plots  are 
sometimes  of  a  common-place  sort,  that  they  are  not  always  skilfully  wrought, 
and  that  he  has  faults  of  style,  and  argument,  and  conclusion.  But  he  is 
natural,  he  is  original,  he  is  American,  and  he  has  contributed  more  than  any  of 
his  contemporaries  to  the  formation  of  a  really  national  literature. 

The  novels  of  Miss  Sedgwick,  attempered  always  by  a  cheerful  philosophy, 
with  portraits  drawn  with  singular  fidelity  from  life,  and  incidents  so  natural  that 
the  New  Englander  can  scarcely  doubt  that  they  are  portions  of  his  village's 
history,  are  not  less  American  than  Mr.  Paulding's.  They  are  in  many 
respects  very  different,  but  the  difference  is  geographical. 

The  most  voluminous  of  our  novelists,  next  to  Mr.  Cooper,  is  Mr.  Simms, 
and  he  has  many  attributes  in  common  with  that  author.  His  descriptions  are 
bold  and  graphic  ;  and  his  characters  have  considerable  individuality.  He  is 
most  successful  in  sketches  of  rude  border  life,  in  bustling,  tumultuous  action. 
West,  the  greatest  composer  of  modern  times,  seemed  content  with  the  demon 
stration  in  a  few  pictures  that  he  was  equal  even  to  Corregio  as  a  colourist  and 
anatomist ;  he  gave  in  too  many  cases  his  last  touch  to  works  which  should 
have  occupied  a  full  decade,  in  a  single  year.  So  Mr.  Simms,  who  is  a  poet, 
and  has  shown  himself  a  master  of  the  intricacies  of  rhetoric,  throws  off  a 
volume  while  he  should  be  engaged  on  a  chapter.  Though  occasionally  cor 
rect,  animated  and  powerful,  his  style  is  too  frequently  abrupt,  careless,  and 
harsh.  The  oi^enes  of  Mr.  Simms  are  generally  in  the  Southern  States,  and 
the  society  and  manners  described  are  very  unlike  those  of  the  North.  One 
of  the  most  marked  of  his  peculiarities  is  a  sectional  feeling  which  he  betrays 
on  almost  every  occasion.  His  « true  gentlemen,"  such  as  they  are,  are  of  the 
country  south  of  Washington  ;  his  clowns  are  direct  from  Long  Island  or  Con- 


AND   PROSPECTS   OF  THE  COUNTRY.  31 

necticut.  The  aim  of  a  literary  class  should  be  to  civilize  mankind,  to  soften 
asperities,  to  abolish  prejudices,  to  extend  the  dominion  of  gentleness.  Mr. 
Simms  appears  to  have  thought  differently.  But  with  all  their  faults,  of  inven 
tion,  manner  and  spirit,  his  works  have  some  striking  merits  which  entitle 
them  to  a  higher  consideration  than  they  have  received. 

Mr.  Hoffman  has  an  eye  for  natural  scenery.  By  this  I  do  not  mean  simply 
a  capacity  of  enjoying  it,  but  a  clear  perception  of  its  features  and  a  cordial 
estimate  of  its  peculiarities.  With  most  persons  woodland,  stream  and  cloud 
leave  but  vague  impressions,  and  in  attempting  to  convey  an  idea  of  any  pros 
pect  or  range  of  country,  either  with  the  pen  or  in  conversation,  they  find  their 
memories  or  descriptive  powers  quite  inadequate  to  the  task.  Mr.  Hoffman  is 
admirably  organized  for  the  appreciation  both  of  scenery  and  character.  There 
is  a  vivacity  and  actuality  in  his  pictures  of  rural  scenes,  which  has  scarcely 
been  equalled  in  this  country.  The  heroes  and  heroines  of  his  fictions  have 
both  freshness  and  individuality,  and  this  is  enough  to  render  them  not  only 
attractive  but  natural. 

The  name  of  the  author  of  Horse  Shoe  Robinson,  Swallow  Barn,  Rob  of 
the  Bowl,  and  Quodhbet,  is  rarely  heard  by  the  lovers  of  good  literature  with 
out  a  feeling  of  regret  that  politics  should  have  allured  from  letters  one  whose 
genius  and  accomplishments  fit  him  so  well  to  shine  in  that  field  where  are  won 
the  most  enduring  as  well  as  the  noblest  reputations.  Mr.  Kennedy  is  more 
than  any  other  of  his  contemporaries  like  Washington  Irving.  He  has  much  of 
his  graceful  expression,  quiet  humour  and  cheerful  philosophy,  with  more  than 
he  of  the  constructive  faculty.  His  works  abound  in  the  best  qualities  which 
should  distinguish  our  American  romantic  literature,  and  prove  that  the  will 
only  is  necessary  for  him  to  secure  a  place  among  the  great  authors  of  our 
language. 

Calavar  and  The  Infidel  were  the  first  novels  of  Dr.  Bird,  and  there  are 
few  American  readers  who  need  to  be  informed  of  their  character  or  desert ; 
though  as  their  accomplished  author  has  been  so  long  in  retirement,  the  infer 
ence  is  reasonable  that  their  reception  was  equal  neither  to  their  merits  nor  his 
expectations.  Dr.  Bird  has  great  dramatic  power,  and  has  shown  in  several 
instances  considerable  ability  in  the  portraiture  of  character.  His  historical 
romances  are  deserving  of  that  title.  His  scenes  and  events  from  actual  life 
are  presented  with  graphic  force  and  an  unusual  fidelity.  He  had  the  rare 
merit  of  understanding  his  subjects  as  perfectly  as  it  was  possible  to  do  so  by 
the  most  persevering  and  intelligent  study  of  all  accessible  authorities ;  and  in 
the  works  I  have  mentioned  has  written  in  an  elevated  and  effective  style.  In 


32  INTELLECTUAL  HISTORY,  CONDITION, 

Calavar,  Robin  Day,  Nick  of  the  Woods,  The  Hawks  of  Hawk  Hollow, 
Peter  Pilgrim,  and  Sheppard  Lee,  he  has  exhibited  a  manner  as  various  as 
his  genius,  and  shown  that  there  is  hardly  a  school  of  fiction  in  which  he 
cannot  excel. 

There  are  very  few  works  of  their  sort  in  the  literature  of  any  country  com 
parable  to  the  Zenobia,  Probus,  and  Julian,  of  William  Ware.  Mrs.  Child's 
beautiful  story  of  Philothea,  in  which  she  has  so  happily  depicted  Athenian 
society  in  the  age  of  Pericles,  is  the  only  American  romance  of  a  kind  in  any 
degree  similar.  Mr.  Ware's  characters  are  finely  discriminated  and  skilfully 
executed ;  and  his .  narratives  have  a  just  proportion  and  completeness.  He 
writes  like  one  perfectly  at  home  amid  the  ancient  grandeur  and  civilization  of 
his  scenes  and  eras,  and  in  a  style  of  Augustan  elegance  and  purity. 

Mr.  Osborn's  Sixty  Years  of  the  Life  of  Jeremy  Levis  and  Confessions  of  a 
Poet  are  powerfully  written  and  deeply  interesting.  The  latter  is  more  like  Mr. 
Dana's  Tom  Thornton  than  any  other  American  novel.  It  illustrates  the  meta 
physics  of  passion,  and  in  construction,  and  in  all  respects  indeed,  is  superior 
to  his  first  work,  though  both  inculcate  a  questionable  morality. 

I  shall  have  occasion  elsewhere  to  refer  to  the  works  in  this  department  by 
Mr.  Allston,  Mr.  Irving,  Mr.  Longfellow,  Mr.  Hall,  Mr.  Thomas,  Mr.  Mathews 
and  some  other  writers. 

Since  the  days  of  Richardson,  when  novels  were  printed  sometimes  in  five 
quartos  and  sometimes  in  ten  octavos,  their  legitimate  extent  has  been  in  Eng 
land  three  duodecimo  volumes.  The  Germans  have  gone  back  to  the  more 
ancient  models,  such  as  were  furnished  by  Boccacio  and  the  authors  of  the 
Gesta  Romanorum,  and  many  things  in  our  own  country  have  tended  to  in 
crease  the  popularity  of  the  tale.  Partly  in  consequence  of  the  demand,  per 
haps,  our  productions  of  this  sort  have  been  exceedingly  numerous,  and  with 
out  the  imprimatur  of  any  foreign  publisher  they  have  been  read.  It  has 
sometimes  been  amusing,  however,  to  observe  the  servility  of  habit  and 
opinion  manifested  in  regard  to  such  of  them  as  have  been  attributed  to 
foreign  writers.  In  many  instances  the  contents  of  our  magazines,  received 
in  silence  or  with  faint  praise  on  their  first  appearance  here,  have  been  copied 
by  British  publishers,  returned  as  by  British  authors,  and  then  sent  with  extra 
vagant  commendations  through  half  the  gazettes  of  the  Union. 

Admitting,  very  readily,  that  it  requires  more  application — more  time  and 
toil — to  produce  a  three  volume  novel,  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  pro 
duction  of  the  tale  is  a  very  easy  business.  On  the  contrary,  there  is 


AND  PROSPECTS  OF  THE  COUNTRY.  33 

scarcely  any  thing  more  difficult,  or  demanding  the  exercise  of  finer  genius, 
in  the  whole  domain  of  prose  composition. 

Washington  Irving  is  a  name  of  which  the  country  is  very  reasonably  proud. 
His  rich  humour,  fine  sentiment,  delicate  perception  of  the  beautiful,  and  taste, 
are  apparent  in  almost  every  thing  he  has  written.  He  has  given  us  but  little 
of  a  tender  or  romantic  kind  indeed,  and  less  perhaps  to  show  the  possession 
of  the  inventive  faculty.  The  Wife,  The  Broken  Heart,  the  Widow  and  her 
Son,  and  the  Pride  of  the  Village,  prove  however  that  he  could  summon  tears 
from  their  fountains  as  easily  as  he  has  wakened  smiles.  I  speak  of  him  thus 
briefly  here,  because  it  is  not  as  a  writer  of  such  works  as  are  now  under  obser 
vation  that  he  is  chiefly  distinguished. 

Next  to  Irving,  and  perhaps  before  him  in  point  of  time,  was  Richard  H. 
Dana.  His  stories  published  originally  in  The  Idle  Man,  are  among  the  most 
remarkable  works  of  their  class  in  modern  literature.  Paul  Felton  is  a  history 
of  wild  passion,  in  which  the  characters  are  portrayed  with  a  master's  skill,  and 
there  runs  through  it  a  strain  of  lofty  and  vigorous  thought,  and  a  knowledge  of 
human  life,  which  place  it  in  the  very  first  rank  of  ethical  fictions.  Edward  and 
Mary,  and  the  Son,  are  of  a  more  pleasing  and  touching  nature,  and  are  scarcely 
less  deserving  of  praise. 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne  has  published  some  half  a  dozen  volumes  of  tales  and 
romantic  essays,  various  in  their  character,  but  all  marked  with  his  peculiar  and 
happy  genius.  He  is  «  most  musical,  most  melancholy."  He  controls  his 
reader  as  the  capricious  air  does  the  harp.  The  handkerchief,  raised  toward 
the  eye  to  wipe  away  the  blinding  moisture  there,  is  checked  at  the  lips,  to 
suppress  a  smile,  summoned  by  some  touch  of  delicate  and  felicitous  humour. 
He  has  the  most  unaffected  simplicity  and  sincerity,  with  the  deepest  insight 
into  man's  nature  and  the  secrets  of  his  action.  His  style  is  remarkable  for 
elegance,  clearness,  and  ease,  while  it  is  imaginative  and  metaphysical;  and 
his  themes,  chosen  most  frequently  from  the  legends  of  our  colonial  age,  though 
occasionally  from  those  of  a  later  period,  or  from  the  realm  of  allegory,  are  not 
more  national  than  almost  every  thing  in  his  fanciful  illustrations  and  quaint  and 
beautiful  philosophy.  His  Twice  Told  Tales  and  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse 
are  the  perfection  of  pensive,  graceful,  humorous  writing,  quite  equal  to  the 
finest  things  of  Diedrich  Knickerbocker  or  Geoffrey  Crayon,  and  superior  to  all 
else  of  a  similar  description  in  the  English  language. 

The  characteristics  of  Mr.  Willis  are  very  striking,  and  his  tales  are  proba 
bly  not  inferior  to  any  of  their  kind.  His  style  is  felicitous,  his  fancy  warm 
and  exuberant,  and  he  has  a  ready  and  sparkling  wit.  No  author  has  described 

5 


34  INTELLECTUAL  HISTORY,  CONDITION, 

contemporary  society  with  more  vivacity,  and  in  some  of  its  phases  perhaps  no 
one  has  delineated  it  with  more  fidelity. 

The  tales  of  Mr.  Poe  are  peculiar  and  impressive.  He  has  a  great  deal  of 
imagination  and  fancy,  and  his  mind  is  in  the  highest  degree  analytical.  He 
is  deficient  in  humour,  but  humour  is  a  quality  of  a  different  sort  of  minds, 
and  its  absence  were  to  him  slight  disadvantage,  but  for  his  occasional  forget- 
fulness  that  he  does  not  possess  it.  The  reader  of  Mr.  Poe's  tales  is  compelled 
almost  at  the  outset  to  surrender  his  rnind  to  his  author's  control.  Unlike 
that  of  *he  greater  number  of  suggestive  authors  his  narrative  is  most  minute, 
and  unlike  most  who  attend  so  carefully  to  detail  he  has  nothing  superfluous — 
nothing  which  does  not  tend  to  the  production  of  the  desired  result.  His 
stories  seem  to  be  written  currente  calamo,  but  if  examined  will  be  found  to  be 
results  of  consummate  art.  No  mosaics  were  ever  piled  with  greater  delibera 
tion.  In  no  painting  was  ever  conception  developed  with  more  boldness  and 
apparent  freedom.  Mr.  Poe  resembles  Brockden  Brown  in  his  intimacy  with 
mental  pathology,  but  surpasses  that  author  in  delineation.  No  one  ever  de 
lighted  more  or  was  more  successful  in  oppressing  the  brain  with  anxiety  or 
startling  it  with  images  of  horror.  George  Walker,  Anne  RadclifFe,  or  Maria 
Roche,  could  alarm  With  dire  chimeras,  could  lead  their  characters  into  diffi 
culties  and  perils,  but  they  extricated  them  so  clumsily  as  to  destroy  every  im 
pression  of  reality.  Mr.  Poe's  scenes  all  seem  to  be  actual.  Taking  into 
view  the  chief  fact,  and  the  characteristics  of  the  dramatis  persona,  we  can 
not  understand  how  any  of  the  subordinate  incidents  in  his  tales  could  have 
failed  to  happen. 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  Okes  Smith  is  a  woman  of  a  most  original  and  poetical 
mind,  who  has  succeeded,  perhaps  better  than  any  other  person,  in  appreciat 
ing  and  developing  the  fitness  of  aboriginal  tradition  and  mythology  for  the 
purposes  of  romantic  fiction. 

The  tales  of  Mr.  Bryant,  Mr.  Leggett,  Mr.  Hoffman,  Mr.  Simms,  Mrs.  Child, 
Mrs.  Kirkland,  and  several  others,  will  be  remembered  as  possessing  various 
and  peculiar  merits. 

I  come  now  to  the  consideration  of  the  Humorous,  the  Comic,  and  the  Sa 
tirical.  It  has  been  so  frequently  asserted  by  men  of  little  observation  tha* 
these  qualities  are  almost  or  utterly  unknown  among  us,  that  I  should  feel  some 
hesitation  in  speaking  of  them  were  the  proofs  of  their  existence  here  less 
abundant  and  satisfactory.  It  is  true  that  we  have  no  Lucian,  no  Rabelais,  no 
Moliere ;  but  the  gay,  the  witty,  and  the  facetious,  have  nevertheless  borne  ? 


AND  PROSPECTS  OF  THE  COUNTRY.  35 

due  proportion  to  our  writers  of  the  graver,  profounder,  and  more  imaginative 
classes. 

I  am  disposed  to  think  that  however  successful  Mr.  Irving  has  been  in  other 
departments  of  literature,  he  will  be  longest  remembered  as  a  humorist.  Of 
his  History  of  New  York,  humour  is  the  predominating  quality,  and  it  would  be 
difficult  to  find  any  thing  which  possesses  it  in  a  higher  degree.  Mr.  Irving's 
humourous  writings  are  different  from  nearly  all  others.  The  governing 
attribute  of  his  mind  is  taste,  and  he  presents  nothing  to  the  public 
before  it  has  been  polished  with  the  skill  and  care  of  a  lapidary.  In  all 
his  works  it  would  be  impossible  to  find  a  word  that  shocks  the  fastidiously 
refined  by  its  vulgarity,  yet  there  is  in  them  no  lack  of  freshness  or  freedom, 
In  his  vivacity  he  is  never  unguarded,  in  his  gayety  he  is  never  unchaste. 
Humour  cannot  easily  be  described.  As  Barrow  so  well  observes,  "It  is  that  we 
all  see  and  know,  but  which  is  properly  appreciated  only  by  acquaintance.  It 
is  so  versatile,  so  multiform :  it  appears  in  so  many  shapes,  so  many  postures, 
so  many  garbs,  and  is  so  variously  understood  by  different  eyes  and  judg 
ments,  that  it  would  be  as  easy  to  paint  the  face  of  Proteus  as  to  give  a  clear 
and  certain  idea  of  it."  Yet  it  may  be  safely  averred  that  a  gentleman  had 
never  conception  of  it  which  is  not  illustrated  in  the  works  of  our  author. 

Mr.  Paulding  and  Mr.  Irving  commenced  so  nearly  together  that  it  is  diffi 
cult  to  say  which  had  precedence  in  point  of  time.  The  marriage  of  Paulding's 
sister  to  an  elder  brother  of  Irving  led  to  the  acquaintance  of  the  youthful 
wits,  both  of  whom  had  already  written  some  trifles  for  the  gazettes,  and  it 
was  soon  after  proposed  in  a  gay  conversation  that  they  should  establish  a 
periodical,  in  which  to  lash  and  amuse  the  town.  When  they  next  met,  each 
had  prepared  an  introductory  paper,  and  as  both  had  some  points  too  good  to 
be  sacrificed  they  were  blended  into  one,  Paulding's  serving  as  the  basis. 
They  adopted  the  title  of  Salmagundi,  and  soon  after  published  a  small  edition 
of  their  first  number,  little  thinking  of  the  extraordinary  success  which 
awaited  it.  Upon  the  completion  of  two  volumes  a  disagreement  with  their 
publisher  suddenly  caused  a  suspension  of  the  work,  and  the  sequel  to  it  was 
written  several  years  afterward  while  Irving  was  abroad,  exclusively  by  Pauld 
ing.  Salmagundi  entitles  its  authors  to  a  very  high  rank  among  the  comic 
writers.  In  this  miscellany,  The  Mirror  for  Travellers,  John  Bull  and  Brother 
Jonathan,  and  his  other  writings,  Mr.  Paulding  has  given  almost  every  sort 
of  facetious  and  satirical  composition.  He  deals  more  largely  than  Irving  in  the 
whimsical  and  the  burlesque,  and  he  is  wanting  in  the  exquisite  refinement 
which  lends  such  a  charm  to  Geoffrey  Crayon's  humour.  The  follies  of  men 


36  INTELLECTUAL  HISTORY,  CONDITION, 

are  often  confirmed,  rather  than  cured,  by  undisguised  attacks.  Mr.  Cooper, 
by  his  honest  and  sensible  commentaries  upon  a  class  in  our  American  society, 
gathered  the  scattered  vulgar  into  a  mob.  Paulding,  who  took  greater  liberties, 
was  perhaps  a  more  efficient  reformer,  without  startling  them  by  an  exhibition  of 
their  deformities,  or  attracting  their  vexed  rage  to  himself.  The  motley  crowds 
at  our  watering  places,  the  ridiculous  extravagance  and  ostentation  of  the  sud 
denly  made  rich,  the  ascendency  of  pocket  over  brain  in  the  affairs  of  love, 
and  all  the  fopperies  and  follies  of  our  mimic  worlds,  are  described  by  him  in 
a  most  diverting  manner ;  while  the  more  serious  sins  of  society  are  treated 
with  appropriate  severity.  Besides  his  occasional  coarseness,  however,  Mr. 
Paulding  has  the  fault,  in  common  with  some  others,  of  labeling  his  characters, 
gay,  sedate,  or  cynical,  as  the  case  maybe,  in  descriptive  names,  as  if  doubtful 
of  their  possessing  sufficient  individuality  to  be  otherwise  distinguished.  If  a 
hero  cannot  make  himself  known  in  his  action  and  conversation  he  is  not  worth 
bringing  upon  the  boards. 

Robert  C.  Sands  exhibited  considerable  humour  in  both  his  poems  and  prose 
writings.  He  excelled  in  burlesque,  of  which  he  produced  some  admirable  spe 
cimens.  Mr.  Sands,  Mr.  Verplanck  and  Mr.  Bryant  formed  together  a  "  literary 
confederacy,"  during  the  existence  of  which  they  wrote  the  three  volumes  of 
The  Talisman,  except  a  few  pieces  by  Mr.  Halleck,  and  another  friend  of 
theirs.  Mr.  Villecour  and  his  Neighbours,  and  Scenes  in  Washington,  in  this 
miscellany,  are  the  joint  composition  of  Sands  and  Verplanck,  and  are  excel 
lent,  except  that  in  a  few  instances  they  run  into  ill-natured  caricature.  The 
Peregrinations  of  Petrus  Mudd,  in  The  Talisman,  (in  which  is  given  a  true 
history  of  a  well-known  New  Yorker,)  and  other  early  writings  of  Mr.  Ver 
planck,  show  that  that  gentleman  needed  but  the  impulse  to  rival  the  finest  wits 
of  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne. 

John  Sanderson,  to  natural  abilities  of  a  high  order  added  a  calm,  chaste 
scholarship,  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  men,  a  singularly  amiable  disposi 
tion,  and  a  frank  and  highbred  courtesy.  In  his  humour  were  blended  happily 
the  characteristics  of  Rabelais,  Sterne  and  Lamb.  To  his  appreciation  of 
the  comic  was  added  a  most  delicate  perception  of  the  beautiful.  He  knew 
society,  its  selfishness,  and  its  want  of  honour,  but  looked  upon  it  less  in 
anger  than  in  sadness.  Yet  he  was  no  cynic,  no  Heraclitus.  He  deemed  it  wisest 
to  laugh  at  the  follies  of  mankind.  Through  all  his  experience  he  lost  none 
of  his  natural  urbanity,  his  freshness  of  feeling,  his  earnestness  and  sincerity. 
He  was  not  less  brilliant  in  his  conversation  than  in  his  writings ;  but  he  never 
summoned  a  shadow  to  any  face,  or  permitted  a  weight  to  lie  on  any  heart. 


AND  PROSPECTS  OF  THE  COUNTRY.  37 

In  the  Ollapodiana  of  Willis  Gaylord  Clarke  are  many  of  the  character 
istics  of  Sanderson ;  but  Clarke  lived  in  a  more  quiet  atmosphere  ;  or  perhaps 
it  were  better  to  say,  he  had  a  less  independent  expression.  Born  and  educated 
in  a  rural  village,  and  passing  his  maturer  years  in  a  metropolis,  he  was  fami 
liar  with  almost  every  variety  of  life  and  manners  existing  in  our  own  country. 
His  perception  of  the  ludicrous  was  quick,  and  his  taste  rejected  all  that  was 
coarse  or  depraving.  We  find  in  few  works  such  a  pleasing  combination  of 
elegant  comedy  and  fine  sentiment  as  in  the  quaint  essays  above  referred  to, 
and  in  none,  perhaps,  a  truer  index  to  an  author's  own  habits  and  feelings. 

The  Charcoal  Sketches,  and  other  humorous  writings  of  Joseph  C. 
Neal,  are  elaborate,  but  wanting  in  the  grace  and  spirit  which  distinguish 
many  productions  of  their  class.  Mr.  Neal  writes  as  if  he  had  little  or  no 
sympathy  with  his  creations,  and  as  if  he  were  a  calm  spectator  of  acts  and 
actors,  whimsical  or  comical, — an  observer  rather  by  accident  than  from 
desire.  It  is  not  always  so,  however,  since  in  some  of  his  sketches  he  exhibits 
not  only  a  happy  faculty  for  the  burlesque,  and  singular  skill  in  depicting  cha 
racter,  but  a  geniality  and  heartiness  of  appreciation  wrhich  carry  the  reader's 
feelings  along  with  his  fancy. 

I  shall  but  allude  here  to  Judge  Breckenridge's  Modern  Chivalry,  Dr.  Gil- 
man's  Village  Choir,  Major  McClintock's  Yankee ;  Sleigh  Ride,  Wedding,  and 
other  stories,  the  Jack  Downing  Letters,  (through  which  runs  a  very  genuine 
humour  of  a  certain  sort,)  Mrs.  Kirkland's  New  Home,  and  other  works  of  a 
like  description  written  in  the  northern  and  eastern  states  of  the  Union. 

The  comic  literature  of  the  United  States  must  be  looked  for  chiefly  in 
those  parts  of  the  country  which  have  yet  furnished  little  or  nothing  of  a  differ 
ent  sort.  There  is  an  originality  and  riant  boldness  in  some  of  the  productions 
of  the  South  and  West  which  give  abundant  promise  for  the  future.  And 
what  we  have,  however  coarsely  stamped,  is  of  the  truest  metal.  It  is  necessary 
only  to  refer  to  Judge  Longstreet's  Georgia  Scenes,  Thompson's  Major  Jones's 
Courtship. and  Chronicles  of  Pineville,  Mr.  Thorpe's  Mysteries  of  the  Backwoods 
and  Big  Bear  of  Arkansas,  Mr.  Hooper's  Simon  Suggs,  Morgan  Neville's  Mike 
Fink,  and  to  other  characteristic  productions  of  southern  and  western  men,  to 
justify  expectations  of  an  original  and  indigenous  literature  of  this  kind  from 
the  cotton  region  and  the  valley  of  the  Mississippi. 

Of  humorous  and  satirical  poetry  we  have  no  lack  of  quantity,  and  there 
are  some  good  specimens.  Trumbull's  Progress  of  Dulness  and  McFingal, 
Cliffton's  Group  and  Epistle  to  Gifford,  some  of  the  ballads,  etc.  of  Francis 
Honkinson,  Fessenden's  Terrible  Tractoration,  and  Democracy  Unveiled, 


38  INTELLECTUAL  HISTORY,  CONDITION, 

Verplanck's  Bucktail  Bards  and  Dick  Shift,  Halleck's  Fanny,  Pierpont's  Por 
trait,  Osborne's  Vision  of  Rubeta,  The  Echo,  The  Political  Greenhouse,  and 
the  writings  of  Sands,  Sprague,  Holmes,  Ward,  Benjamin,  and  others,  furnish 
many  passages  of  humour  and  caustic  wit. 

The  Essays  of  a  people  are  among  the  best  indexes  to  their  condition  and 
character.  They  are  often  produced  by  minds  transiently  released  from  public 
affairs,  when  reflection  and  speculation  employ  powers  that  have  been  schooled 
for  action.  To  write  just  treatises,  says  Bacon,  requireth  leisure  in  the  writer 
and  leisure  in  the  reader.  The  essay  is  more  fit  for  the  nation  whose  energies 
and  sympathies  are  lively  and  diffused.  It  flourishes  most  where  some  degree 
of  cultivation  is  universal.  Like  the  lecture,  it  is  addressed  to  those  who  are 
familiar  with  first  principles.  An  era  in  essay  writing  was  commenced  by  Steele 
and  Addison,  in  their  periodical  papers  suggested  by  the  follies  of  contempo 
rary  society.  This  era  closed  with  the  production  in  America  of  the  Salma 
gundi  of  Irving  and  Paulding,  the  Old  Bachelor  of  Wirt  and  his  associates, 
and  the  Lay  Preacher  of  Dennie.  Another  era  was  begun  with  the  Quarterly 
Reviews,*  which,  with  the  magazines,  have  absorbed  so  large  a  proportion  of 


*  It  is  now  more  than  a  century  since  the  first  American  Monthly  Magazine  was  established  in  Bos 
ton,  by  Jeremy  Gridley.  It  was  continued  about  three  years,  and  was  more  successful  than  any  work 
of  its  sort  commenced  before  the  Revolution.  The  Massachusetts  Magazine,  to  which  Drs.  Freeman 
and  Howe  and  Mrs.  Morton  were  contributors,  lasted  from  1784  to  1795.  In  1803  the  Anthology 
Club  was  formed,  to  conduct  the  Monthly  Anthology,  which  had  been  established  by  Phineas  Adams. 
Among  its  members  were  Professor  Ticknor,  Alexander  H.  Everett,  William  Tudor,  Drs.  Bigelow 
and  Gardner,  and  Rev.  Messrs.  Buckminster,  Thatcher  and  Emerson,  (father  of  Ralph  Waldo  Emer 
son.)  The  Anthology  was  discontinued  in  1811.  In  1812  and  1813  four  volumes  of  the  General 
Repertory  and  Review — the  first  American  quarterly — were  issued  at  Cambridge,  under  the  editor 
ship  of  Andrews  Norton.  It  was  literary  and  theological,  and  contained  some  very  able  papers.  The 
North  American  Review  was  commenced  in  1815  by  William  Tudor.  It  was  transferred  in  1817  to 
Willard  Phillips,  and  in  the  same  year  to  The  North  American  Club,  the  most  active  members  of 
which  were  Edward  T.  Channing,  Richard  H.  Daua,  and  Jared  Sparks,  then  a  tutor  in  Harvard  College. 
In  1819  Edward  Everett  became  editor,  and  its  circulation  increased  so  rapidly  that  three  editions 
were  printed  of  some  of  the  numbers.  Some  of  Mr.  Everett's  articles  relating  to  Greece,  British 
travellers  in  America,  and  belles  lettres,  attracted  very  general  attention  abroad  as  well  as  in  the  United 
States.  In  1823  the  work  was  placed  under  the  direction  of  Mr.  Sparks,  who  conducted  it  until  1830, 
when  it  was  purchased  by  Alexander  H.  Everett,  then  just  returned  from  his  mission  to  Spain.  Mr. 
Everett  surrendered  it  to  Dr.  Palfrey,  in  1835,  and  I  believe  it  passed  into  the  hands  of  its  present 
editor,  Mr.  Bowen,  in  1842.  The  Christian  Examiner,  a  very  able  literary  and  theological  review, 
in  1818  took  the  place  of  The  Christian  Disciple,  which  had  been  published  six  years  under  the  direc 
tion  of  Noah  Worcester.  The  Examiner  has  contained  some  of  the  best  essays  of  Dr.  Channing, 
Dr.  Dewey.  the  Wares,  and  other  eminent  Unitarian  clergymen.  The  Christian  Review,  also 
id  devoted  both  to  literature  and  religion,  was  established  in  1835,  and  has  contained 


AND  PROSPECTS  OF  THE  COUNTRY. 


the  best  writing  of  the  present  age,  and  the  custom  of  delivering  addresses  on 
festival  occasions  and  before  societies,  which  obtains  principally  in  the  United 
States.  These  last  are  chiefly  historical  and  moral,  are  in  many  instances  by 


articles  by  Dr.  Wayland,  Dr.  Williams,  Dr.  Sears,  and  other  leading  clergymen  of  the  Baptist  churches. 
The  Boston  Quarterly  Review  was  commenced  in  1837,  and  its  contents  have  been  principally  writ 
ten  by  its  editor,  Mr.  Brownson.  The  New  England  Magazine  was  established  by  J.  T.  Buckingham, 
the  veteran  and  able  editor  of  the  Boston  Courier,  in  1833,  and  was  discontinued  on  the  close  of  the 
sixth  volume,  principally  I  believe  on  account  of  the  death  of  the  editor's  son  and  associate,  Mr. 
Edwin  Buckingham.  The  Dial,  a  magazine  of  Literature,  Philosophy  and  Religion,  was  published 
from  1841  to  1843  under  the  direction  of  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 

The  New  York  Magazine  and  Literary  Repository  was  published  from  1787  to  1792.  No  literary 
periodical  of  much  merit  existed  in  New  York  until  1822  and  1823,  when  The  Literary  Review  was 
published  and  Robert  C.  Sands  was  among  its  leading  contributors.  In  the  early  part  of  1824  The  Atlan 
tic  Magazine  was  commenced,  and  Sands  became  its  editor.  It  was  afterwards  called  The  New  York 
Monthly  Review,  and  edited  by  Sands,  and  Mr.  Bryant,  who  removed  to  New  York  in  1825.  The 
Knickerbocker  Magazine  was  started  in  December,  1832,  by  C.  F.  Hoffman,  who  in  1833  yielded  the  edi 
torship  to  Timothy  Flint,  who  was  in  turn  succeeded  in  the  following  year  by  its  present  editor,  Lewis 
Gaylord  Clark.  The  Knickerbocker  has  been  one  of  the  most  successful  and  brilliant  periodicals  of  the  day. 
Among  its  contributors  have  been  Irving,  Paulding,  Bryant,  Longfellow,  and  nearly  all  the  younger  wri 
ters  of  much  note  in  the  country.  The  Democratic  Review  was  commenced  in  Washington,  in  1837,  by 
Mr.  O'Sullivan,  one  of  its  present  editors,  and  Mr.  Langtree,  his  brother-in-law,  since  deceased.  It  was 
removed  to  New  York  in  1841.  It  has  been  the  most  successful  magazine  of  a  political  character  in 
the  United  States,  and  has  been  conducted  with  ability,  dignity,  and  good  taste.  The  American 
Monthly  Magazine,  which  had  been  published  several  years  under  Mr.  Herbert,  Mr.  Hoffman,  and  Mr. 
Benjamin,  was  discontinued  in  1838.  Arcturus,  a  Journal  of  Books  and  Opinion,  was  continued 
about  two  years  by  Mr.  E.  A.  Duyckinck  and  Cornelius  Mathews,  who  wrote  its  principal  contents. 
The  American  Review,  a  Whig  Jqurnal,  was  established  by  Mr.  George  H.  Colton,  in  1844.  The 
American  Biblical  Repository,  devoted  to  biblical  and  general  literature,  theological  discussion,  the 
history  of  theological  opinions,  etc.,  was  founded  in  1831  by  Edward  Robinson,  the  distinguished 
orientalist,  who  conducted  it  until  1838.  Its  present  editor  is  Mr.  J.  H.  Agnew.  The  New  York 
Review  (quarterly)  was  published  from  1837  to  1842,  during  which  time  its  principal  writers  were 
the  Rev.  Drs.  Hawks,  Henry  and  Coggswell,  and  Messrs.  Legare,  Henry  Reed,  and  Duyckinck. 

In  Philadelphia  Aitkin's  Pennsylvania  Magazine  was  the  most  popular  literary  periodical  before  the 
Revolution.  Thomas  Paine  and  Francis  Hopkinson  were  contributors.  It  was  suspended  on  the  ap 
proach  of  the  war.  Mathew  Carey  published  the  American  Museum  from  1787  to  1792.  In  1805 
Charles  Brockden  Brown  began  the  Literary  Magazine  and  American  Register,  which  he  continued 
five  years.  In  1809,  The  Portfolio  which  had  been  established  eight  years  before,  by  Joseph  Dennie, 
was  changed  from  a  weekly  gazette  to  a  monthly  magazine.  After  the  death  of  Dennie,  early  in  1812, 
it  was  edited  for  a  considerable  period  by  the  late  celebrated  and  unfortunate  Nicholas  Biddle,  and  in 
1816  passed  into  the  hands  of  Mr.  J.  E.  Hall,  who  conducted  it  until  it  was  discontinued  in  1821. 
The  Analectic  Magazine  was  established  by  Moses  Thomas  in  1813,  and  I  believe  was  published  until 
1820.  Many  of  the  cleverest  men  in  the  country,  including  Mr.  Irving,  Mr.  Paulding,  and  Wilson 
(the  ornithologist)  wrote  for  these  works,  which  were  more  widely  and  generally  read  than  any  peri 
odicals  which  had  been  or  were  then  published  in  this  country.  They  were  in  royal  octavo,  each 
number  containing  from  seventy  to  one  hundred  pages,  and  were  embellished  with  engravings  scarcely 
inferior  to  the  best  now  produced,  from  original  pictures.  In  1827  the  American  Quarterly  Review 
was  established,  under  the  direction  of  Mr.  Robert  Walsh,  and  it  was  continued  ten  years.  The 
Lady's  Book  and  Graham's  Magazine  were  in  the  first  place  monthly  selections  of  periodical  litera- 


40  INTELLECTUAL  HISTORY,  CONDITION, 

our  most  eminent  scholars,  jurists  and  statesmen,  and  constitute  a  very  import 
ant  part  of  our  literature. 

The  humour,  repose,  simplicity  and  strong  sense  of  Franklin  are  conspicu 
ous  in  nearly  every  thing  he  wrote.  He  is  among  the  most  national  of  our 
authors.  The  very  spirit  of  New  England  lives  in  The  Way  to  Wealth,  The 
Morals  of  Chess,  and  The  Whistle,  as  well  as  in  his  Letters,  so  full  of  prudence 
and  sagacity.  His  style  is  elaborate,  and  in  some  respects  is  better  than  that 
of  any  of  his  contemporaries.  It  is  familiar,  condensed,  of  pure  English,  and 
has  considerable  variety. 

The  Lay  Preacher  of  Dennie  and  his  articles  in  the  Portfolio  seem  to  me 
feeble  and  affected,  though  occasionally  marked  by  considerable  excellence. 
It  was  natural  to  overrate  him,  as  in  his  time  we  had  very  few  writers  with 
whom  he  could  be  compared.  For  several  years  after  the  death  of  Brockden 
Brown  I  believe  he  was  the  only  man  in  the  country  who  made  literature  a 
profession. 

Mr.  Wirt,  in  the  Old  Bachelor  and  The  British  Spy,  wrote  in  a  natural,  copi 
ous  and  flowing  style,  which  was  occasionally  polished  into  elegance.  It  was 
perhaps  too  full  and  ornate  for  a  writer,  but  was  admirable  for  an  orator.  The 
story  of  the  Blind  Preacher  was  in  his  happiest  manner,  but  his  disquisitions 
on  eloquence  are  more  carefully  composed,  and  are  vigorous  and  full  of 
just  reflections. 

Among  our  historical  essayists  a  distinguished  place  is  held  by  Mr.  Ver- 
planck.  Nearly  thirty  years  ago  he  undertook  in  various  discourses  and  reviews 
the  eulogy  of  the  excellent  men  who  had  most  largely  contributed  to  raise  or 
support  our  national  institutions  and  to  form  or  to  elevate  our  national  charac 
ter.  His  sketches  have  in  parts  the  elaboration  of  cabinet  pictures.  His 
colouring  and  drawing  have  the  fidelity  and  distinctness  of  De  Leide  and 


ture,  but  for  several  years  their  contents  have  been  original,  and  their  extraordinary  sale  has  enabled 
their  publishers  to  employ  the  best  writers.  Graham's  Magazine  is  embellished  with  the  most  costly 
engravings,  and  has  a  circulation  of  nearly  thirty  thousand  copies.  Like  their  predecessors,  The 
Portfolio  and  The  Analectic,  the  Philadelphia  magazines  of  the  present  day  owe  their  principal  attrac 
tions  to  New  York  and  New  England  writers. 

The  Southern  Quarterly  Review  was  established  in  Charleston  in  1828,  and  suspended  in  1833. 
It  was  recommenced  in  1842,  and  I  believe  is  now  edited  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Whittaker.  Among  its 
most  distinguished  writers  have  been  Stephen  Elliott,  Hugh  S.  Legare,  and  W.  G.  ?imm-;. 

The  Southern  Literary  Messenger  was  founded  by  Mr.  T.  W.  White,  in  1834,  and  since  his  death 
has  been  under  the  direction  of  Mr.  B.  B.  Miner.  The  best  writers  of  Virginia  and  some  of  the  other 
states  have  contributed  to  it,  and  it  has  been  from  the  beginning  a  very  valuable  and  interesting  work 

The  New  Englander,  published  at  Hartford,  Conn.,  has  not  been  very  long  established,  but  it  is 
among  the  first  of  our  periodicals  in  character. 


AND  PROSPECTS  OF  THE  COUNTRY.  41 

Wouvermans.  He  is  the  most  learned  of  our  writers  in  the  history  of  Dutch 
colonization,  and  occasionally  his  style  is  marked  by  a  certain  humorous 
gravity  which  is  inherited  by  the  descendants  of  the  New  Netherlanders.  All 
his  productions  are  marked  by  excellent  taste  and  a  most  genial  spirit. 

.  Robert  Walsh  was  editor  of  the  American  Quarterly  Review,  and  a  contri 
butor  to  some  similar  periodicals  abroad.  His  commentaries  on  books,  the 
drama,  and  works  of  art,  exhibited  industry  and  good  sense,  knowledge  and 
reflection,  within  a  limited  range  ;*  but  he  lacked  the  earnest  sympathy  of  such 
critics  as  Dana,  who  views  books  not  only  as  subjects  of  intellectual  obser 
vation,  but  as  appealing  to  man's  primal  instincts,  and  whose  comments  on 
works  of  genius  are  accordingly  not  merely  technical  but  psychological. 

The  works  of  Dr.  Channing  have  had  and  will  continue  to  exert  a  powerful 
and  healthful  influence.  He  is  original,  even  when  not  new  or  novel,  for  he 
gives  his  own  perceptions  of  truth.  His  style  owes  less  popularity  to  its  fluency 
than  to  its  being  a  just  expression  of  his  character :  every  faculty  of  his  mind 
and  peculiarity  of  his  position  being  reflected  in  it.  It  is  marked  by  feeling, 
imagination,  and  moral  energy.  When  he  expresses  a  common  idea,  it  will  be 
found,  on  examination,  that  he  gives  it  a  new  character,  by  connecting  it  with 
the  deepest  feelings  and  instincts.  His  clear  perception  of  man's  duties  made 
him  particularly  insist  on  many  principles  which,  though  universally  admitted, 
do  not  influence  the  conduct.  His  writings  are  the  sincere  expressions  of  an 
earnest  mind.  He  makes  his  readers  love  virtue  and  truth.  He  often  convicts 
us  of  a  superficial  perception  of  what  we  deemed  the  commonplaces  of  reli 
gion  and  morality,  and  makes  us  feel  their  depth  and  great  importance.! 

Edward  Everett  is  one  of  our  best  specimens  of  culture  and  scholarship. 
His  style  is  copious,  graceful,  and  justly  modulated.  It  shows  considerable 
energy  and  fancy,  and  great  command  of  language.  His  brother,  Alexander 
H.  Everett,  has  less  tact  and  taste,  but  is  perhaps  equal  to  him  in  extent 
of  knowledge  and  variety  of  accomplishments.  He  is  the  author  of  more  than 
fifty  articles  in  the  North  American  Review,  of  which  he  was  a  considerable 


*  He  wrote  a  large  volume  in  defence  of  the  moral  and  intellectual  character  of  the  country,  in  which 
he  presents  the  claims  of  many  insignificant  persons  to  consideration,  but  does  not  once  in  any  way  allude 
to  Jonathan  Edwards,  whose  simple  name  was  worth  all  his  five  hundred  pages,  for  the  purpose  he  had 
in  view.  This  was  perhaps  less  from  ignorance  than  from  prejudice  against  Edwards's  theology  and 
metaphysics. 

f  Channing  is  one  of  those  men  whose  mind  is  hung  upon  heaven  with  golden  chords,  and  whose 
thoughts  vibrate  between  what  is  pure  below  and  sublime  above. — Dr.  Bowring. 

Dr.  Channing,  one  of  those  men  who  are  a  blessing  and  an  honour  to  their  generation  and  their 
country. — Southey. 

6  D2 


42  INTELLECTUAL  HISTORY,  CONDITION, 


time  editor,  and  has  written  largely  in  other  periodicals.     His  favourite  sub 
jects  are  connected  with  French  literature  and  political  history  and  economy. 

Hugh  S.  Legare  was  equal  to  Edward  Everett  in  classical  scholarship,  and 
superior  in  the  vigour  and  chasteness  of  his  style.  Some  of  his  contributions 
to  the  New  York  and  Southern  Quarterly  Reviews  have  scarcely  been  excelled  for 
accuracy  of  investigation  and  comprehensiveness  of  views.  There  was  not 
however  much  variety  in  his  subjects  or  his  manner. 

The  Rev.  Dr.  Oilman,  formerly  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  North  Ameri- 
f  an.  Review,  and  the  author  of  that  graphic  and  humorous  picture  of  rural  man 
ners,  the  Memoirs  of  a  New  England  Village  Choir,  has  written  forcibly  and 
with  taste  upon  many  subjects  connected  with  philosophy  and  general  literature. 

Of  contemporary  philosophical  essayists  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  is  the  most 
distinguished.  He  is  an  original  and  independent  thinker,  and  commands 
attention  both  by  the  novelty  of  his  views  and  the  graces  and  peculiarities  of 
his  style.  He  perceives  the  evils  in  society,  the  falsehoods  of  popular  opin 
ions,  the  unhappy  tendencies  of  common  feelings  ;  and  is  free  from  vulgar  cant 
and  enslaving  prejudice.  Mr.  Emerson  is  the  leader  of  a  considerable  party, 
which  is  acquiring  strength  from  the  freshness  and  independence  of  its  litera 
ture. 

Mr.  Orestes  A.  Brownson  is  bold  and  powerful,  and  I  suppose  honest,  not 
withstanding  his  want  of  consistency.  Conscious  of  the  possession  of  great 
abilities,  conscious  of  the  validity  of  certain  claims  he  has  to  unattained  good 
reputation  and  happiness,  he  has  sought  for  both  through  almost  every  variety 
of  action  and  opinion,  always  thinking  himself  right,  though  nearly  always,  as 
he  has  been  doomed  to  learn,  in  the  wrong.  He  is  an  exceedingly  voluminous 
writer,  in  religion  and  politics  as  well  as  in  metaphysics,  and  his  works,  if 
collected  and  chronologically  printed,  from  Charles  Elwood  down  to  his  last 
speech  in  defence  of  the  Roman  religion,  would  present  the  most  remarkable 
and  interesting  of  psychological  histories. 

Mr.  George  P.  Marsh  is  one  of  our  most  learned  essayists,  and  his  writings 
are  as  much  distinguished  for  good  sense  and  acuteness  as  for  scholarship. 
They  are  also  marked  by  a  thorough  nationality. 

C.  C.  Felton,  Greek  Professor  in  Harvard  University,  is  one  of  the  princi 
pal  writers  for  the  North  American  Review,  and  is  a  discriminating  critic.     His 
style  is  brilliant  and  pointed. 

The  Rev.  Dr.  Hawks  has  an  easy  and  copious  style,  skill  in  analysis,  accu 
rate  acquaintance  with  history,  caustic  wit,  and  a  uniform  heartiness  of  pur 
pose,  which  make  him  a  powerful  as  well  as  an  attractive  character  writer. 


AND   PROSPECTS   OF  THE  COUNTRY.  43 

Francis  Bowen,  editor  of  the  North  American  Review,  is  a  clear,  forcible, 
independent  thinker,  and  has  much  precision  and  energy  of  style.  His  con 
tributions  on  metaphysical  subjects,  and  on  the  principles  of  law  and  govern 
ment,  are  of  a  very  high  character.  He  is  a  man  of  large  acquirements  both 
in  literature  and  philosophy. 

George  S.  Hillard  is  one  of  the  most  polished  writers  of  New  England. 
His  taste  is  fastidious,  and  he  is  a  fine  rhetorician.  He  excels  in  arrangement 
and  condensation,  and  has  an  imaginative  expression.  Of  his  numerous 
articles  in  the  North  American  Review  one  of  the  most  brilliant  is  on  Prescott's 
Conquest  of  Mexico,  but  I  think  the  happiest  of  his  essays  is  that  on  the 
Mission  of  the  Poet,  read  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society. 

Charles  Sumner,  though  still  a  young  man,  is  widely  known  for  the  extent 
of  his  legal  knowledge  and  his  general  attainments.  His  style  is  rapid  and 
energetic,  with  much  fulness  of  thought  and  illustration.  He  has  a  great  deal 
of  enthusiasm  and  courage,  as  is  shown  by  his  discourse  on  the  True  Gran 
deur  of  Nations. 

Mr.  Tuckerman's  appreciation  of  the  beautiful  seems  instinctive,  and  the 
style  of  his  criticisms  is  unaffected,  flowing,  and  graceful.  His  Thoughts  on 
the  Poets  contain  passages  which  are  the  perfection  of  that  sort  of  writing. 
He  has  manly  sense,  and  tenderness  without  mawkish  sentiment,  and  a  just 
contempt  of  prudery  and  hypocrisy.  His  generous  warmth  and  indepen 
dence  may  serve  in  some  degree  to  counteract  in  this  country  the  sordid  and 
calculating  spirit  of  the  age. 

Mr.  E.  P.  "Whipple  is  one  of  our  youngest  and  most  brilliant  writers.  His 
papers  which  have  appeared  in  the  reviews  and  magazines  are  discriminating 
and  comprehensive,  analytical  and  reflective,  and  display  an  extraordinary 
maturity  of  judgment. 

Respecting  Mr.  David  Hoffman's  volumes  of  pleasant  practical  morality, 
Mr.  Wilde's  ingenious  Researches  and  Considerations  concerning  Tasso,  Mr. 
Fay's  Dreams  and  Reveries,  Mr.  Lowell's  Essays  on  the  Old  Poets,  The  Ana 
lyst  of  Mr.  Jones,  and  the  reviews  and  other  essays  on  art,  literature,  philoso 
phy  and  manners  by  Dr.  Norton,  Dr.  Bethune,  Mr.  Hazard,  Mr.  Parker,  Mr. 
Reed,  Mr.  Carey,  Mr.  Hudson,  Mr.  Simms,  Mr.  Duyckinck,  and  many  others 
who  have  distinguished  themselves  as  essayists  and  critics,  my  present  limits 
will  not  admit  any  particular  commentary. 

I  shall  but  allude  to  our  writers  of  voyages  and  travels :  to  the  learned,  acute 
and  honest  Robinson,  Stevens,  always  lively  and  picturesque,  the  graphic  and 


44  INTELLECTUAL  HISTORY,  CONDITION, 

reflective  Cooper,  the  discriminating  and  humorous  Sanderson,  the  animated 
and  genial  Headley,  and  Cheever,  Gushing,  Dana,  Dewey,  Mackenzie,  Melville, 
Miss  Sedgwick,  Willis,  and  others,  whose  journals  abroad  have  delighted  the 
readers  of  both  continents  ;  and  with  the  same  brevity  I  must  refer  to  Lewis  and 
Clarke,  Long,  Flint,  and  Irving;  to  the  ingenious  and  laborious  Schoolcraft,  to 
Audubon  and  Catlin,  with  their  enthusiasm,  strange  adventure  and  happy  deline 
ation,  to  Stephens  and  Norman  wandering  among  the  vestiges  of  forgotten  nations 
in  the  New  World,  to  the  intrepid  Fremont,  and  many  beside,  who  have  not 
only  added  to  the  literature  of  the  country  by  their  journals,  full  of  novel  facts 
and  important  observations,  or  attractive  by  the  graces  of  style,  but  have  sown 
seeds  for  richer  harvests  in  exposing  the  subjects  and  materials  for  the  sculptor 
and  painter,  the  poet  and  romancer,  scattered  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific 
and  from  the  Polar  to  the  Carib  seas. 

I  have  yet  made  no  particular  notice  of  the  contributions  to  our  literatuie 
by  that  sex  who  until  recently  were  content  to  be  the  subjects  and  the  inspira 
tion  of  the  finest  creations  of  genius.     Throughout  Christendom  woman  has 
ssumed  new  offices  and  achieved  new  and  unlooked-for  triumphs.     In  fifty 
ears  she  has  done  more  in  the  domains  of  intellect  than  she  had  done  before 
n  five  centuries.     When  Hannah  Adams  produced  her  histories  she  was  per- 
mps  not  inferior  to  any  historical  writer  then  in  America.     Miss  Sedgwick  fol- 
owed,  with  her  charming  pictures  of  New  England  Life,  Redwood,  Clarence, 
[ope  Leslie,  the  Linwoods,  and  other  novels  and  tales ;  Mrs.  Child  with  Ho- 
)omok,  The  Rebels,  the  classical  romance  of  Philothea,  her  elegant  Biogra- 
)hies,  and  volumes  of  Letters  ;  Mrs.  Brooks  with  Zophiel,  so  full  of  imagina- 
lon  and  passion ;  Mrs.  Hale  with  Northwood,   and  Sketches  of  American 
Afe ;    Miss   Leslie   with    Mrs.    Washington    Potts   and   her    other    spirited 
iews  of  society ;    Miss  Beecher  with  her  profound  and  acute  metaphysical 
nd  religious  writings  ;  Mrs.  Oilman  with  Love's  Progress,  her  graphic  Recol 
lections  of  a  Southern  Matron,  and  other  works ;  Mrs.  Kirkland  with  A  New 
Home,  Forest  Life,  and  Western  Clearings,  unequaled  as  pictures  of  manners 
among  the  pioneers  ;  Miss  Fuller  with  Summer  on  the  Lakes,  Woman  in  the 
Nineteenth  Century,  and  her  brilliant  Papers  on  Literature  and  Art ;   Miss 
Mackintosh   with   Conquest    and    Self-conquest,   Praise   and    Principle,    and 
Woman  an  Enigma ;  and  Mrs.  Embury,  Mrs.  Sigourney,  Mrs.  Smith,  Mrs. 
Ellet,  Mrs.  Stephens,  Mrs.  Worthington,  Mrs.  Judson,*  Mrs.  Sedgwick,  and 

*  «  Fanny  Forester." 


AND  PROSPECTS  OF  THE  COUNTRY.  45 

many  others  who  in  various   departments   of  literature   have  written  works 
honourable  to  themselves,  their  sex,  the  country,  and  the  age. 

For  a  survey  of  our  poetical  literature  I  refer  to  the  eighth  edition, 
recently  published,  of  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America.  Not  all  the  speci 
mens  in  that  book  are  fruits  of  genius  or  high  cultivation.  It  was  designed  to 
show  what  had  been  accomplished  in  the  most  difficult  field  of  intellectual 
exertion  in  the  first  half  century  of  our  national  existence.  With  much  of  the 
highest  excellence  it  includes  nothing  inferior  to  some  of  the  contents  of  the 
most  celebrated  anthologies  of  other  countries ;  and  while  the  whole  showed  a 
remarkable  diffusion  of  taste  and  refinement  of  feeling,  we  could  point  to  Mrs. 
Brooks,  Mr.  Bryant,  Mr.  Dana,  Mr.  Halleck,  Mr.  Longfellow,  and  others,  as 
poets  of  whom  any  people  would  be  proud. 

There  is  indeed  no  reason  why  poetry  should  not  be  cultivated  here  as  suc 
cessfully  as  in  any  country.  The  nature  of  humanity  is  the  same  in  all  the  ages, 
and  man  is  for  ever  the  theme  of  the  poet's  noblest  song.  Paradise  Lost,  nor  the 
Inferno,  nor  Hyperion,  nor  almost  any  great  poem  of  any  nation  is  founded  on 
authentic  annals.  Scriptures  are  true,  and  old  mythologies  survive ;  the  gods 
of  Greece  yet  live,  the  sound  of  the  triton's  conch  is  mingling  with  the  roar 
of  waves)  and  nymphs  still  stir  the  forest  leaves  ;  and 

Fable  is  love's  world,  his  home,  his  birth-place. 
Delightedly  dwells  he  'mong  fays  and  talismans 
And  spirits ;  and  delightedly  believes 
Divinities,  being  himself  divine. 
The  intelligible  forms  of  ancient  poets, 
The  fair  humanities  of  old  religion, 
The  power,  the  beauty,  and  the  majesty, 
That  had  her  haunts  in  dale,  or  piny  mountain, 
Or  forest,  by  slow  stream  or  pebbly  spring, 
Or  chasms,  or  watery  depths ;  all  these  have  vanished : 
They  live  longer  in  the  faith  of  reason ! 
But  still  the  heart  doth  need  a  language,  still 
Doth  the  old  instinct  bring  back  the  old  names. 

But,  were  there  a  necessity  of  local  and  special  influences,  the  dim  vistas 
which  have  been  opened  to  us  of  ancient  civilization  on  this  continent,  the 
shadowy  views  we  have  of  the  strange  adventure  and  heroic  achievements  of 
the  many-charactered  colonists  who  first  invaded  its  different  latitudes,  and 
the  long  and  singular  wars  by  which  nation  after  nation  was  annihilated,  offer 
boundless  fields  for  the  heroic  bard  ;  while  our  dark  old  forests,  rivers  like  flowing 
seas,  and  lakes  which  claim  fraternity  with  oceans,  valleys,  and  mountains,  and 


46  INTELLECTUAL  HISTORY,  CONDITION, 

caverns  in  which  whole  nations  of  the  Old  World  might  be  hidden,  and  climates 
and  seasons  which  are  our  peculiar  heritage,  are  prolific  of  subjects  and  illus 
trations  for  the  poetry  of  description. 

Little  has  yet  been  done  toward  an  American  drama.  Plays,  to  be  success 
ful  on  the  stage,  must  be  "  abstracts  and  brief  chronicles  of  the  time."  Their 
living  principle  must  be  the  spirit  of  the  age  and  people.  Whether  the  swell 
and  surge  of  our  revolution,  which  cannot  even  now  be  said  to  have  entirely 
subsided,  bear  to  the  present  fragments  that  may  be  completed  and  reproduced, 
or  contemporary  life  be  represented  in  the  comedy  of  manners,  or  subjects  of 
any  other  period  or  description  be  chosen,  the  drama  must  still  have  its 
chorusses,  not  written  by  the  author,  but  evoked  by  him  from  his  audiences  in 
appeals  to  their  hearts.  The  weak  and  wicked  policy  of  the  government 
respecting  copyrights,  inducing  a  deluge  of  the  most  worthless  foreign  litera 
ture,  and  placing  under  a  ban  most  of  those  who  would  give  utterance  to  the  true 
voice  of  the  people,  is  undermining  the  foundations  of  our  nationality ;  but  the 
success  of  the  plays  of  Bird  and  Conrad,  and  the  failure  of  those  of  Longfellow 
and  Willis,  show  that  there  still  is  patriotism  enough  among  us  to  prefer  works 
with  the  American  inspiration  to  those  of  any  degree  of  artistic  merit  without 
it.  Besides  the  authors  already  mentioned,  Mr.  Hillhouse,  Mr.  John  Howard 
Payne,  Mr.  Epes  Sargent,  Mr.  George  H.  Calvert,  Mr.  Cornelius  Mathews, 
Mr.  Rufus  Dawes,  Mr.  Lawton  Osborne,  and  Mrs.  Mowatt,  have  written 
dramatic  pieces  of  literary  merit,  some  of  which  have  been  acted  with  con 
siderable  success. 

The  relation  of  the  plastic  arts  to  poetry  is  immediate,  and  the  shortest  sur 
vey  of  our  intellectual  history  would  be  incomplete  without  some  reference  to  the 
noble  works  of  our  painters  and  sculptors.  We  may  point  with  pride  to  Copley, 
many  of  whose  best  pictures  grace  the  collections  of  his  native  town ;  to  West, 
every  where  reverenced  by  the  greatest  critics  ;*  Allston  who  in  the  world  left 


*  Mr.  West  produced  a  series  of  compositions  from  sacred  and  profane  history,  profoundly  studied, 
and  executed  with  the  most  facile  power,  which  not  only  were  superior  to  any  former  productions  of 
English  art,  but,  far  surpassing  contemporary  merit  on  the  continent,  were  unequaled  at  any  period 
below  the  school  of  the  Caracci. — Sir  Thomas  Laivrence. 

In  his  department  Mr.  West  was  the  most  distinguished  artist  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived. — Sir 
Martin  Archer  Shee. 

William  Beckford,  the  finest  critic  of  art  in  our  age,  exclaims  of  Mr.  West's  Lear :  «  See  how  his 
nostril  is  inflated,  like  an  Arab's  in  a  thunder-storm !  I  solemnly  declare  the  figure  of  Lear  is  as  fine 


AND  PROSPECTS  OF  THE  COUNTRY.  47 

no  one  worthy  to  receive  his  mantle;*  to  Stuart  and  Inman,  equal  to  the  first  in 
portraiture ;  and  to  Vanderlyn,  Leslie,!  Sully,  Durand,  Cole,  Wier,  Hunting- 
ton,  Leutze,  and  others,  whose  places  are  in  the  front  rank  of  living  painters. 
With  the  same  feeling  we  may  regard  Greenough,  whose  majestic  Washington^ 
sits  in  grand  repose  before  the  capitol;  Powers,  in  whom  Thorwaldsen  saw  the 
restorer  of  a  glory  to  the  marble  it  had  scarcely  known  since  the  days  of  Praxi- 
tiles ;  and  Crawford,  Clevenger,  and  others  who  promise  to  make  our  country  a 
resting  place  for  the  eyes  of  future  generations  as  they  travel  backward  toward 
Rome  and  Athens. 

Having  thus  as  fully  as  seemed  practicable  in  such  narrow  limits  exhibited 
our  Intellectual  Progress  arid  Condition,  attempting  to  show  that  considering 
the  facts  of  our  political  and  social  history  we  have  already  advanced  far 
beyond  the  boundaries  of  reasonable  anticipation,  we  pause  on  the  shore  of 
the  dim  future  to  catch  the  sounds  of  the  voices  which  are  to  give  expression  to 
the  mind  of  the  people,  and  obtain  glimpses  of  the  symbols  by  which  will  be 
shadowed  forth  their  spirit.  More  than  any  other  nation  ours  has  influenced 
the  character  of  the  last  and  the  present  age,  but  our  power  has  been  in  acts 
and  institutions,  of  whose  teachings  we  look  for  impressive  confirmations  in 
our  works  of  taste,  imagination  and  reflection. 

Doubtless  our  literature  must  continue  to  be  influenced  in  a  large  degree 
by  the  literatures  of  other  countries.  The  still  increasing  facilities  of  commu 
nication  between  all  parts  of  the  world,  bringing  remotest  nations  into  closer 
proximity  than  were  formerly  cities  of  the  same  empire ;  and  the  extending 
and  deepening  power  of  the  press,  which  in  effect  is  making  of  one  language 
all  peoples,  as  they  were  before  the  confusion  on  the  plains  of  Shinar,  are 
rapidly  subverting  the  chief  national  distinctions,  and  preparing  the  way  per 
haps  for  the  realization  of  Goethe's  idea  of  a  Literature  of  the  World.  § 


as  the  Laocoon,  and  the  tone  is  as  fine  as  fine  can  be.....0h  gracious  God !  he  must  have  been  inspired 
when  he  painted  this — there  are  drama,  expression,  drawing,  every  thing." 

The  best  composer  of  modern  times  and  equal  to  Corregio  in  finish,  when  he  pleased. — Allston. 

Lawrence,  Shee,  Beckford,  Allston,  against  the  cant  of  the  sciolists. 

*  What  Washington  was  as  a  statesman,  Channing  as  a  moralist,  that  was  Allston  as  an  artist.- 
Mrs.  Jameson. 

f  The  finest  interpreter  of  the  spirit  of  Shakspeare  the  world  has  yet  seen. — Mrs.  Jameson. 

t  We  regard  Mr.  Greenough's  Washington  as  one  of  the  greatest  works  of  sculpture  of  modem 
times. — Edward  Everett. 

§  I  always  consult  foreign  nations,  and  advise  every  one  to  do  Lie  same.  National  literature  will 
do  but  little.  The  epoch  of  a  literature  of  the  world  is  at  hand,  and  every  one  ought  to  labour  t» 
hasten  it. — Eckermanns  Conversations  with  Goethe. 


48  INTELLECTUAL  HISTORY,  CONDITION, 

But  the  day  of  such  a  consummation  is  still  distant.  The  New  Civilization,  of 
which  our  fathers  were  the  apostles,  is  first  to  be  universally  diffused.  All  heredi 
tary  distinctions  of  rank,  all  differences  of  political  privileges,  all  restraints  upon 
the  freedom  of  private  judgment,  are  to  be  broken  down.  We  may  adopt,  we 
are  adopting,  many  peculiarities,  in  manners  and  opinions,  from  the  various  older 
nations  from  which  our  country  was  settled,  and  with  which  we  have  free  and 
intimate  intercourse ;  but  the  recognition  of  the  freedom  and  dignity  of  man  is 
to  be  the  vital  principle  in  our  literature — its  distinctive  and  diffusive  element. 
The  growth  of  American  Literature  cannot  be  forced  by  any  hot"bed  process. 
Except  by  the  acknowledgment  of  foreign  copyrights,*  which  indeed  is  needed 
as  much  for  the  protection  of  morals  as  for  the  protection  of  letters,  little  can 
be  done  for  it  by  any  general  legislation.  Our  authors,  if  admitted  to  a  fair 
competition  with  foreigners,  will  take  care  of  their  own  interests.  But  professed 


*For  the  information  of  readers  unacquainted  with  the  operation  of  the  present  system,  it  may  be  necessary  to 
state  more  particularly  than  has  been  done  in  the  text,  some  of  the  ways  in  which  it  tends  to  weaken  the  mind 
and  deprave  the  heart  of  the  nation.  Its  literature  is  the  richest  boon  we  receive  from  the  Past,  and  the  litera 
ture  of  the  Present,  if  fairly  represented  in  the  republications,  would,  upon  the  whole,  no  doubt,  have  a  most 
salutary  influence.  But  the  denial  of  copyright  to  foreigners  effectually  deprives  us  of  most  of  the  really  great 
works  with  which  the  presses  of  Europe  are  teeming,  while  it  gives  us  nearly  all  they  produce  that  is  frivolous 
and  vicious.  It  costs  a  great  deal  of  money  as  well  as  labour  to  prepare  the  market  for  large  works ;  there 
must  be  much  advertising,  a  large  distribution  of  copies,  elaborate  abstracts  in  reviews  and  journals,  and  many 
other  means  to  create  a  demand;  and  the  expenses  of  these  means  must  be  added  to  those  of  the  mechanical 
manufacture.  Yet  now,  as  has  been  shown  by  numerous  instances,  as  soon  as  a  house  with  enterprise  and  capi 
tal  has  issued  a  readable  impression  of  a  work,  and  secured  for  it  such  a  circulation  as  promises  a  fair  remunera 
tion,  some  base  fellow  is  sure  to  bring  out  on  dingy  brown  paper  and  small  type  a  deluge  of  cheap  copies,  with 
which  he  reaps  all  the  advantages  of  the  first  publisher's  efforts,  and  leaves  him  with  his  stock  unsold,  and 
his  investment  unreturned.  It  is  true  that,  notwithstanding  these  dangers,  a  few  of  the  more  indispensable  histo 
ries  and  other  fruits  of  true  cultivation  are  reprinted  here :  but  they  are  generally  issued  in  the  most  compact 
and  cheap  style,  sometimes  much  abridged,  and.nearly  always  without  those  charts  and  plates  which  add  so  much 
to  the  value  of  many  foreign  editions.  A  recognition  of  the  foreign  author's  right  of  property  would  at  once  remedy 
this  part  of  the  evil  entirely. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  is  extraordinary  activity  in  the  republication  of  the  light  and  licentious  literature  of 
the  time.  It  is  sickening  to  lean  over  the  counters  of  the  shops  where  cheap  books  are  sold,  and  survey  the  trash 
with  which  the  criminal  folly  of  the  government  is  deluging  the  country.  Every  new  issue  deepens  the  wide 
spread  depravity,  and  extends  the  demand  for  its  successor.  As  but  little  capital  is  required  for  the  business,  and 
the  returns  are  quick,  these  leprous  spots  are  constantly  springing  up  in  the  cities  ;  and  to  gratify  the  prurient  tastes 
which  they  create,  the  literary  sewers  of  Paris  and  London  are  dragged  for  the  filthiest  stuff  which  floats  or  sinks 
in  their  turbid  waters.  The  demoralization  increases,  and  the  novels  of  Paul  de  Kock,  disgusting  as  they  are,  in 
the  original,  (in  which  a  racy  style  and  sparkling  wit  render  them  attractive,  despite  their  moral  deformity,)  are 
made  worse  by  the  addition  of  gross  obscenity  by  the  translator ;  and  from  those  of  Eugene  Sue  the  reflective 
portions,  which  serve  to  neutralize  the  effects  of  the  narrative,  are  left  out.  All  private  morals,  all  domestic 
peace,  fly  before  this  withering  curse  which  the  Congress  persists  in  sustaining,  by  its  refusal  to  recognise  the 
rights  of  the  foreign  author.  For,  if  the  respectable  publishers  could  be  protected  in  their  business,  they  would 
furnish  good  editions  of  good  books,  that  would  give  a  healthy  tone  to  the  common  sentiment,  and  drive  this  profli 
gate  literature  into  oblivion;  if  the  foreign  author  were  protected  in  his  rights,  he  would  be  but  a  competitor  of 
the  native  author,  and  would  have  an  inducement  to  support  those  liberal  principles  of  society  which  are  here  esta 
blished,  thus  strengthening  them  here,  and  diffusing  them  in  his  own  country;  and  if  the  American  were  thus 
admitted  to  a  competition  in  his  own  market  with  the  European,  our  best  intellects  would  be  busy  with  the  instruc 
tion  of  the  people,  which  is  now  in  so  large  a  degree  surrendered  to  the  supporters  of  aristocracies. 

Within  the  last  year  how  many  fathers,  like  one  in  Richmond,  (whose  testimony  at  a  recent  trial  in  that  city 
attracted  to  the  subject  an  indignant  but  momentary  attention,)  have  pointed  to  these  stolen  poisons  as  the  prime 
cause  of  the  demoralization  of  their  daughters,— how  many  murders,  in  all  parts  of  the  country,  have  been  traced 
to  the  same  fruitful  source  of  crime  and  woe !  That  the  literature  of  a  country  sinks  with  its  morals,  needs  hardly 
to  be  suggested. 


AND  PROSPECTS  OF  THE  COUNTRY.  49 

authors  alone  are  not  to  create  a  great  National  Literature  ;  such  a  literature  is 
not  to  be  a  result  of  any  direct  effort  for  its  production.  It  must  be  in  a  large 
degree  but  an  incidental  consequence  of  energetic  and  well  directed  action  for 
the  moral  and  spiritual  liberation  and  elevation  of  man.  To  this  end,  the 
strong-minded  and  thoroughly  educated,  leading  the  onward  march  of  the  race, 
combating  every  species  of  error,  in  morals  and  physics,  in  religion  and  legis 
lation,  and  never  taking  a  thought  whether  they  are  speaking  or  writing  in  an 
American  style,  or  on  an  American  subject,  will  strike  out  such  sparks  from 
the  intellect  as  will  shine  like  stars  into  the  farthest  future  ages. 

Leaving  literature,  then,  as  an  object  of  special  public  regard,  to  take,  care 
of  itself,  we  must  instruct  the  mind  and  improve  the  heart  of  the  people,  must 
develope  the  great  souls  that  are  every  day  born  into  the  world.  The  number 
of  colleges  need  not  be  increased.  It  would  be  better  perhaps  if  half  we  have 
were  abandoned,  and  their  resources  given  to  the  rest.  But  we  need  a  great 
university,  into  which  only  learned  men  can  enter,  where  there  can  be  a  more 
thorough  literary  and  scientific  culture,  where  the  genius  of  the  Past  can  be 
made  more  familiar,  where  the  genius  of  the  Present  can  be  strengthened  and 
directed  :  a  university  that  shall  have  to  other  schools  the  relation  of  a  mint 
to  the  mines,  giving  form  and  authority  to  the  first  order  of  understandings 
which  in  them  are  brought  to  light.  There  is  no  more  pernicious  error  than 
that  the  whole  people  should  be  instructed  alike.  There  must  be  a  class,  the 
end  of  whose  lives  shall  be  to  search  after  and  reveal  beauty  and  truth,  a  class 
acting  upon  the  nation,  but  acted  upon  both  by  it  and  by  all  nations  and 
all  ages.  And  we  need  libraries,  and  learned  institutions,  and  galleries  of  art.. 
These  things  are  coming  rapidly.  Their  necessity  is  discerned,  and  the  "  vo 
luntary  principle"  in  our  free  states  is  doing  far  more  than  has  been  elsewhere 
effected  by  coercion,  to  sustain  whatever  is  really  calculated  in  any  way  to  un 
fold  human  nature.  Our  wise  and  liberal  merchants,  manufacturers,  farmers, 
and  professional  men, — we  have  no  drones, — are  beginning  to  understand  that 
the  true  doctrine  of  Progress  is  comprised  in  the  word  Culture.  Late  events, 
that  have  saddened  the  heart  of  the  intelligent  patriot,  have  brought  with  them 
cheering  proofs  of  a  conservative  element  in  our  society,  and  the  suffering  and 
dishonour  which  have  been  caused  by  the  uncultivated  and  reckless,  may  be 
atoned  for  by  the  life  they  will  impart  to  energies  that  have  hitherto  been  dor 
mant.  Literature,  the  condensed  and  clearly  expressed  thought  of  the  country, 
will  keep  pace  with  its  civilization  ;  and  without  any  straining  after  originality, 
without  any  tricks  of  diction,  without  any  aim  but  to  press  the  truth  directly, 
earnestly  and  courageously  upon  the  popular  heart,  under  the  inspiration  of  an 

7  E 


50  INTELLECTUAL  HISTORY,  CONDITION, 

enlightened  love  of  country,  and  the  guidance  of  a  high  cultivation,  our  authors 
will  be  sufficiently  distinctive  and  national,  in  both  manner  and  matter. 

There  is  an  absurd  notion  abroad  that  we  are  to  create  an  entirely  new 
literature.  Some  critics  in  England,  expect  us,  who  write  the  same  language, 
piofess  the  same  religion,  and  have  in  our  intellectual  firmament  the  same  Bacon, 
Sidney  and  Locke,  the  same  Spenser,  Shakspeare  and  Milton,  to  differ  more 
from  themselves  than  they  differ  from  the  Greeks  and  the  Romans,  or  from  any 
of  the  moderns.  This  would  be  harmless,  but  that  many  persons  in  this  country, 
whose  thinking  is  done  abroad,  are  constantly  echoing  it,  and  wasting  their 
little  productive  energy  in  efforts  to  comply  with  the  demand.  But  there  never 
was  and  never  can  be  an  exclusively  national  literature.  All  nations  are 
indebted  to  each  other  and  to  preceding  ages  for  the  means  of  advancement ; 
and  our  own,  which  from  our  various  origin  may  be  said  to  be  at  the  conflu 
ence  of  the  rivers  of  time  which  have  swept  through  every  country,  can  with 
less  justice  than  any  other  be  looked  to  for  mere  novelties  in  art  and  fancy. 
The  question  between  us  and  other  nations  is  not  who  shall  most  completely 
discard  the  Past,  but  who  shall  make  best  use  of  it.  The  Past  belongs  not  to 
one  people,  but  to  those  who  best  understand  it.  It  cannot  be  studied  too 
deeply,  for  unless  men  know  what  has  been  accomplished,  they  will  exhaust 
themselves  in  unfolding  enigmas  that  have  been  solved,  or  in  pursuing  ignesfa- 
tui  that  have  already  disappointed  a  thousand  expectations.  The  Reformation 
had  an  extraordinary  influence  upon  the  literatures  of  the  world,  and  some  such 
influence  has  been  exerted  by  our  Revolution  and  the  establishment  of  our 
institutions.  The  intellectual  energy  of  America  has  been  felt  far  more  in 
Europe,  than  its  own,  for  the  period  of  our  national  existence,  has  been  felt 
here;  and  with  all  the  enslaving  deference  to  foreign  authority  and  all  the  imi 
tation  of  foreign  models  of  which  we  have  had  to  complain  in  our  inferior 
authors,  there  has  been  no  want  of  the  truest  nationality  in  our  Franklin,  Web 
ster,  Channing,  Cooper,  Prescott,  Bancroft,  Bryant,  Whittier,  and  others,  in 
almost  every  department,  who  have  written  with  an  integrity  of  understanding 
and  feeling. 

It  has  been  objected  to  our  society  that  it  is  too  practical.  It  has  been  sup 
posed  that  this  national  characteristic  forbids  the  expectation  of  great  achieve 
ments  in  the  highest  domains  of  art.  But  the  question  Cui  bono6!  should  always 
be  entertained.  Utility  is  in  every  thing  the  truest  of  principles,  though  more 
intelligence  and  liberality  than  belong  to  a  low  state  of  civilization  are  neces 
sary  to  its  just  appreciation  and  application.  Whatever  contributes  to  the 
growth  and  satisfaction  of  the  mind,  whatever  has  in  it  any  absolute  beauty,  is 


AND  PROSPECTS  OF  THE  COUNTRY.  51 

beginning  to  be  regarded  as  not  less  useful  than  that  which  ministers  to  our 
physical  necessities.  All  works,  even  of  imagination,  must  have  in  them  some 
thing  of  genuineness  and  earnestness.  Poets,  and  novelists,  and  essayists,  when 
they  write,  must  look  not  only  into  their  minds  but  into  their  hearts.  To  persons 
of  the  sensibility  and  refinement  which  are  inseparable  from  high  cultivation,  all 
truth  is  of  a  practical  value,  and  in  the  most  aerial  creations  it  will  be  demanded 
by  the  first  order  of  critics. 

The  old  sources  of  intellectual  excitement  seem  to  be  wellnigh  exhausted. 
Love  will  still  be  sung,  but  in  no  swreeter  strains  than  those  of  Petrarch,  or 
Tasso  ;  Courage,  such  as  is  celebrated  by  the  old  poets  and  romancers,  is  hap 
pily  in  disrepute ;  Religion,  as  it  has  commonly  appeared  in  the  more  elegant 
forms  of  literature,  has  not  been  of  a  sort  that  ennobles  man  or  pleases  God  ; 
and  Ambition,  for  the  most  part,  has  been  of  a  more  grovelling  kind  than  may 
be  looked  for  under  the  new  forms  of  society.  Christian  virtue  is  no  longer 
the  observance  of  senseless  pagan  forms  that  have  been  baptized,  but  « the  love 
of  truth,  for  its  own  beauty  and  sweetness ;"  and  the  desire  of  man  is  not  so 
much  to  win  titles  and  power,  as  the  consciousness  or  the  reputation  of  doing 
something  that  shall  entitle  him  to  the  general  respect  and  gratitude.  The 
materials  among  us  for  the  externals  of  literature  have  been  referred  to.  The 
elements  of  its  vitality  and  power,  which  are  most  clearly  apprehended  in  this 
century,  though  in  their  nature  universal,  for  many  reasons  are  likely  to  be  most 
active  with  us.  «  Peace  on  earth  and  good  will  to  man,"  is  here  to  be  the 
principle  of  life  and  progress,  in  Letters,  as  in  Religion  and  Politics. 

Considering  the  present  condition  of  society ;  that  new  inventions  are  con 
stantly  releasing  immense  numbers  from  a  portion  of  the  toil  required  for  the 
satisfaction  of  physical  necessities,  and  giving  to  all  more  opportunity  for  intel 
lectual  pursuits ;  that  steam  and  electricity  are  making  of  the  world  a  common 
neighbourhood,  knitting  its  remotest  parts  together  by  interchange  of  fabrics  and 
thoughts  ;  that  the  press,  in  the  United  States  alone,  scatters  every  hour  more 
than  the  contents  of  the  Alexandrian  Library,  and  is  increasing  in  refinement 
and  energy  with  the  expansion  of  its  issues  ;  and  that  associations  for  moral  and 
intellectual  improvement  were  never  more  numerous  or  efficient, — we  cannot 
doubt  that  the  Progress  of  Civilization  in  the  coming  age  will  be  rapid  and  uni 
versal.  This  country,  which  is  the  centre  of  the  new  order  of  things,  is  destined 
to  be  the  scene  of  the  greatest  conflicts  of  opinion.  Much  as  has  been  done  here 
in  literature  and  art,  much  as  we  have  surpassed  all  reasonable  expectation  in 
the  works  of  our  philosophers,  orators,  historians  and  poets,  while  clearing  away 
the  primeval  forests,  organizing  society,  and  establishing  the  institutions  of 


52  INTELLECTUAL  HISTORY,  ETC. 

scientific  and  literary  culture,  we  have  not  yet  that  distinct  image  of  the  feelings 
of  the  nation,  in  a  great  body  of  works  in  all  the  departments  of  reflection,  ima 
gination,  and  taste,  of  which  the  auspicious  commencement  of  our  literature, 
and  our  advantageous  position  with  regard  to  the  most  important  subjects  ol 
research  and  speculation,  justify  the  hope.  Schools  may  be  well  endowed,  and 
individuals  may  labour  with  loving  earnestness  upon  their  life  poems,  but  the 
whole  people,  by  recognising  the  principle  of  beauty  as  a  law  of  life,  and 
cheering  with  their  encouragement  its  teachers  who  shall  deserve  their  best  ap 
proval,  and  by  cherishing  a  hearty  love  of  our  country,  and  making  ceaseless 
efforts  to  render  it  in  all  respects  worthy  of  affection,  must  aid  in  rearing  the 
noble  structure  of  a  National  Literature  that  shall  fulfil  our  promise  to  mankind, 
and  realize  the  prophecy  which  nearly  a  century  ago  was  made  of  our  destiny  by 
one  of  the  wisest  of  the  sons  of  Europe. 

The  Muse,  disgusted  at  an  age  and  clime 
•  •  Barren  of  every  glorious  theme, 

In  distant  lands  now  waits  a  better  time, 
Producing  subjects  worthy  fame. 

In  happy  climes,  where  from  the  genial  sun 

And  virgin  earth  such  scenes  ensue, 
The  force  of  art  by  nature  seems  outdone, 

And  fancied  beauties  by  the  true: 

In  happy  climes,  the  seat  of  innocence, 

Where  nature  guides  and  virtue  rules ; 
Where  men  shall  not  impose  for  truth  and  sense 

The  pedantry  of  courts  and  schools, 

.There  shall  be  sung  another  golden  age. 

The  rise  of  empires  and  of  arts, 
The  good  and  great,  inspiring  epic  rage,  • 

The  wisest  heads  and  noblest  hearts. 

Not  such  as  Europe  breeds  in  her  decay, 

Such  as  she  bred  when  fresh  and  young, 
When  heavenly  flame  did  animate  her  clay, 

By  future  poets  shall  be  sung. 

Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way ; 
The  first  four  acts  already  past, 

A  fifth  shall  close  the  drama  with  the  day- 
Time's  noblest  offspring  is  the  last. 

BERKELEY. 

P!IIT,ADKL1'HIA,  1845. 


tainted.!-: 


/i^n(tf£«n 


O 


JONATHAN  EDWARDS 


[Born  1703.    Died  1758.] 


THE  first  man  of  the  world  during  the 
second  quarter  of  the  eighteenth  century  was 
JONATHAN  EDWARDS  of  Connecticut.  As  a 
theologian  Robert  Hall  and  Thomas  Chal 
mers  admit  that  he  was  the  greatest  who  has 
lived  in  the  Christian  ages ;  and  as  a  meta 
physician  Dugald  Stewart  and  Sir  James 
Mackintosh  agree  that  he  was  never  sur 
passed.  In  Great  Britain  and  on  the  conti 
nent  of  Europe  men  disavowed  belief  in 
some  of  his  doctrines,  but  confessed  that  they 
had  only  protests  to  oppose  to  them :  Edwards 
had  anticipated  and  refuted  all  arguments. 
Adopting  some  of  his  principles,  others  built 
up  for  themselves  great  reputations  by  per 
verting  them  or  deducing  from  them  illegiti 
mate  conclusions.  In  whatever  light  he  is 
regarded  .he  commands  our  admiration.  He 
was  unequalled  in  intellect  and  unsurpassed 
in  virtue.  Bacon  was  described  as  the 
"  wisest  and  the  meanest  of  mankind  ;"  but 
Edwards,  not  inferior  to  the  immortal  Chan 
cellor  in  genius,  suffers  not  even  an  accusa 
tion  of  any  thing  unbecoming  a  gentleman,  a 
philosopher,  or  a  Christian. 

Born  in  a  country  which  was  still  almost  a 
wilderness  ;  educated  in  a  college  which  had 
scarcely  a  local  habitation ;  settled,  a  large 
part  of  his  life,  over  a  church  upon  the  con 
fines  of  civilization,  "&nd  the  rest  of  it  in  the 
very  midst  of  barbarism,  in  the  humble  but 
honourable  occupation  of  a  missionary,  he 
owed  nothing  to  adventitious  circumstances. 
With  a  fragile  body,  a  fine  imagination,  and 
a  spirit  the  most  gentle  that  ever  thrilled  in 
the  presence  of  the  beautiful,  he  seemed  of 
all  men  the  least  fitted  for  the  great  conflict 
in  which  he  engaged.  But  He  who,  giving 
to  Milton  the  Dorian  reed,  sent  out  his  sera 
phim  to  enrich  him  with  utterance  and  know 
ledge,  with  fire  from  the  same  altar  purified 
the  lips  of  Edwards,  to  teach  that  "  true  re 
ligion  consists  in  holy  affections,"  the  spring 
of  all  which  is  "  a  love  of  divine  things  for 
their  own  beauty  and  sweetness" 

The  father  of  Jonathan  Edwards  was  for 
sixty  years  the  humble  pastor  of  the  church 


in  Windsor,  on  the  margin  of  the  Connecticut. 
He  was  a  man  of  learning,  and  of  that  consist 
ent  piety  which,  in  the  religious  teacher,  is 
the  summing  up  and  conclusion  of  his  best 
argument.  Our  author  was  his  only  son,  and 
he  named  him  "  the  gift  of  the  Lord."  He 
was  carefully  instructed' from  infancy,  and  at 
thirteen  years  of  age  entered  Yale  College 
far  advanced  in  classical  and  general  learning. 
While  a  freshman  he  read  Locke  on  thr 
Human  Understanding,  with  a  higher  plea 
sure  than  the  "  miser  feels  when  gathering  up 
handfuls  of  silver  and  gold  from  some  newl) 
discovered  treasure ;"  and  at  seventeen  hf 
graduated,  with  great  reputation  for  botn 
knowledge  and  wisdom.  After  receiving  his 
first  degree,  he  remained  two  years  in  the 
college,  studying  divinity,  and  early  in  the 
summer  of  1722  was  licensed  to  preach. 
When  only  nineteen  he  accepted  an  invita 
tion  to  New  York,  where  his  ministry  gave 
abundant  satisfaction ;  but  after  eight  months 
circumstances  induced  him  to  return  to  his 
father's  house,  where  the  summer  of  1723 
was  devoted  to  theological  studies.  Ht  formed 
warm  attachments  in  New  York.  "  My  heart 
seemed  to  sink  within  me,"  he  says,  "at  leav 
ing  the  family  and  city  where  I  had  passed  so 
many  pleasant  days.  I  went  to  Wethersfield 
by  water,  and  as  I  sailed  away  I  kept  sigh 
of  the  city  as  long  as  I  could."  But  at  Say- 
brook,  where  he  went  on  shore  to  spend  the 
Sabbath,  he  recovered  his  composure  in  a 
"refreshing  season,  walking  alone  in  the 
fields." 

In  the  autumn  of  1723  Edwards  went  to 
New  Haven  to  receive  the  degree  of  Master 
of  Arts,  and  while  there  was  elected  a  tutor  in 
the  college.  President  Stiles  assures  us  that 
his  "  tutorial  renown  was  great  and  excellent." 
When  he  had  held  the  office  about  two  years, 
he  accepted  an  invitation  from  the  church  in 
Northampton,  to  become  the  colleague  of  his 
maternal  grandfather,  a  venerable  man  who 
for  more  than  half  a  century  had  been  its 
pastor.  He  was  installed  in  February,  1727  ; 
and  in  the  following  July  he  was  married  to 


JONATHAN    EDWARDS. 


Sarah  Pierrepont,  a  woman  of  remarkable 
beauty,  as  is  known  both  from  tradition  and 
from  a  portrait  of  her  which  was  painted  so 
late  as  1740  for  Dr.  Erskine  of  Scotland. 
Edwards  described  her  before  their  marriage, 
when  he  was  himself  but  twenty  years  of  age. 
"  She  has  a  singular  purity  in  her  affections," 
he  says,  "  and  you  could  not  persuade  her  to 
do  any  thing  wrong  or  sinful  if  you  could 
give  her  all  the  world.  She  is  of  wonderful 
gentleness,  calmness,  and  universal  benevo 
lence  of  mind.  She  will  sometimes  go  about 
from  place  to  place,  singing  sweetly ;  and 
seems  to  be  always  full  of  joy  and  pleasure, 
and  no  one  knows  for  what.  She  loves  to  be 
alone,  walking  in  the  fields  and  groves,  and 
seems  to  have  some  one  invisible  always  con 
versing  with  her."  Happy  man  !  they  lived 
together  thirty  years,  and  he  was  to  the  end 
the  same  enthusiastic  admirer.  She  relieved 
him  from  all  cares  beyond  his  study,  whither 
every  day  she  carried,  in  a  silver  bowl,  his 
simple  diet ;  and  every  night,  after  the  other 
members  of  their  family  had  retired  to  rest, 
they  met  there  to  spend  an  hour  in  conversa 
tion  and  prayer. 

In  1731  Edwards  visited  Boston,  and  while 
there  delivered  before  an  association  of  minis 
ters  a  sermon,  which  by  their  request  was 
published.  It  was  the  first  of  his  works 
which  was  printed,  and  it  made  such  an  im 
pression  that  public  thanks  were  offered  to 
the  Head  of  the  Church  for  raising  up  so  great 
a  teacher.  Soon  afterwards  commenced  that 
famous  revival  of  religion  upon  which  the 
American  historians  of  the  last  century  dwell 
so  frequently.  This  is  not  a  place  for  the 
discussion  or  even  a  statement  of  the  ques 
tions  which  at  that  time  occupied  more  than 
any  other  the  public  mind  not  only  in  New 
England  but  throughout  the  settled  portions 
of  the  country.  Edwards  was  in  every  thing 
consistent,  and,  though  earnest,  had  no  sym 
pathy  with  the  miserable  fanaticism  which 
has  almost  always  in  such  periods  brought 
religion  into  contempt.  His  Narrative  of  Sur 
prising  Conversions  in  and  about  Northamp 
ton  was  published  in  London  from  his  MS. 
by  the  celebrated  Dr.  Isaac  Watts,  in  1736. 

In  the  eastern  colonies  a  hundred  years  ago 
all  the  politicians  and  men  of  fashion  managed 
to  retain  a  "  regular  standing  "  in  some  reli 
gious  society ;  it  was  essential  to  their  re 
spectability.  The  custom  had  been  gradually 


introduced  of  making  a  mere  assent  to  certain 
opinions  the  condition  of  fellowship.  About 
the  year  1744  Edwards  began  to  insist  upon 
a  return  to  old  usages.  The  devil  had  "  great 
speculative  knowledge  in  divinity,"  more 
than  a  "  hundred  saints  of  ordinary  educa 
tion,"  and  was  very  "  orthodox  in  his  faith," 
but  he  had  given  "  no  evidence  of  saving 
grace  in  his  heart."  More  recent  events  than 
these  in  Northampton  have  shown  that,  how 
ever  proper  universal  suffrage  may  be  in  the 
state,  it  is  far  from  being  expedient  in  the 
church.  Those  who  were  never  there  before 
now  thronged  the  meeting-house  to  vote 
against  their  own  disfranchisement;  and  after 
a  while  the  mob  succeeded  in  procuring  the 
dismission  of  the  faithfullest  and  wisest  of 
pastors.  Edwards  bore  himself  heroically 
through  the  controversy;  and  in  1751  re 
moved  to  Stockbridge,  to  preach  to  the  In 
dians  and  a  small  church  of  Anglo-Americans 
which  had  been  formed  there  by  an  earlier 
missionary.  During  his  residence  in  North 
ampton  the  famous  apostle,  David  Brain- 
erd,  had  died  in  his  house,  and  he  had  pub 
lished  his  Memoirs;  in  174G  he  had  given 
to  the  world  his  admirable  Treatise  on  Reli 
gious  Affections  ;  and  he  had  consented  to  the 
publication  of  some  dozen  sermons,  any  one 
of  which  contained  more  thought  than  the 
complete  works  of  almost  any  fashionable 
preacher  of  later  days. 

Soon  after  his  settlement  in  Stockbridge 
Edwards  announced  his  intention,  in  a  letter 
to  his  friend  Erskine,  to  write  a  work  upon 
Free  Will  and  Moral  Agency,  in  which  he 
would  bring  the  popular  objections  to  the 
"  Calvinistic  divinity "  to  the  test  of  the 
strictest  reasoning;  "and  particularly  that 
great  objection  in  which  the  modern  writers 
have  so  much  gloried,  so  long  triumphed, 
with  so  great  a  degree  of  insult  toward  the 
most  excellent  divines,  and  in  effect  against 
the  gospel  of  Christ,  that  the  Calvinistic  no 
tions  of  God's  moral  government  are  contrary 
to  the  common  sense  of  mankind."  It  is  hardly 
necessary  to  speak  of  the  result.  The  work 
was  written  in  four  months  and  a  half,  amid 
all  the  cares  and  labours  of  his  vocation.  I 
never  have  read  or  heard  that  anybody  sup 
posed  it  had  been  or  could  be  answered.* 

*  Edwards  on  the  Will  is  a  work  which  never  was  an 
swered,  and  which  never  will  be  answered.— Dugald 
Stewart. 


JONATHAN   EDWARDS. 


55 


The  subject,  since  then,  has  hardly  been  one 
of  controversy,  though  it  has  occasionally 
been  talked  about.  Some  ingenious  persons, 
to  attract  attention  to  essays  against  fatalism, 
have  called  them  replies  to  Edwards;  but 
scholars  have  no  need  to  be  informed  that 
Edwards  never  entertained  any  such  doctrine 
as  that  word  describes. 

In  the  autumn  of  1754  he  was  seized  with 
a  severe  fever,  from  which  he  did  not  recover 
until  the  following  January ;  and  his  favourite 
pursuits  were  still  further  interrupted  by  the 
war  with  the  French  and  Indians,  during 
which  soldiers  were  quartered  in  his  house. 
In  the  last  three  years  of  his  residence  in 
Stockbridge,  however,  he  wrote  some  of  his 
ablest  works,  among  which  are  the  disserta 
tions  on  God's  Last  End  in  the  Creation  of 
.the  World,  and  on  The  Nature  of  True  Virtue. 
The  last  of  these  subjects  has  been  a  favourite 
one  with  ethical  writers.  Aristotle  regarded 
virtue  as  un  jusie  milieu  ,•  Hume  says  it  is 
whatever  is  useful  or  agreeable  to  ourselves 
and  others ;  and  Paley,  who  as  well  as  Hume 
had  been  a  careful  reader  of  Edwards,  that  it 
is  "  the  doing  good  to  mankind  in  obedience 
to  the  will  of  God,  and  for  the  sake  of  ever 
lasting  happiness."  Edwards  held  it  to  be  in 
some  sense  the  same  as  beauty;  in  other  words, 
to  be  every  voluntary  act  of  which  the  ultimate 
end  is  the  greatest  good  of  the  greatest  num 
ber.  The  dissertation  on  the  Nature  of  Virtue 
is  perhaps  the  most  original  of  his  works,  and 
is  so  conclusive  that  all  others  on  the  subject 
have  since  been  "  considered  as  objects  of 
curiosity  rather  thaq  as  guides  of  opinion."* 

His  Treatise  on  Original  Sin  is  usually 
ranked  next  to  that  on  the  Freedom  of  the 
Will,  for  clearness,  force  and  comprehensive 
ness.  It  was  finished  in  1757.  Dr.  Taylor, 
of  Norwich,  had  foolishly  boasted  that  his 
argument  on  this  question  could  never  be 
answered.  The  refutation  of  it  by  Edwards 
was  so  complete  that  even  Taylor  was  com 
pelled  to  admit  that  there  could  be  no  rejoin 
der  ;  his  mortification  on  his  ignominious 
defeat  is  said  to  have  shortened  his  days ; 
44  the  grasp  of  his  antagonist  was  death." 

WThile    Edwards  was   labouring  with   his 

*  Among  the  writers  who  have  been  largely  indebted 
to  this  work  was  William  Godwin,  who  in  his  Political 
Justice,  us  Robert  Hall  well  observes,  "with  a  daring 
consistence  has  pursued  the  principles  of  Edwards  to  an 
extreme  from  which  that  most  excellent  man  would  have 
recoiled  with  horror." 


wonted  industry  at  Stockbridge,  he  received 
intelligence  of  the  death  of  his  son-in-law, 
the  Rev.  Aaron  Burr,  President  of  the  College 
of  New  Jersey  ;*  and  in  a  few  days  afterward 
he  was  advised,  in  a  letter  from  the  Trustees, 
of  his  election  to  the  vacant  office.  In  his 
reply  he  expressed  surprise  that  gentlemen 
by  whom  he  was  so  well  known  should  have 
thought  him  worthy  of  so  distinguished  an 
honour.  44  So  far  as  I  myself  am  able  to 
judge  of  what  talents  I  have  for  benefiting 
my  fellow  creatures  by  word,"  he  says,  4'  I 
think  I  can  write  better  than  I  can  speak ;" 
and  he  proceeded  to  describe  several  great 
literary  enterprises  which  he  had  in  view. 
One  was  a  History  of  the  Work  of  Redemp 
tion,  a  complete  system  of  divinity  on  a  new 
plan,  in  which  the  events  of  heaven,  earth  and 
hell  should  be  treated  in  their  natural  order, 
and  the  various  parts  of  dogmatical  theology 
so  interwoven  as  to  appear  in  beautiful  con 
texture  and  harmony  with  the  whole.  This 
work  had  already  been  commenced,  but  no 
part  of  it  was  prepared  for  the  press.  If 
finished,  it  probably  would  have  been  his 
masterpiece,  and  would  have  raised  him  in 
reputation  as  much  higher  than  he  is  now,  as 
his  completed  works  entitle  him  to  be  ranked 
above  all  other  theological  writers  of  his  age. 
Another  work  which  he  contemplated  was  a 
Harmony  of  the  Old  and  New  Testaments. 

Edwards  determined  to  submit  the  question 
whether  he  should  accept  the  presidency  of 
the  College  to  some  of  his  most  enlightened 
and  pious  friends,  and  upon  their  advice  he 
left  his  family  in  Stockbridge  and  proceeded 
to  Princeton,  where  he  arrived  in  January, 
1758.  A  few  days  afterward  he  was  informed 
of  the  death  of  his  father,  whose  useful  life 
had  been  lengthened  out  to  nearly  ninety 
years.  Several  weeks  passed  before  his  in 
auguration,  but  he  preached  in  the  mean  time 
in  the  college  chapel,  which  his  fame  caused 
to  be  filled  on  every  occasion  to  its  utmost 
limit.  The  institution  was  formally  commit 
ted  to  his  charge  on  the  sixteenth  of  February ; 
on  the  twenty-third  of  the  same  month  he  was 
inoculated  for  the  small-pox,  which  then  pre 
vailed  in  the  town,  and  on  the  twenty-second 
of  March  he  died  of  that  disease,  f 


*  He  was  the  father  of  Aaron  Burr,  afterward  Vice 
President  of  the  United  States. 

f  On  Wednesday,  the  22d  of  last  month,  died  of  inocu 
lation  at  Nassau  Hall,  an  eminent  servant  of  God,  the 


JONATHAN    EDWARDS. 


Seeds  from  Edwards  have  taken  root  in 
strange  fields.  A  single  stalk  from  his  phi 
losophy  has  shed  beauty  and  perfume  over 
wastes  of  modern  speculation.  Many,  of 
M  hose  opinions  all  is  dross  that  is  not  bor 
rowed  from  him,  have  exhibited  the  poverty 
of  their  natural  powers  in  assaults  upon  his 
system ;  and  others,  incapable  of  penetrating 
beyond  the  shell  of  his  logic,  and  understand 
ing  the  beauty  of  his  life  and  doctrine,  have 
done  him  much  greater  injury  by  professing 
to  be  of  his  school. 

The  style  of  Edwards  is  uncommonly  good. 
It  is  suitable  for  his  subjects.  It  has  seldom 
been  surpassed  in  perspicuity  and  precision. 
It  is  deficient  in  harmony,  indeed,  and  occa 
sionally  has  other  faults  of  a  mechanical  sort, 
but  he  wrote  hastily  and  printed  without  re 
vision.  Scarcely  any  of  his  sermons  were 
intended  for  the  press,  and  several  of  his  more 
extended  treatises  are  but  rough  drafts  of  what 
he  designed.  He  appears  never  to  have 
thought  much  of  the  importance  of  style  until 
a  few  years  before  his  death,  when  a  copy  of 
Richardson's  Sir  Charles  Grandison  falling  in 
his  way,  he  read  it  with  pleasure  and  disco 
vered  the  secret  of  its  influence.  From  this 
time  he  attempted  to  write  more  gracefully, 
and  the  works  on  the  Will  and  on  Original  Sin, 
subsequently  finished,  show  that  he  improved. 

He  had  a  very  powerful  imagination,  and 
some  of  his  writings  are  full  of  the  most  im 
pressive  imagery.  In  his  earlier  years  he 
gave  free  rein  to  his  creative  faculty,  but 
afterwards  restrained  it  except  when  expres 
sion  of  his  thought  was  difficult  without  its 
aid.  His  wit  was  of  the  Damascus  sort, 
shining  and  keen.  He  delighted  in  the  re- 
ductio  ad  absurdum,  of  which  his  works  pro 
bably  contain  the  finest  specimens  in  the  Eng 
lish  language.  He  directed  his  wit  against 
principles,  and  never  against  his  antagonists. 

No  assertion  in  regard  to  Edwards  has  been 
more  common  than  the  one  that  he  was  not 


reverend  and  pious  Mr.  Jonathan  Edwards,  president 
of  the  College  of  New  Jersey  ;  a  gentleman  of  distin 
guished  abilities  and  of  a  heavenly  temper  of  mind  ;  a 
most  rational,  generous,  catholic  and  exemplary  Chris 
tian,  admired  by  all  who  knew  him  for  his  uncommon 
candour  and  disinterested  benevolence  ;  a  pattern  of 
temperance,  meekness,  candour  and  charity  ;  always 
steady,  solemn  and  serene  ;  a  very  judicious  and  in 
structive  preacher,  and  most  excellent  divine.  And  as 
he  lived  cheerfully  resigned  to  the  will  of  Heaven,  so  he 
died,  or  rather,  as  the  Scriptures  emphatically  express  it 
with  regard  to  good  men,  he  fell  asleep  in  Jesus,  without 
the  least  appearance  of  pain.— .Boston  Oaz.,rfpril  10,1758. 


eloquent.  The  mountebank  declamation  ot 
these  latter  days  has  so  perverted  men's  judg 
ments  that  they  cannot  understand  how  a 
preacher  who  rested  one  arm  upon  a  high  pul 
pit,  with  its  diminutive  and  delicately  moulded 
hand  holding  a  small  manuscript  volume  all 
the  while  close  to  his  eyes,  and  with  the  other 
made  slowly  his  few  and  only  gestures,  could 
be  an  orator.  But  he  could  keep  a  congrega 
tion  that  had  assembled  to  hear  a  morning 
sermon  ignorant  of  the  approach  of  noon 
until  through  the  uncurtained  windows  of  the 
church  the  setting  sun's  red  rays  were  shining 
upon  its  ceiling.  One  time  when  he  was  dis 
coursing  of  death  and  the  judgment,  people 
rose  up  from  their  seats,  with  pallor  on  their 
faces,  to  see  Christ  descend  through  the  part 
ing  heavens.  Being  requested  to  preach  at 
Enfield,  where  he  was  a  stranger,  and  the  as 
sembly  were  so  indifferent  to  religion  as  to  be 
neglectful  of  the  decency  of  silence  while  he 
prayed,  he  had  not  half  finished  his  sermon 
before  the  startled  sinners,  having  "  already 
passed  through  the  valley  of  silence,"  began 
to  wail  and  weep  so  bitterly  that  he  could  not 
go  on  for  their  distress.  These  are  triumphs  of 
eloquence*  not  dreamed  of  by  such  as  deem 
themselves  masters  of  the  art  from  reading 
the  foolish  recipe  ascribed  to  Demosthenes. 

*  In  the  same  page  of  Mr.  Gilfillan's  Sketches  of  Mo 
dern  Literature,  in  which  he  declares  that  Edvvards's 
style  "never  rises  into  eloquence,"  he  gives  the  follow 
ing  anecdote  :  "He  reminded  you  of  Milton's  line, '  The 
ground  burns  frore,  and  cold  performs  the  effect  of  fire.' 
A  signal  instance  of  this  is  recorded.  A  large  congrega 
tion,  including  many  ministers,  were  assembled  to  hear 
a  popular  preacher,  who  did  not  fulfil  his  appointment. 
Edwards  was  selected  to  fill  his  place,  principally  be 
cause,  being  in  the  habit  of  reading  his  discourses,  he 
happened  to  have  a  sermon  ready  in  his  pocket.  He  as-- 
cendedthe  pulpit  accordingly,  amid  almost  audible  marks 
of  disappointment  from  the  audience,  whom,  however, 
respect  for  the  abilities  and  character  of  the  preacher 
prevented  from  leaving  the  church.  He  chose  for  his 
text,  'Their  foot  shall  slide  in  due  time,'  and  began  to 
read  in  his  usual  quiet  way.  At  first  he  had  barely  their 
attention  ;  by  and  by  he  succeeded  in  riveting  every  one 
of  them  to  his  lips;  a  few  sentences  more,  and  they  be 
gan  to  rise  by  twos  and  threes  ;  a  little  farther,  and  tears 
were  flowing;  at  the  close  of  another,  particular  deep 
groans  were  heard,  and  one  or  two  went  off  in  fits  ;  and 
ere  he  reached  the  climax  of  his  terrible  appeals,  the 
whole  audience  had  risen  up  in  one  tumult  of  grief  and 
consternation.  And,  amid  all  this,  there  stood  the  calm, 
imperturbable  man,  reading  on  as  softly  and  gently  as  if 
he  were  in  his  own  study.  And,  in  reading  the  sermon, 
we  do  not  wonder  at  the  impression  it  produced  upon  an 
audience  constituted  as  that  audience  must  have  been. 
It  is  a  succession  of  swift  thunder-claps,  each  drowning 
and  deafening  the  one  which  preceded  it.  We  read  it 
once  to  a  distinguished  savant,  who,  while  disapproving 
of  its  spirit,  was  compelled,  literally,  to  shiver  under  the 
'fury  of  its  power.'" — Sketches  of  Modern  Literature 
and  Eminent  Literary  Men.  London,  1845. 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 


[Born  1706.    Died  1790.] 


FROM  the  first  metaphysician  of  the  age  in 
which  he  lived  we  turn  to  another  New  Eng- 
lander,  but  three  years  younger  than  Edwards, 
whose  name,  says  Lord  Brougham,  uttering 
the  common  judgment  of  mankind,  "  in  one 
point  of  view  must  be  considered  as  standing 
higher  than  any  of  the  others  which  illustrated 
the  eighteenth  century."  In  statesmanship 
and  philosophy  he  was  equally  illustrious, 
"  and  his  efforts  in  each,"  proceeds  the  noble 
critic,  "were  sufficient  to  have  made  him 
greatly  famous  had  he  done  nothing  in  the 
other." 

BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN  was  born  in  Boston 
on  the  seventeenth  of  January,  1706,  and  was 
the  youngest  but  two  of  seventeen  children. 
His  parents  were  poor,  but  prudent,  virtuous, 
and  intelligent.  His  father  had  emigrated 
from  England  to  enjoy  religious  liberty,  and 
would  have  educated  his  youngest  son  for  the 
ministry,  but  that  his  poverty  made  it  ne 
cessary  to  take  him  from  the  free  grammar 
school  to  cut  wicks  and  fill  candle  moulds  in 
the  workshop.  This  was  mortifying  to  the 
aspiring  boy,  and  he  wished  to  become  a 
sailor ;  but  his  father  refused,  and  at  the  end 
of  two  years  apprenticed  him  to  an  elder  bro 
ther  who  had  learned  the  printing  business  in 
London,  and  returned  to  set  up  an  office  in 
his  native  city.  His  new  employment  pleased 
him,  and  he  quickly  became  familiar  with  it. 
He  had  read  Defoe  upon  Projects,  Cotton 
Mather's  Essays  to  do  Good,  the  Pilgrim's 
Progress,  Plutarch's  Lives,  and  some  other 
books  which  were  owned  by  his  father;  and 
he  now  stole  hours  from  sleep  to  study  the 
volumes  he  was  enabled  to  borrow,  each  for 
a  single  night,  from  the  apprentices  of  book 
sellers.  Thinking  he  could  write  poetry,  he 
Composed  and  printed  ballads,  which  his  bro 
ther  sent  him  to  sell  in  the  streets,  and  his 
vanity  was  flattered  by  their  success ;  but  his 
father's  criticisms  discouraged  him,  and  he 
afterward  confined  himself  to  prose  writing, 
in  which  he  constantly  and  successfully  en 
deavoured  to  improve.  When  about  sixteen 


years  of  age  he  abandoned  the  use  of  animal 
food,  and  agreeing  with  his  brother  to  support 
himself  with  half  the  money  that  was  paid 
for  his  board,  managed  by  cooking  his  own 
vegetables  to  save  each  week  a  share  of  his 
allowance  for  the  purchase  of  books.  With 
the  increased  means  and  leisure  thus  acquired 
he  obtained  and  studied  Cocker's  Arithmetic, 
Sturny's  and  Seller's  Navigation,  which  made 
him  acquainted  with  geometry,  Locke  on  the 
Human  Understanding,  the  Art  of  Thinking 
by  the  Port  Royalists,  and  Xenophon's  Me 
morabilia.  This  sort  of  education  was  pro 
bably  the  best  for  such  a  mind  as  Franklin's. 
It  is  by  no  means  certain  that  he  would  have 
been  so  great  a  philosopher  if  he  had  been 
bred  in  a  university.  He  is  worth  contem 
plating,  as  he  whirls  the  printer's  balls  or 
pulls  at  the  press,  silently  meditating  the 
questions  in  logic  and  mathematics  he  has 
studied  through  the  night  in  his  chamber. 
He  perceives  that  learning  is  to  be  his  capital 
for  distinction  as  well  as  profit,  and  every 
principle  and  combination  suggested  in  his 
books  is  revolved  in  his  mind  until  it  is  un 
derstood,  while  his  hands  are  so  busy  with 
his  art. 

James  Franklin,  who  had  been  printer  o. 
the  Boston  Gazette,  the  second  American 
newspaper,  in  1721,  established  the  fourth 
one,  called  the  New  England  Courant,  on  his 
own  account,  and  his  apprenticed  brother  car 
ried  the  copies  for  subscribers  about  the  city. 
Anonymously  and  in  a  disguised  hand  he 
wrote  articles  for  the  Courant-  which  were 
applauded,  and  by  James  and  his  associates  at 
tributed  in  his  presence  to  the  cleverest  men  in 
Boston.  When  however  the  secret  was  dis 
covered  James  was  displeased,  lest  the  appren 
tice  should  become  too  vain,  and  from  that  time 
treated  him  with  increasing  harshness,  so  that 
he  probably  would  have  broken  his  indentures 
had  not  an  unlooked-for  circumstance  caused 
them  to  be  surrendered.  James  was  arrested 
by  order  of  the  Assembly  and  imprisoned  on 
a  charge  of  having  published  in  his  paper 

57 


58 


BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 


passages  reflecting  on  the  government,  the 
churches,  and  the  college.  On  being  set  at 
liberty  he  was  prohibited  from  any  longer 
printing  the  Courant,  and  after  consultation 
with  his  friends  it  was  decided  to  issue  it  in 
the  name  of  Benjamin  Franklin,  whose  in 
dentures  were  therefore  cancelled,  that  they 
might  be  shown  if  any  one  should  be  suspi 
cious  that  the  arrangement  was  but  an  evasion 
of  the  legislative  order.  Upon  their  next 
disagreement,  for  the  new  relationship  made 
no  difference  in  the  severity  of  his  treatment, 
he  asserted  his  freedom,  and  selling  his  books 
to  obtain  money  for  the  expenses  of  the  pas 
sage,  privately  quitted  Boston,  and  in  October, 
1723,  after  a  fatiguing  journey,  partly  on  foot 
and  partly  at  the  oar,  reached  Philadelphia. 

Every  one  has  read  in  his  delightful  me 
moirs — the  most  natural,  ingenuous,  and 
interesting  autobiography  in  our  language — 
of  Franklin's  arrival  in  this  city ;  how  with 
his  pockets  filled  with  shirts  and  stockings, 
a  penny  roll  under  each  arm,  and  eating  an 
other,  he  was  seen  by  Miss  Reed,  whom  he 
afterward  married,  walking  wearily  and  awk 
wardly  up  Market  street,  and  how  he  went 
into  a  Quaker  meeting-house  and  slept  on  one 
of  the  benches  until  the  people  dispersed. 
"  Who  would  have  dreamed,"  exclaims  Bris- 
sot  de  Warville,  "that  this  poor  wanderer 
would  become  the  ornament  of  che  New 
World,  the  pride  of  modern  philosophy  ?" 

After  working  a  short  time  for  the  printer 
Keimer,  he  attracted  the  notice  of  Sir  William 
Keith,  governor  of  the  province,  who  urged 
him  to  establish  an  office  on  his  own  account; 
and  he  made  a  journey  to  Boston,  bearing  a 
letter  from  the  governor  full  of  promises  of 
countenance  and  assurances  of  success,  to  ask 
assistance  of  his  father.  But  Josiah  Franklin 
thought  him  too  young,  and  would  not  help 
him,  though  he  was  proud  that  his  boy  had 
gained  so  distinguished  a  friend.  "  Then," 
said  Sir  William, ,wheiv  he  heard  it,  "I  my 
self  will  set  you  up,  and  you  shall  repay  me 
when  you  are  able ;"  and  he  directed  him  to 
be  in  readiness  to  go  with  letters  of  credit  in 
the  next  ship  to  London,  that  he  might  in 
person  select  the  furniture  of  a  printing-house. 
Franklin  accordingly  went  on  board,  expect 
ing  to  find  his  letters  in  the  hands  of  the  cap 
tain,  and  having  for  his  companion  James 
Ralph,  a  young  Philadelphian,  who  afterward 
wrote  folio  histories,  and  quarto  epics,  and, 


upon  the  appearance  of  his  "  Night,  a  poem," 
was  immortalized  by  Pope  in  the  Dunciad : 

Silence,  ye  wolves,  while  Ralph  to  Cynthia  howls, 
And  inak.'S  Night  hideous;  answer  him,  ye  owls ! 

On  arriving  in  London  he  found  that  the  let 
ters  marked  to  his  care  had  no  reference  to 
his  business,  and  that  they  would  have  been 
valueless  if  of  the  kind  promised,  as  Keith 
had  no  credit  for  himself.  Thus  disappointed, 
he  obtained  a  situation  as  a  compositor,  and 
being  employed  on  an  edition  of  the  Religion 
of  Nature,  by  Wollaston,  some  of  whose  rea 
sonings  did  not  appear  to  him  well-founded, 
he  wrote  a  metaphysical  tract  in  reply,  enti 
tled  a  Dissertation  on  Liberty  and  Necessity, 
Pleasure  and  Pain,  which  led  to  his  introduc 
tion  to  Dr.  Mandeville,  author  of  the  Fable 
of  the  Bees,  and  several  other  gentlemen,  one 
of  whom  offered  to  take  him  to  see  the  great 
Newton,  who  was  then  alive;  but  something 
prevented,  and  the  light  of  that  age  set  before 
the  new  luminary  rose  above  the  horizon. 

Of  Franklin's  life  in  London  we  have 
but  few  glimpses.  It  is  probable  that,  with 
Ralph  he  acted  some  such  part  as  Johnson 
about  the  same  time  did  with  Savage,  though 
their  indulgences  could  not  have  been  in  all 
respects  alike,  as  Franklin  continued  to  be 
temperate  in  his  diet.  His  most  expensive 
amusement  was  probably  the  play;  but  as 
he  attempted  to  seduce  the  mistress  of  his 
friend,  moral  principles  could  not  have  stood 
much  in  the  way  of  his  desires.  With 
Ralph's  borrowings,  and  his  own  habits, 
though  he  had  constant  employment  and 
was  a  quick  workman,  he  never  had  money 
enough  to  pay  his  passage  to  America,  and 
probably  would  have  remained  in  Europe,  had 
not  a  Philadelphia  shop-keeper,  who  chanced 
to  be  in  London,  offered  to  take  him  home  as 
his  clerk.  After  an  absence  of  nearly  two 
years  he  reentered  the  Delaware,  and  until 
the  death  of  his  new  employer,  which  oc 
curred  a  few  months  afterward,  was  learn 
ing  the  mysteries  of  trade ;  but  that  event 
left  him  without  occupation,  and'  he  re 
turned  to  Keimer's  printing-office,  where  he 
remained  until  he  had  an  opportunity  to  go 
into  partnership  with  a  young  man  named 
Meredith,  whose  father  furnished  the  neces 
sary  capital  and  offered  him  half  the  profits 
for  his  attention  and  skill,  and  the  benefit 
he  expected  his  son  to  derive  from  the  con 
nection. 


BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 


59 


Franklin's  ability,  industry,  and  integrity 
commanded  success.  Keimer  failed  and  left 
the  country,  and  his  paper  was  continued  and 
made  a  source  of  revenue  and  influence  by 
Franklin,  who  soon  was  able  to  purchase  the 
interest  of  his  partner,  and  assume  the  sole 
management  of  the  business.  Miss  Reed,  to 
whom  he  had  been  engaged  before  going 
to  London,  and  who  in  consequence  of  his 
neglect  had  suffered  herself  to  be  persuaded 
into  a  match  with  an  adventurer,  who  soon 
afterward  was  found  to  have  another  wife, 
and  compelled  to  leave  the  province,  was  now 
free  again ;  and  by  marrying  her  he  "  cor 
rected  the  erratum"  of  his  infidelity.  A  sta 
tioner's  shop  was  opened,  which  she  attended, 
while  he  prepared  articles  for  his  paper,  made 
contracts,  and  worked  at  his  trade. 

In  1729  Franklin  wrote  and  published  an 
anonymous  pamphlet  on  the  Nature  and  Ne 
cessity  of  a  Paper  Currency,  which  in  a  short 
time  led  to  the  emission  of  eighty  thousand 
pounds,  and  much  increased  his  popularity. 
In  1731  he  founded  the  public  library  in 
Philadelphia,  and  in  the  following  year  com 
menced  the  publication  of  Poor  Richard's 
Almanac,  celebrated  for  its  maxims  of  pru 
dence,  and  which  was  so  well  received  that 
in  some  of  the  twenty-five  years  for  which 
it  was  printed  he  sold  more  than  ten  thou 
sand  copies  of  it.  He  also  founded  the 
American  Philosophical  Society  and  the  Uni 
versity  of  Pennsylvania,  and  was  foremost 
in  all  enterprises  calculated  in  any  way  to 
improve  the  condition  of  the  people.  In 
1736  he  was  choseji  clerk  of  the  provincial 
Assembly  ;  in  the  following  year  was  made 
postmaster  of  Philadelphia ;  and  when  the 
war  with  France  broke  out,  he  published  a 
tract  entitled  Plain  Truth,  calling  upon  the 
inhabitants  of  the  colony  to  enrol  themselves, 
to  which  ten  thousand  quickly  answered  with 
their  names.  Soon  after  he  was  elected  a 
member  of  the  Assembly,  and  commissioner 
for  making  a  treaty  with  the  Indians,  and  in 
1753  was  appointed  postmaster-general  for 
British  America,  when,  the  business  of  his 
office  calling  him  to  New  England,  Harvard 
University  followed  the  example  of  Yale 
College  in  presenting  him  the  degree  of 
Master  of  Arts,  in  consideration  of  his  im 
provements  in  natural  philosophy.  It  was 
characteristic  of  our  recognitions  of  genius 
and  learning  in  Americans,  that  Yale  and 


Harvard  bestowed  the  Master's  degree  foi 
the  very  achievements  which  ?oon  after  led 
the  Oxford,  Edinburgh,  and  St.  Andrews  uni 
versities  to  declare  him  a  Doctor  of  Laws. 

It  was  in  June,  1752,  that  Franklin  first 
demonstrated  the  identity  of  lightning  and 
electricity,  bringing  with  his  hempen  lasso 
the  leaping  thunderer  in  perfect  docility  to 
acknowledge  at  his  feet  the  supremacy  of 
man's  dominion.  While  in  Boston,  six  years 
before,  he  had  seen  some  imperfect  experi 
ments  in  electricity,  which  induced  him  to 
study  the  subject,  and  his  investigations  had 
been  aided  by  accounts  transmitted  by  Mr. 
Peter  Collinson,  of  the  Royal  Society,  to  the 
Philadelphia  Library  Company.  He  exhi 
bited  ingenuity  in  experiments,  sagacity  in  de 
ductions,  precision  in  views,  and  clearness  in 
statements  which  excited  among  the  learned 
as  much  admiration  as  surprise.  As  Lord 
Jeffrey  well  observes,  "  the  most  profound 
explanations  are  suggested  by  him  as  if  they 
were  the  most  obvious  and  natural  way  of 
accounting  for  phenomena,"  and  he  seems  to 
pride  himself  so  little  upon  his  most  splendid 
discoveries  that  it  is  necessary  to  compare 
him  with  others  before  we  can  form  a  just 
opinion  of  his  merits.  The  same  simplicity, 
perspicuity,  and  frankness  are  shown  in  the 
papers  respecting  all  his  inventions,  disco 
veries,  and  observations.  His  prime  aim  in 
every  thing  was  to  benefit  mankind.  Allud 
ing  to  his  contrivance  of  magical  squares, 
he  says,  that  however  wonderful  these  arith 
metical  amusements  may  seem,  he  cannot 
value  himself  upon  them,  but  is  rather 
ashamed  to  have  it  known  that  he  had  spent 
any  part  of  his  time  in  an  employment  that 
could  "  not  possibly  be  of  any  use  to  him 
self  or  others."  The  construction  of  fire 
places,  improvements  in  navigation,  and  other 
subjects  of  practical  importance  were  far  more 
interesting  to  him. 

While  pursuing  his  philosophical  inqui 
ries,  the  results  of  which  from  1747  to  1754 
were  detailed  in  letters  to  Mr.  Collinson,  he 
was  still  busy  in  the  public  service.  At 
the  head  of  five  hundred  men  he  had  gone 
through  a  laborious  campaign  in  the  interior 
of  Pennsylvania,  and  he  had  attended  and 
been  a  principal  actor  in  the  congress  which 
assembled  at  Albany  and  recommended  a 
union  of  the  colonies  under  a  royal  president. 
It  may  be  regarded  as  a  proof  of  the  excel 


60 


BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 


lence  of  his  plan,  which  was  accepted  by  the 
Congress,  that  it  was  refused  by  the  assem 
blies  on  the  ground  that  it  gave  too  much 
authority  to  the  crown,  and  by  the  ministry 
because  it  yielded  too  much  to  the  representa 
tives  of  the  people.  He  had  been  several 
years  the  leader  of  the  Assembly  of  Pennsyl 
vania  in  a  controversy .  with  the  governor, 
who  was  appointed  by  the  heirs  of  William 
Penn  and  instructed  by  them  to  approve  no 
laws  for  taxing  their  estates,  even  for  the 
common  defence ;  and  in  1757  he  was  chosen 
an  agent  to  represent  the  province  in  Eng 
land,  and  if  unable  otherwise  to  procure  re 
dress  of  grievances,  to  petition  for  a  change 
in  the  charter,  so  that  the  chief  magistrate 
might  be  appointed  by  the  king.  His  Letters 
on  Electricity  had  previously  been  published, 
in  a  quarto  volume,  under  the  direction  of  one 
of  his  correspondents,  and  "  nothing,"  says 
Priestley,  "  was  ever  written  on  the  subject 
more  justly  applauded.  All  the  world,  even 
kings,  flocked  to  see  them,  and  retired  full  of 
admiration."  They  were  verified  in  Paris 
before  Louis  XV.  by  M.  de  Loz,  in  Turin 
by  M.  Beccaria,  in  Russia  by  Professor  Rich- 
mann,  who  was  killed  by  lightning  while 
making  one  of  the  experiments,  and  by  not 
less  eminent  persons  in  other  parts  of  Europe. 
The  Royal  Society,  too,  repenting  of  previous 
neglect,  had  elected  him  a  fellow  and  pre 
sented  him  the  Copley  medal.  As  soon  as 
it  was  known  therefore  that  he  was  in  Lon 
don,  the  most  distinguished  men  of  that  me 
tropolis  hastened  to  pay  their  respects  to  him, 
and  the  scholars  of  the  continent  quickly  fol 
lowed  with  letters  of  congratulation.  For 
two  months  he  was  confined  to  his  room  by 
illness,  but  as  soon  as  his  health  permitted 
he  devoted  himself  with  assiduity  to  the  busi 
ness  of  his  mission.  Early  in  1759,  to  disa 
buse  the  popular  mind  of  prejudices  which 
had  been  created  by  the  partisans  of  the  pro 
prietors,  he  published  a  large  volume  entitled 
An  Historical  Review  of  Pennsylvania,  of 
which  he  was  long  supposed  to  be  the  author, 
though  it  is  now  certain  that  he  wrote  very 
little  of  it.  It  was  prepared,  under  his  direc 
tion,  probably  by  Ralph,  who  had  now  been 
in  England  more  than  thirty  years,  and  was 
esteemed  one  of  the  best  political  writers  in 
the  kingdom.  He  was  finally  successful 
with  the  ministry,  who  decided  that  the  land 
holders  should  bear  a  just  proportion  of  the 


public  burdens,  and  in  1762,  having  passed 
five  years  in  Great  Britain,  he  returned  to 
America.  While  abroad  he  had  written  his 
celebrated  pamphlet  on  the  acquisition  of 
Canada  and  Guadaloupe,  distinguished  for  ex 
traordinary  clearness,  compactness,  and  force 
of  reason,  and  several  important  papers  or 
scientific  subjects ;  and  had  added  largely  to 
the  number  of  his  acquaintances  among  states 
men  and  men  of  letters,  particularly  Lord 
Kaimes,  David  Hume,  and  Dr.  Robertson, 
with  whom  he  many  years  kept  up  an  inti 
mate  correspondence.  Alluding  to  a  visit  to 
his  friends  in  Scotland,  made  in  the  summer 
of  1759,  he  says  that  on  the  whole  the  time 
spent  among  them  was  "  six  weeks  of  the 
densest  happiness"  he  had  met  with  in  any 
part  of  his  life. 

Soon  after  his  return,  being  still  colonial 
postmaster-general,  he  spent  several  months 
in  visiting  and  inspecting  the  northern  and 
eastern  offices.  He  travelled  sixteen  hundred 
miles  in  a  light  carriage,  driven  by  himself, 
with  a  saddle-horse  attached  on  which  his 
daughter,  who  accompanied  him,  occasionally 
rode.  In  the  different  towns  he  was  received 
with  flattering  hospitalities  by  his  old  friends, 
and  in  some  of  them  was  detained  many  days. 
Upon  his  return  to  Philadelphia  he  entered 
with  characteristic  ardor  upon  public  affairs. 
He  was  the  first  citizen  of  the  province,  and 
in  every  emergency  acted  with  a  fearlessness 
only  equalled  by  his  wisdom.  The  indignant 
eloquence  of  his  pamphlet  on  the  Paxton  in 
surrection,  showed  with  what  feelings  he 
regarded  popular  violence,  and  the  people 
might  have  seen  in  his  stern  respect  for  law 
the  best  proof  of  his  fitness  for  the  high  duties 
to  which  they  called  him.  He  perceived, 
what  every  man  worthy  of  freedom  perceives, 
that  the  laws  of  a  state  should  be  as  certain 
of  execution  as  decrees  of  God,  no  possible 
contingency  justifying  the  slightest  deviation 
from  them,  and  proofs  of  oppressiveness  01 
any  kind  of  unfitness  having  no  proper  use 
but  as  arguments  for  modification,  or  in  ex 
tremity  for  revolution. 

The  controversy  between  the  proprietors  and 
the  inhabitants  was  not  yet  ended.  The  ad 
ministration  was  inefficient,  and  every  part  of 
the  public  service  embarrassed.  In  a  pamph 
let  entitled  Cool  Thoughts  on  the  Present 
Situation  of  Affairs,  he  showed  that  the  evils 
which  all  acknowledged  to  exist  were  inhe- 


BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 


61 


rent  in  the  nature  of  the  government,  and  that 
it  was  necessary  at  once  to  take  the  chief  ap 
pointing  power  from  the  foreign  landholders. 
A  large  majority  of  the  people  and  of  the 
Assembly  were  of  this  opinion,  and  in  1764 
Franklin  proceeded  a  second  time  to  England, 
with  a  petition  for  a  change  of  the  charter, 
and  to  manage  the  general  affairs  of  the  pro 
vince.  But  all  local  controversies  were  soon 
forgotten  in  preparations  for  a  more  general 
and  important  conflict. 

The  plan  for  taxing  the  colonies  had  cre 
ated  a  profound  sensation,  and  clearsighted 
men  in  both  countries  saw  the  storm  that  was 
approaching.  Franklin  was  appointed  agent 
for  Massachusetts,  New  Jersey,  and  Georgia, 
and  was  looked  upon  as  the  representative  of  the 
whole  American  people.  In  his  memorable 
examination  before  the  House  of  Commons,  in 
1766,  his  simplicity,  composure,  and  firmness, 
the  precision  of  his  language,  and  the  aston 
ishing  fulness  and  impressive  character  of  his 
information,  produced  such  an  effect  that  the 
stamp  act  was  repealed.  That  spirit  of  obedi 
ence,  that  respect  for  what  is  established,  as 
being  to  us  in  the  place  of  destiny  until  re 
versed  by  the  operation  of  fit  causes,  to  which 
allusion  has  been  made,  still  marked  his 
conduct.  It  was  a  part,  and  one  of  the  best 
parts,  of  his  nature.  He  protested,  warned, 
and  made  argument  against  the  policy  of  the 
ministers,  as  tending  to  revolution,  but  was 
one  of  the  last  to  revolt.  When  he  saw  that 
that  "  noble  vase,"  as  he  styled  the  British 
empire,  in  a  letter  to  Lord  Howe,  was  to  be 
broken,  that  the  civjl  war  which  he  had  la 
boured  with  such  unwearied  earnestness  to 
avert  was  to  come  at  last  with  all  its  dire  ca 
lamities,  he  may  have  faltered  a  moment,  as 
one  who  thinks  of  toil  unprofitably  spent;  but 
America  was  to  Europe  then  the  country  of 
Franklin,  and  his  wise  conduct, — his  pru 
dence,  moderation,  and  firmness, — which  the 
rabble  on  both  sides  called  treason,  had  its 
uses,  and  gained  for  us  a  national  character, 
before  we  had  a  national  existence.  The 
great  Lord  Chatham  did  not  hesitate,  while 
some  in  the  parliament-house  were  planning 
his  arrest,  to  speak  of  him  as  {'-one  who  was 
an  honour  not  to  England  only,  but  to  human 
nature  ;"  and  the  manner  in  which  his  grate 
ful  countrymen  received  him,  showed  that 
there  were  few  here  who  did  not  justly  appre 
ciate  his  character  and  services. 


Immediately  after  his  return  he  was  elected 
a  member  of  the  Congress,  then  sitting  in 
Philadelphia.  Though  he  seldom  addressed 
that  body,  he  was  one  of  its  most  efficient 
members,  serving  constantly  on  its  important 
committees.  After  signing  the  Declaration 
of  Independence,  he  was  appointed  minister 
plenipotentiary  to  France,  and  placing  his 
property  at  the  disposal  of  Congress,  he  de 
parted  for  Paris,  where  he  arrived  near  the 
close  of  December,  1776. 

He  was  not  at  first  formally  received  by  the 
court,  but  the  French  people  welcomed  him 
with  more  than  even  their  characteristic  en 
thusiasm.  Portraits  of  the  venerable  old  man, 
who  joined,  it  was  said,  the  demeanour  of 
Phocion  to  the  spirit  of  Socrates,  were  every 
where  to  be  seen,  with  Turgo.t's  sublime  in 
scription, 

"  Eripuit  calo  fulmen,  sceptrumque  tyrannis  ,•" 

busts  and  prints  of  him  were  multiplied  and 
sold  in  extraordinary  numbers ;  his  head  was 
represented  on  medalions  set  in  snuff-boxes, 
or  worn  by  both  sexes  in  rings,  brooches,  and 
other  ornaments ;  the  most  eminent  persons 
thronged  his  house  at  Passy,  and  crowds  in 
the  streets  greeted  him  with  acclamations 
when  he  appeared  in  the  city.  Tie  aged 
Voltaire,  who,  after  having  received  the  ho 
mage  of  one  generation,  reappeared,  with  a 
new  tragedy,  in  the  midst  of  anothe  ,  to  be 
crowned  with  chaplets  by  posterity,  was  then 
in  Paris,  and  when  they  met,  though  he  had 
long  ceased  to  speak  our  language,  he  made 
the  attempt,  and  failing,  added,  "  Je  n'ai  pu 
register  au  desir  de  parler  un  moment  la  langue 
de  Franklin."  The  philosopher  presented 
his  grandson,  and  asked  a  blessing :  "  God 
and  Liberty,"  said  the  poet,  "  is  the  only  one 
fitting  for  Franklin's  children."  The  great 
men  met  again,  says  Lord  Brougham,  at  a 
public  sitting  of  the  Academy,  and  when 
they  took  their  places,  side  by  side,  and 
shook  hands  together,  a  burst  of  applause 
involuntarily  rose  from  the  whole  assembly. 
After  this  picture  it  is  needless  to  detail  the 
story  of  his  negotiations  with  the  court.  "  His 
virtues  and  his  renown,"  observes  the  his 
torian  Lacretelle,  "negotiated  for  him,  and 
before  the  second  year  of  his  mission  had 
expired,  no  one  conceived  it  possible  to  refuse 
fleets  and  an  army  to  the  compatriots  of 
Franklin." 

When  he  had  signed  the  treaty  of  a  :i  nee 


BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 


with  France,  and  the  definitive  treaty  of  peace 
with  Great  Britain,  he  requested  permission 
to  retire  from  the  public  service,  in  which  he 
had  now  passed  more  than  half  a  century. 
But  it  was  still  three  years  before  Congress 
could  be  induced  to  appoint  his  successor. 
His  last  official  act  in  Europe  was  the  sign 
ing-  of  the  treaty  with  Prussia,  containing  his 
philanthropic  article  against  privateering  and 
for  the  protection  of  private  property  in  time 
of  war.  The  emperor  of  Austria  had  invited 
him  to  visit  Vienna,  but  he  was  too  feeble. 
The  queen's  litter  was  kindly  offered  him  for 
his  journey  to  Havre,  where  he  arrived  in  six 
days  after  leaving  Passy;  and  on  the  four 
teenth  of  September,  1785,  when  he  was  in 
the  eightieth  year  of  his  age,  he  landed  at 
Philadelphia,  on  the  spot  where  he  had  stood 
sixty-three  years  before,  a  poor  and  friend 
less  youth.  Now  he  was  greeted  with  the 
acclamations  of  an  admiring  people,  with  the 
ringing  of  bells  and  the  discharge  of  artillery — 
one  of  the  proudest  triumphs  in  history,  won 
without  an  act  of  violence  or  crime. 

For  three  years  he  was  president  of  the  com 
monwealth,  and  in  1787  he  sat  with  Washing 
ton  and  Hamilton  in  the  federal  convention 
which  gave  his  countrymen  the  freest  of  con 
stitutions.  He  had  lived  long ;  he  had  learned 
that  "  God  governs  in  the  affairs  of  men,"  he 
said,  in  one  of  his  brief  speeches,  in  which  he 
proposed  that  the  convention  in  daily  prayers 
should  seek  His  guidance  and  protection.  The 
last  year  of  his  presidency  ended  in  October, 
1 788,  and  after  that  time,  though  he  was  often 
consulted  on  public  affairs,  he  held  no  office 
in  the  government. 

He  resided  in  Philadelphia,  with  his  daugh 
ter  and  grandchildren,  in  such  dignified  repose 
as  became  a  philosopher  and  sage,  until  the 
seventeenth  of  April,  1790,  when  he  died. 
"  Benjamin  and  Deborah  Franklin,  1790,"  is 
the  simple  and  only  inscription  upon  the  plain 
marble  under  which,  with  the  partner  of  his 
youth  and  middle  age,  he  is  sleeping.  No  co 
lumn  has  been  raised  to  him.  None  is  needed. 

The  news  of  his  death  reached  Paris,  and 
Mirabeau  announced  in  the  General  Assembly 
that  "  the  genius  which  had  freed  America  and 
poured  a  flood  of  light  over  Europe,  had  returned 
to  the  bosom  of  the  Divinity."  "Everywhere," 
to  use  the  language  of  Rochefoucauld,  "  he  was 
the  object  of  the  regrets,  as  he  had  been  of  the 
admiration  of  the  friends  of  liberty." 


In  all  respects  Franklin's  character  was  re 
markable.  The  acuteness,  solidity  and  prac 
ticalness  of  his  understanding  are  not  more 
striking  than  his  happy  temper.  Whether 
assailed  to  his  face  by  a  brutal  Wedderburn, 
or  covertly  slandered  by  an  envious  and  feeble 
Izard;  made  the  idol  of  a  frivolous  court,  or 
greeted  with  acclamations  by  an  assembly  of 
academicians ;  he  maintained  the  same  unva 
rying  serenity.  He  would  have  been  more  or 
less  than  man  if  insensible  of  his  successes 
and  celebrity,  but  he  was  not  more  humble 
when  trundling  paper  on  a  wheelbarrow  through 
the  streets,  than  when  standing,  the  observed 
of  all  observers,  in  the  presence  of  kings; 
when  chronicling  the  results  of  everyday  ex 
perience,  than  when  unfolding  the  profound- 
est  mysteries  of  nature ;  when  reconciling  the 
differences  of  his  shop-mates,  than  when  mak 
ing  treaties  between  belligerent  empires. 

His  moral  writings  have  had  a  powerful 
influence  upon  the  character  of  the  American 
people.  They  are  eminently  distinguished 
for  what  is  called  common  sense.  Their 
tone  is  rather  below  than  above  that  of  most 
similar  compositions.  His  ideal  of  utility  is 
too  humble.  His  virtue  is  the  doing  good  to 
mankind,  not  for  its  own  sweetness,  but  that 
they  may  do  good  to  us.  Yet  the  sort  of  per 
sons  he  addressed,  in  the  essays  of  "  Richard 
Saunders"  and  in  much  of  his  familiar  corre 
spondence,  should  not  be  forgotten.  Nothing 
could  be  better  suited  to  their  understandings 
and  conditions. 

Franklin's  style  is  in  all  respects  admirable. 
That  of  his  scientific  papers,  in  simplicity, 
clearness,  precision  and  condensation  is  un 
paralleled.  Discarding  the  symbols  of  geo 
metry,  and  indeed  all  technical  language,  he 
succeeded  in  presenting  the  most  difficult 
problems  and  abstruse  speculations  in  the 
shortest  space,  and  so  perspicuously  that  a 
child  could  perfectly  understand  them.  That 
of  his  letters  and  essays  is  various,  but  always 
excellent.  It  is  much  better  than  Addison's, 
of  whom  he  has  absurdly  been  called  a  copy 
ist,  because  he  mentions  as  one  of  his  boyish 
experiments  an  attempt  to  write  in  the  manner 
of  the  Spectator.  It  is  more  concise  and  point 
ed,  clear  and  forcible,  and  has  quite  as  much 
wit  and  humour,  ease  and  elegance.  Bowditch 
might  as  well  be  called  an  imitator  of  Daboll 
because  he  once  worked  out  some  of  the  pro 
positions  of  that  famous  arithmetician. 


BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 


63 


THE  WAY  TO  WEALTH. 

COURTEOUS  READER,  I  have  heard,  that  no 
thing  gives  an  author  so  great  pleasure  as  to  find 
his  works  respectfully  quoted  by  others.  Judge, 
tnen,  how  much  I  must  have  been  gratified  by  an 
incident  I  am  going  to  relate  to  you.  I  stopped 
my  horse  lately,  where  a  great  number  of  people 
were  collected  at  an  auction  of  merchants'  goods. 
The  hour  of  the  sale  not  being  come,  they  were 
conversing  on  the  badness  of  the  times ;  and  one 
of  the  company  called  to  a  plain,  clean,  old  man, 
with  white  locks,  "  Pray,  Father  Abraham,  what 
think  you  of  the  times  1  Will  not  these  heavy 
taxes  quite  ruin  the  country  1  How  shall  we 
ever  be  able  to  pay  them1?  What  would  you 
advise  us  to?"  Father  Abraham  stood  up  and 
replied,  "  If  you  would  have  my  advice,  I  will 
give  it  you  in  short;  for  A  word  to  the  wise  is 
e.iough,  as  Poor  Richard  says."  They  joined  in 
desiring  him  to  speak  his  mind,  a«nd  gathering 
round  him,  he  proceeded  as  follows. 

"  Friends,"  said  he,  "  the  taxes  are  indeed  very 
heavy,  and,  if  those  laid  on  by  the  government 
were  the  only  ones  we  had  to  pay,  we  might  more 
easily  discharge  them ;  but  we  have  many  others, 
and  much  more  grievous  to  some  of  us.  We  are 
taxed  twice  as  much  by  our  idleness,  three  times 
as  much  by  our  pride,  and  four  times  as  much  by 
our  folly  ;  and  from  these  taxes  the  commission 
ers  cannot  ease  or  deliver  us,  by  allowing  an 
abatement.  However,  let  us  hearken  to  good  ad 
vice,  and  something  may  be  done  for  us;  God 
helps  them  that  help  themselves,  as  Poor  Richard 
says. 

"I.  It  would  be  thought  a  hard  government, 
that  should  tax  its  people  one-tenth  part  of  their 
time,  to  be  employed  in  its  service ;  but  idleness 
taxes  many  of  us  much  more ;  sloth,  by  bringing  on 
diseases,  absolutely  shortens  life.  Sloth,  like  rust, 
consumes  faster  than  labour  wears ;  while  the  used 
key  is  always  bright,  as  Poor  Richard  says.  But 
dost  thou  love  life,  then  do  not  squander  time,  for 
that  is  the  stuff  life  is*made  of,  as  Poor  Richard 
says.  How  much^  more  than  is  necessary  do  we 
spend  in  sleep,  forgetting,  that  The  sleeping  fox 
catches  no  poultry,  and  that  There  will  he  sleeping 
enough  in  the  grave,  as  Poor  Richard  says. 

"  If  time  be  of  all  things  the  most  precious,  wast 
ing  time  must  be,  as  Poor  Richard  says,  the  greatest 
prodigality  ;  since,  as  he  elsewhere  tells  us,  Lost 
time  is  never  found  again;  and  what  we  call  time 
enough,  always  proves  little  enough.  Let  us  then 
up  and  be  doing,  and  doing  to  the  purpose ;  so  by 
diligence  shall  we  do  more  with  less  perplexity. 
Sloth  makes  all  things  difficult,  but  industry  all 
easy  •  and  He  that  riseth  late  must  trot  all  day,  and 
shall  scarce  overtake  his  business  at  night ;  while 
Laziness  travels  so  slowly,  that  Poverty  soon  over 
takes  him.  Drive  thy  business,  let  not  that  drive 
thee ;  and  Early  to  bed,  and  early  to  rise,  makes  a 
man  healthy,  wealthy,  and  wise,  as  Poor  Richard 
says. 

"  So  what  signifies  wishing  and  hoping  for  bet 
ter  times  1  We  may  make  these  times  better,  if 


we  bestir  ourselves.  Industry  need  not  wish,  and 
he  that  lives  upon  hopes  will  die  fasting.  There 
are  no  gains  without  pains ;  then  help,  hands,  for 
I  have  no  lands ;  or,  if  I  have,  they  are  smartly 
taxed.  He  that  hath  a  trade  hath  an  estate  ;  and 
he  that  hath  a  calling,  hath  an  office  of  profit  and 
honour,  as  Poor  Richard  says ;  but  then  the  trade 
must  be  worked  at,  and  the  calling  followed,  or 
neither  the  estate  nor  the  office  will  enable  us  to 
pay  our  taxes.  If  we  are  industrious,  we  shall 
never  starve ;  for,  At  the  working  man's  house  hun 
ger  looks  in,  but  dares  not  enter.  Nor  will  the 
bailiff  or  the  constable  enter,  for  Industry  pays 
debts,  while  despair  increaseth  them.  What  though 
you  have  found  no  treasure,  nor  has  any  rich  rela 
tion  left  you  a  legacy,  Diligence  is  the  mother  of 
good  luck,  and  God  gives  all  things  to  industry. 
Then  plough  deep  while  sluggards  sleep,  and  you 
shall  have  corn  to  sell  and  to  keep.  Work  while  it 
is  called  to-day,  for  you  know  not  how  much  you 
may  be  hindered  to-morrow.  One  to-day  is  worth 
two  to-morrows,  as  Poor  Richard  says ;  and  further, 
Never  leave  that  till  to-morrow,  which  you  can  do 
to-day.  If  you  were  a  servant,  would  you  not  be 
ashamed  that  a  good  master  should  catch  you  idle  1 
Are  you  then  your  own  master  1  Be  ashamed 
to  catch  yourself  idle,  when  there  is  so  much  to 
be  done  for  yourself,  your  family,  your  country, 
and  your  king.  Handle  your  tools  without  mit 
tens  ;  remember,  that  The  cat  in  gloves  catches  no 
mice,  as  Poor  Richard  says.  It  is  true  there  is 
much  to  be  done,  and  perhaps  you  are  weak- 
handed  ;  but  stick  to  it  steadily,  and  you  will  see 
great  effects ;  for  Constant  dropping  wears  away 
stones;  and  By  diligence  and  patience  the  mouse 
ate  in  two  the  cable ;  and  Little  strokes  fell  great 
oaks. 

"  Me  thinks  I  hear  some  of  you  say,  <  Must  a 
man  afford  himself  no  leisure  1 '  I  will  tell  thee, 
my  friend,  what  Poor  Richard  says :  Employ  thy 
time  well,  if  thou  meanest  to  gain  leisure ;  and,  since 
thou  art  not  sure  of  a  minute,  throw  not  away  an 
hour.  Leisure  is  time  for  doing  something  useful ; 
this  leisure  the  diligent  man  will  obtain,  but  the 
lazy  man  never;  for  Ji  life  of  leisure  and  i  life  of 
laziness  are  two  things.  Many,  without  labour, 
would  live  by  their  wits  only,  but  they  break  for 
want  of  stock  ;  whereas,  industry  gives  comfort, 
and  plenty,  and  respect.  Fly  pleasures,  and  they 
will  follow  you.  The  diligent  spinner  has  a  large 
shift ;  and  now  I  have  a  sheep  and  a  cow,  every 
body  bids  me  good  morrouf. 

"  II.  But  with  our  industry  we  must  likewise 
be  steady,  settled,  and  careful,  and  oversee  our 
own  affairs,  with  our  own  eyes,  and  not  trust  too 
much  to  others ;  for,  as  Poor  Richard  says, 

/  never  saw  an  oft-removed  tree, 
JVor  yet  an  oft-removed  family, 
That  throve  so  well  as  those  that  settled  be. 

And  again,  Three  removes  are  as  bad  as  a  fire 
and  again,  Keep  thy  shop,  and  thy  shop  will  keej 
thee :  and  again,  If  you  would  have  your  busines 
done,  go;  if  not,  send.  And  again, 

He  that  by  the  plough  would  thrive, 
Himself  must  either  hold  or  drive 


64 


BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 


And  again,  The  eye  of  a  master  will  do  more  work 
than  both  his  hands ;  and  again,  Want  of  care  does 
us  more  damage  than  want  of  knowledge  •  and  again, 
ATo/  to  oversee,  workmen,  is  to  leave  them  your  purse 
open.  Trusting  too  much  to  others'  care  is  the 
ruin  of  many  ;  for  In  the  affairs  of  this  world  men 
are  saved,  not  by  faith,  but  by  the  want  of  it ;  but  a 
man's  own  care  is  profitable ;  for,  If  you  would  have 
a  faithful  servant,  and  one  that  you  like,  serve  your 
self.  A  little  neglect  may  breed  great  mischief;  for 
want  of  a  nail  the  shoe  teas  lost ;  for  want  of  a 
shoe  the  horse  was  lost  /  and  for  want  of  a  horse 
the.  rider  was  lost,  being  overtaken  and  slain  by  the 
enemy  ;  all  for  want  of  a  little  care  about  a  horse 
shoe  nail. 

"III.  So  much  for  industry,  my  friends,  and 
attention  to  one's  own  business ;  but  to  these  we 
must  add  frugality,  if  we  would  make  our  industry 
more  certainly  successful.  A  man  may,  if  he 
knows  not  how  to  save  as  he  gets,  keep  his  nose 
all  his  life  to  the  grindstone,  and  die  not  worth  a 
groat  at  last.  A  fat  kitchen,  makes  a  lean  will,  and 

Many  estates  are  spent  in  the  getting, 

Since  women  for  tea  forsook  spinning  and  knitting, 

J9nd  men  for  punch  forsook  hewing  and  splitting. 

If  you  would  be  wealthy,  think  of  saving  as  well  as 
of  getting.  The  Indies  have  not  made  Spain  rich, 
because  her  outgoes  are  greater  than  her  incomes. 

"  Away  then  with  your  expensive  follies,  and 
you  will  not  then  have  so  much  cause  to  complain 
of  hard  times,  heavy  taxes,  and  chargeable  fami 
lies  ;  for 

Women  and  wine,  game  and  deceit^ 

Make  the  wealth  small  and  the  want  great. 

And  further,  What  maintains  one  vice  would  bring 
up  two  children.  You  may  think,  perhaps,  that  a 
little  tea,  or  a  little  punch  now  and  then,  diet  a 
little  more  costly,  clothes  a  little  finer,  and  a  little 
entertainment  now  and  then,  can  be  no  great 
matter;  but  remember,  Many  a  little  makes  a 
mickle.  Beware  of  little  expenses  ;  A  small  leak 
will  sink  a  great  ship,  as  Poor  Richard  says  ;  and 
again,  Who  dainties  love,  shall  beggars  prove  •  and 
moreover,  Fools  make  feasts,  and  wise  men  eat 
them. 

"  Here  you  are  all  got  together  at  this  sale  of 
fineries  and  knick-knacks.  You  call  them  goods; 
but,  if  you  do  not  take  care,  they  will  prove  evils 
to  some  of  you.  You  expect  they  will  be  sold 
cheap,  and  perhaps  they  may  for  less  than  they 
cost ;  but,  if  you  have  no  occasion  for  them,  they 
must  be  dear  to  you.  Remember  what  Poor 
Richard  says :  Buy  what  thou  hast  no  need  of,  and 
ere  long  thou  shalt  sell  thy  necessaries.  And  again, 
At  a  great  pennyworth  pause  a  while.  He  means, 
that  perhaps  the  cheapness  is  apparent  only,  and 
not  real ;  or  the  bargain,  by  straitening  thee  in 
thy  business,  may  do  thee  more  harm  than  good. 
For  in  another  place  he  says,  Many  have  been 
ruined  by  buying  good  pennyworths.  Again,  It  is 
foolish  to  lay  ou'  money  in  a  purchase  of  repentance  ; 
and  yet  this  folly  is  practised  every  day  at  auc 
tions,  for  want  of  minding  the  Almanac.  Many 
a  one,  for  the  sake  of  finery  on  the  back,  have 


gone  with  a  hungry  belly  arid  half-starved  their 
families.  Silks  and  satins,  scarlet  and  velvets,  put 
out  the  kitchen  fire,  as  Poor  Richard  says. 

"  These  are  not  the  necessaries  of  life  ;  they  can 
scarcely  be  called  the  conveniences  ;  and  yet,  only 
because  they  look  pretty,  how  many  want  to  have 
them !  By  these,  and  other  extravagances,  the 
genteel  are  reduced  to  poverty,  and  forced  to  bor 
row  of  those  whom  they  formerly  despised,  but 
who,  through  industry  and  frugality,  have  main 
tained  their  standing;  in  which  case  it  appears 
plainly,  that  A  ploughman  on  his  legs  is  higher  than 
a  gentleman  on  his  knees,  as  Poor  Richard  says. 
Perhaps  they  have  had  a  small  estate  left  them, 
which  they  knew  not  the  getting  of;  they  think, 
It  is  day,  and  will  never  be  night  •  that  a  little  to 
be  spent  out  of  so  much  is  not  worth  minding ; 
but  Always  taking  out  of  the  meal-tub,  and  never 
putting  in,  soon  comes  to  the  bottom,  as  Poor 
Richard  says;  and  then,  When  the  well  is  dry, 
they  know  the  worth  of  water.  But  this  they 
might  have  known  before,  if  they  had  taken  his 
advice.  If  you  would  know  the  value  of  money,  go 
and  try  to  borrow  some  •  for  he  that  goes  a  borrowing 
goes  a  sorrowing,  as  Poor  Richard  says  ;  and  in 
deed  so  does  he  that  lends  to  such  people,  when 
he  goes  to  get  it  in  again.  Poor  Dick  further 
advises  and  says, 

Fond  pride  of  dress  is  sure  a  very  curse ; 
Ere  fancy  you  consult,  consult  your  purse. 

And  again,  Pride  is  as  loud  a  beggar  as  Want, 
and  a  great  deal  more  saucy.  When  you  have 
bought  one  fine  thing,  you  must  buy  ten  more, 
that  your  appearance  may  be  all  of  a  piece  ;  but 
Poor  Dick  says,  It  is  easier  to  suppress  the  first 
desire,  than  to  satisfy  all  that  follow  it.  And  it  is 
as  truly  folly  for  the-  poor  to  ape  the  rich,  as  for 
the  frog  to  swell  in  order  to  equal  the  ox. 

Vessels  large  may  venture  more, 

But  little  boats  should  keep  near  shore. 

It  is,  however,  a  folly  soon  punished ;  for  as  Poor 
Richard  says,  Pride  that  dines  on  vanity,  sups  on 
contempt*  Pride  breakfasted  with  Plenty,  dined 
with  Poverty,  and  supped  with  Infamy.  And,  after 
all,  of  what  use  is  this  pride  of  appearance,  for 
which  so  much  is  risked,  so  much  is  suffered  1 
It  cannot  promote  health,  nor  ease  pain ;  it  makes 
no  increase  of  merit  in  the  person ;  it  creates 
envy ;  it  hastens  misfortune. 

"  But  what  madness  must  it  be  to  run  in  debt 
for  these  superfluities  1  We  are  offered,  by  the 
terms  of  this  sale,  six  months'  credit ;  and  that, 
perhaps,  has  induced  some  of  us  to  attend  it,  be 
cause  we  cannot  spare  the  ready  money,  and  hope 
now  to  be  fine  without  it.  But,  ah !  think  what 
you  do  when  you  run  in  debt;  you  give  to  an 
other  power  over  your  liberty.  If  you  cannot  pay 
at  the  time,  you  will  be  ashamed  to  see  your  cre 
ditor  ;  you  will  be  in  fear  when  you  speak  to  him ; 
you  will  make  poor,  pitiful,  sneaking  excuses,  and, 
by  degrees,  come  to  lose  your  veracity,  and  sink 
into  base,  downright  lying;  for  The  second  vice  is 
lying,  the  first  is  running  in  debt,  as  Poor  Richard 
says;  and  again,  to  the  same  purpose,  Lying  rides 


BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 


65 


upon  Debt's  bark :  whereas  a  free-born  English 
man  ought  not  to  be  ashamed  nor  afraid  to  see  or 
speak  to  any  man  living.  But  poverty  often  de 
prives  a  man  of  all  spirit  and  virtue.  It  is  hard 
for  art  empty  bag  to  stand  upright. 

"  What  would  you  think  of  that  prince,  or  of 
that  government,  who  should  issue  an  edict  for 
bidding  you  to  dress  like  a  gentleman  or  gentle 
woman,  on  pain  of  imprisonment  or  servitude  1 
Would  you  not  say  that  you  were  free,  have  a 
right  to  dress  as  you  please,  and  that  such  an 
edict  would  be  a  breach  of  your  privileges,  and 
such  a  government  tyrannical  ]  And  yet  you  are 
about  to  put  yourself  under  such  tyranny,  when 
you  run  in  debt  for  such  dress!  Your  creditor 
has  authority,  at  his  pleasure,  to  deprive  you  of 
your  liberty,  by  confining  you  in  jail  till  you  shall 
be  able  to  pay  him.  When  you  have  got  your 
bargain,  you  may,  perhaps,  think  little  of  pay 
ment  ;  but,  as  Poor  Richard  says,  Creditors  have 
better  memories  than  debtors ;  creditors  are  a  super 
stitious  sect,  great  observers  of  set  days  and  times. 
The  .day  comes  round  before  you  are  aware,  and 
the  demand  is  made  before  you  are  prepared  to 
satisfy  it ;  or,  if  you  bear  your  debt  in  mind,  the 
term,  which  at  first  seemed  so  long,  will,  as  it  les 
sens,  appear  extremely  short.  Time  will  seem  to 
have  added  wings  to  his  heels  as  well  as  his 
shoulders.  Those  have  a  short  Lent,  who  owe  mo 
ney  to  be  paid  at  Easter.  At  present,  perhaps, 
you  may  think  yourselves  in  thriving  circum 
stances,  and  that  you  can  bear  a  little  extravagance 
without  injury ;  but 

For  age  and  want  save  while  you  may ; 
JVo  morning'  sun  lasts  a  irhole  day. 

Gain  may  be  temporary  and  uncertain,  but  ever, 
while  you  live,  expense  is  constant  and  certain ; 
and  It  is  easier  to  build  two  chimneys,  than  to  keep 
one  in  fuel,  as  Poor  Richard  says ;  so,  Rather  go  to 
bed  supperless,  than  rise  in  debt. 

Get  what  you  can,  and  what  you  get  hold  ; 

'  Tis  the  stone  that  will  turn  all  your  lead  into  gold, 

And,  when  you  have  got  the  Philosopher's  stone, 
sure  you  will  no  longer  complain  of  bad  times,  or 
the  difficulty  of  paying  taxes. 

"  IV.  This  doctrine,  my  friends,  is  reason  and 
wisdom ;  but,  after  all,  do  not  depend  too  much 
upon  your  own  industry,  and  frugality,  and  pru 
dence,  though  excellent  things ;  for  they  may  all 
be  blasted,  without  the  blessing  of  Heaven ;  and, 
therefore,  ask  that  blessing  humbly,  and  be  not 
uncharitable  to  those  that  at  present  seem  to  want 
it,  but  comfort  and  help  them.  Remember,  Job 
suffered,  and  was  afterwards  prosperous. 

"  And  now,  to  conclude,  Experience  keeps  a  dear 
school,  but  fools  will  learn  in  no  other,  as  Poor 
Richard  says,  and  scarce  in  that;  for,  it  is  true, 
We  m  iy  give  advice,  but  we  cannot  give  conduct. 
However,  remember  this,  They  that  will  not  be 
counselled,  cannot  be  helped ;  and  further,  that,  If 
you  will  not  hear  Reason,  sfie  will  surely  rap  your 
knuckles,  as  Poor  Richard  says." 

Thus  the  old  gentleman  ended  his  harangue. 
The  people  heard  it,  and  approved  the  doctrine ; 
9 


and  immediately  practised  the  contrary,  just  as  if 
it  had  been  a  common  sermon;  for  the  auction 
opened,  and  they  began  to  buy  extravagantly.  I 
found  the  good  man  had  thoroughly  studied  my 
Almanacs,  and  digested  all  I  had  dropped  on  thess 
topics  during  the  course  of  twenty-five  years.  The 
frequent  mention  he  made  of  me  must  have  tired 
any  one  else ;  but  my  vanity  was  wonderfully  de 
lighted  with  it,  though  I  was  conscious  that  not  a 
tenth  part  of  the  wisdom  was  my  own,  which 
he  ascribed  to  me,  but  rather  the  gleanings  that  I 
had  made  of  the  sense  of  all  ages  and  nations. 
However,  I  resolved  to  be  the  better  for  the  echo 
of  it ;  and,  though  I  had  at  first  determined  to  buy 
stuff  for  a  new  coat,  I  went  away  resolved  to  wear 
my  old  one  a  little  longer.  Reader,  if  thou  wilt 
do  the  same,  thy  profit  wilt  be  as  great  as  mine. 
I  am,  as  ever,  thine  to  serve  thee, 

RICHARD  SATTNDERS. 


MORALS  OF  CHESS. 

PJLAYING  at  chess  is  the  most  ancient  and  most 
universal  game  known  among  men  ;  for  its  origi 
nal  is  beyond  the  memory  of  history,  and  it  has, 
for  numberless  ages,  been  the  amusement  of  all 
the  civilized  nations  of  Asia,  the  Persians,  the  In 
dians,  and  the  Chinese.  Europe  has  had  it  above 
a  thousand  years ;  the  Spaniards  have  spread  it 
over  their  part  of  America ;  and  it  has  lately  be 
gun  to  make  its  appearance  in  the  United  States. 
It  is  so  interesting  in  itself,  as  not  to  need  the 
view  of  gain  to  induce  engaging  in  it ;  and  thence 
it  is  seldom  played  for  money.  Those,  therefore, 
who  have  leisure  for  such  diversions,  cannot  find 
one  that  is  more  innocent ;  and  the  following 
piece,  written  with  a  view  to  correct  (among  a 
few  young  friends)  some  little  improprieties  in  the 
practice  of  it,  shows  at  the  same  time  that  it  may, 
in  its  effects  on  the  mind,  be  not  merely  innocent, 
but  advantageous,  to  the  vanquished  as  well  as 
the  victor. 

The  game  of  chess  is  not  merely  an  idle  amuse 
ment.  Several  very  valuable  qualities  of  the  mind, 
useful  in  the  course  of  human  life,  are  to  be  ac 
quired  or  strengthened  by  it,  so  as  to  become 
habits,  ready  on  all  occasions.  For  life  is  a  kind 
of  chess,  in  which  we  have  often  points  to  gain, 
and  competitors  or  adversaries  to  contend  with, 
and  in  which  there  is  a  vast  variety  of  good  and 
evil  events,  that  are  in  some  degree  the  effects  of 
prudence  or  the  want  of  it.  By  playing  at  chess, 
then,  we  may  learn, 

I.  Foresight,  which  looks  a  little  into  futurity, 
and  considers  the  consequences-  that  may  attend 
an  action ;  for  it  is  continually  occurring  to  the 
player,  "  If  I  move  this  piece,  what  will  be  the  ad 
vantage  of  my  new  situation  1     What  use  can  my 
adversary  make  of  it  to  annoy  me  ?     What  other 
moves  can  I  make  to  support  it,  and  to  defend 
myself  from  his  attacks'?" 

II.  Circumspection,  which   surveys  the    whole 


66 


BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 


chessboard,  or  scene  of  action ;  the  relations  of  the 
several  pieces  and  situations,  the  dangers  they  are 
respectively  exposed  to,  the  several  possibilities  of 
their  aiding  each  other,  the  probabilities  that  the 
adversary  may  make  this  or  that  move,  and  attack 
this  or  the  other  piece,  and  what  different  means 
can  be  used  to  avoid  his  stroke,  or  turn  its  con 
sequences  against  him. 

III.  Caution,  not  to  make  our  moves  too  hastily. 
This  habit  is  best  acquired  by  observing  strictly 
the  laws  of  the  game ;  such  as,  « If  you  touch  a 
piece,  you  must  move  it  somewhere ;  if  you  set 
it  down,  you  must  let  it  stand;"  and  it  is  there 
fore  best  that  these  rules  should  be  observed,  as 
the  game  thereby  becomes  more  the  image  of  hu 
man  life,  and  particularly  of  war ;  in  which,  if  you 
have  incautiously  put  yourself  into  a  bad  and 
dangerous  position,  you  cannot  obtain  your  ene 
my's  leave  to  withdraw  your  troops,  and  place 
them  more  securely,  but  you  must  abide  all  the 
consequences  of  your  rashness. 

And,  lastly,  we  learn  by  chess  the  habit  of  not 
being  discouraged  by  present  appearances  in  the  state 
of  our  affairs,  the  habit  of  hoping  for  a  favourable 
change,  and  that  of  persevering  in  the  search  of 
resources.  The  game  is  so  full  of  events,  there  is 
such  a  variety  of  turns  in  it,  the  fortune  of  it  is 
so  subject  to  sudden  vicissitudes,  and  one  so  fre 
quently,  after  long  contemplation,  discovers  the 
means  of  extricating  one's  self  from  a  supposed 
insurmountable  difficulty,  that  one  is  encouraged 
to  continue  the  contest  to  the  last,  in  hopes  of  vic 
tory  by  our  own  skill,  or  at  least  of  getting  a  stale 
mate,  by  the  negligence  of  our  adversary.  And 
whoever  considers,  what  in  chess  he  often  sees 
instances  of,  that  particular  pieces  of  success  are 
apt  to  produce  presumption,  and  its  consequent 
inattention,  by  which  the  losses  may  be  recovered, 
will  learn  not  to  be  too  much  discouraged  by  the 
present  success  of  his  adversary,  nor  to  despair  of 
final  good  fortune  upon  every  little  check  he  re 
ceives  in  the  pursuit  of  it. 

That  we  may  therefore  be  induced  more  fre 
quently  to  choose  this  beneficial  amusement,  in 
preference  to  others  which  are  not  attended  with 
the  same  advantages,  every  circumstance  which 
may  increase  the  pleasures  of  it  should  be  re 
garded  ;  and  every  action  or  word  that  is  unfair, 
disrespectful,  or  that  in  any  way  may  give  uneasi 
ness,  should  be  avoided,  as  contrary  to  the  imme 
diate  intention  of  both  the  players,  which  is  to 
pass  the  time  agreeably. 

Therefore,  first,  if  it  is  agreed  to  play  according 
to  the  strict  rules,  then  those  rules  are  to  be 
exactly  observed  by  both  parties,  and  should  not 
be  insisted  on  for  one  side,  while  deviated  from 
by  the  other,  for  this  is  not  equitable. 

Secondly,  if  it  is  agreed  not  to  observe  the  rules 
exactly,  but  one  party  demands  indulgences,  he 
should  then  be  as  willing  to  allow  them  to  the 
oth^r. 

Thirdly,  no  false  move  should  ever  be  made  to 
extricate  vourself  out  of  difficulty,  or  to  gain  an 
advantage.  There  can  be  no  pleasure  in  playing 
wiflt  a  person  once  detected  in  such  unfair  practice. 


Fourthly,  if  your  adversary  is  long  in  playing, 
you  ought  not  to  hurry  him,  or  express  any  un 
easiness  at  his  delay.  You  should  not  sing,  nor 
whistle,  nor  look  at  your  watch,  nor  take  up  a 
book  to  read,  nor  make  a  tapping  with  your  feet 
on  the  floor,  or  with  your  fingers  on  the  table,  nor 
do  any  thing  that  may  disturb  his  attention.  For 
all  these  things  displease ;  and  they  do  not  show 
your  skill  in  playing,  but  your  craftiness  or  your 
rudeness. 

Fifthly,  you  ought  not  to  endeavour  to  amuse 
and  deceive  your  adversary,  by  pretending  to  have 
made  bad  moves,  and  saying,  that  you  have  now 
lost  the  game,  in  order  to  make  him  secure  and 
careless,  and  inattentive  to  your  schemes  ;  for  this 
is  fraud  and  deceit,  not  skill  in  the  game. 

Sixthly,  you  must  not,  when  you  have  gained 
a  victory,  use  any  triumphing  or  insulting  expres 
sion,  nor  show  too  much  pleasure ;  but  endeavour 
to  console  your  adversary,  and  make  him  less  dis 
satisfied  with  himself,  by  every  kind  of  civil  ex 
pression  that  may  be  used  with  truth,  such  as, 
"  You  understand  the  game  better  than  I,  but  you 
are  a  little  inattentive  ;"  or,  "  You  play  too  fast ;" 
or,  "  You  had  the  best  of  the  game,  but  something 
happened  to  divert  your  thoughts,  and  that  turned 
it  in  my  favour." 

Seventhly,  if  you  are  a  spectator  while  others 
play,  observe  the  most  perfect  silence.  For,  if 
you  give  advice,  you  offend  both  parties,  him 
against  whom  you  give  it,  because  it  may  cause 
the  loss  of  his  game,  him  in  whose  favour  you 
may  give  it,  because,  though  it  be  good,  and  he 
follows  it,  he  loses  the  pleasure  he  might  have 
had,  if  you  had  permitted  him  to  think  until  it 
had  occurred  to  himself.  Even  after  a  move  or 
moves,  you  must  not,  by  replacing  the  pieces, 
show  how  they  might  have  been  placed  better ; 
for  that  displeases,  and  may  occasion  disputes  and 
doubts  about  their  true  situation.  All  talking  to 
the  players  lessens  or  diverts  their  attention,  and 
is  therefore  unpleasing.  Nor  should  you  give 
the  least  hint  to  either  party,  by  any  kind  of  noise 
or  motion.  If  you  do,  you  are  unworthy  to  be  a 
spectator.  If  you  have  a  mind  to  exercise  or 
show  your  judgment,  do  it  in  playing  your  own 
game,  when  you  have  an  opportunity,  not  in  cri 
ticising,  or  meddling  with,  or  counselling  the  play 
of  others. 

Lastly,  if  the  game  is  not  to  be  played  rigor 
ously,  according  to  the  rules  above  mentioned, 
then  moderate  your  desire  of  victory  over  your 
adversary,  and  be  pleased  with  one  over  yourself. 
Snatch  not  eagerly  at  every  advantage  offered  by 
his  unskilfulness  or  inattention ;  but  point  out  to 
him  kindly,  that  by  such  a  move  he  places  or 
leaves  a  piece  in  danger  and  unsupported;  that 
by  another  he  will  put  his  king  in  a  perilous  situa 
tion,  &c.  By  this  generous  civility  (so  opposite 
to  the  unfairness  above  forbidden)  you  may,  in 
deed,  happen  to  lose  the  game  to  your  opponent ; 
but  you  will  win,  what  is  better,  his  esteem,  his 
respect,  and  his  affection,  together  with  the 
silent  approbation  and  good-will  of  impartial 
spectators. 


BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 


67 


DIALOGUE  WITH  THE  GOUT. 

Midnight,  22  October,  1780. 

Franklin.  EH  !  Oh !  Eh !  What  have  I  done 
to  merit  these  cruel  sufferings  1 

Gout.  Many  things ;  you  have  ate  and  drank 
too  freely,  and  too  much  indulged  those  legs  of 
yours  in  their  indolence. 

Franklin.     Who  is  it  that  accuses  me  1 

Gout.     It  is  I,  even  I,  the  Gout. 

Franklin.     What !  my  enemy  in  person  1 

Gout.     No,  not  your  enemy. 

Franklin.  I  repeat  it — my  enemy ;  for  you 
would  not  only  torment  my  body  to  death,  but 
ruin  my  good  name ;  you  reproach  me  as  a  glut 
ton  and  a  tippler ;  now  all  the  world  that  knows 
me,  will  allow  that  I  am  neither  the  one  nor  the 
other.  f 

Gout.  The  world  may  think  as  it  pleases ;  it  is 
always  very  complaisant  to  itself,  and  sometimes 
to  its  friends ;  but  I  very  well  know  that  the  quan 
tity  of  meat  and  drink  proper  for  a  man,  who  takes 
a  reasonable  degree  of  exercise,  would  be  too 
much  for  another,  who  never  takes  any. 

Franklin.  I  take — Eh  !  Oh ! — as  much  exer 
cise — Eh ! — as  I  can,  Madam  Gout.  You  know 
my  sedentary  state,  and  on  that  account,  it  would 
seem,  Madam  Gout,  as  if  you  might  spare  me  a 
little,  seeing  it  is  not  altogether  my  own  fault. 

Gout.  Not  a  jot ;  your  rhetoric  and  your  po 
liteness  are  thrown  away;  your  apology  avails 
nothing.  If  youi  situation  in  life  is  a  sedentary 
one,  your  amusements,  your  recreations,  at  least, 
should  be  active.  You  ought  to  walk  or  ride ;  or, 
if  the  weather  prevents  that,  play  at  billiards.  But 
let  us  examine  your  course  of  life.  While  the 
mornings  are  long,  and  you  have  leisure  to  go 
abroad,  what  do  you  do  1  Why,  instead  of  gain 
ing  an  appetite  for  breakfast,  by  salutary  exercise, 
you  amuse  yourself  with  books,  pamphlets,  or 
newspapers,  which  commonly  are  not  worth  the 
reading.  Yet  you  eat  an  inordinate  breakfast, 
four  dishes  of  tea,  wifh  cream,  and  one  or  two 
buttered  toasts,  with  slices  of  hung  beef,  which  I 
fancy  are  not  things  the  most  easily  digested. 
Immediately  afterward  you  sit  down  to  write  at 
your  desk,  or  converse  with  persons  who  apply  to 
you  on  business.  Thus  the  time  passes  till  one, 
without  any  kind  of  bodily  exercise.  But  all  this 
I  could  pardon,  in  regard,  as  you  say,  to  your 
sedentary  condition.  But  what  is  your  practice 
after  dinner 1  Walking  in  the  beautiful  gardens 
of  those  friends  with  whom  you  have  dined, 
would  be  the  choice  of  men  of  sense ;  yours  is  to 
be  fixed  down  to  chess,  where  you  are  found  en 
gaged  for  two  or  three  hours !  This  is  your  per 
petual  recreation,  which  is  the  least  eligible  of  any 
for  a  sedentary  man,  because,  instead  of  accelerat 
ing  the  motion  of  the  fluids,  the  rigid  attention  it 
requires  helps  to  retard  the  circulation  and  obstruct 
internal  secretions.  Wrapt  in  the  speculations  of 
this  wretched  game,  you  destroy  your  constitution. 
What  can  be  expected  from  such  a  course  of  liv 
ing,  but  a  body  replete  with  stagnant  humors, 
ready  to  fall  a  prey  to  all  kinds  of  dangerous  mala 


dies,  if  I,  the  Gout,  did  not  occasionally  bring  you 
relief  by  agitating  those  humors,  and  so  purifying 
or  dissipating  them  7  If  it  was  in  some  nook  or 
alley  in  Paris,  deprived  of  walks,  that  you  played 
awhile  at  chess  after  dinner,  this  might  be  excusable ; 
but  the  same  taste  prevails  with  you  in  Passy, 
Auteuil,  Montmartre,  or  Sanoy,  places  where  there 
are  the  finest  gardens  and  walks,  a  pure  air,  beau 
tiful  women,  and  most  agreeable  and  instructive 
conversation;  all  of  which  you  might  enjoy  by 
frequenting  the  walks.  But  these  are  rejected  for 
this  abominable  game  of  chess.  Fie,  then,  Mr. 
Franklin !  But  amidst  my  instructions,  I  had 
almost  forgot  to  administer  my  wholesome  correc 
tions  ;  so  take  that  twinge, — and  that. 

Franklin.  Oh!  Eh!  Oh!  Ohhh!  As  much 
instruction  as  you  please,  Madam  Gout,  and  as 
many  reproaches ;  but  pray,  Madam,  a  truce  with 
your  corrections ! 

Gout.  No,  sir,  no, — I  will  not  abate  a  particle 
of  what  is  so  much  for  your  good, — therefore — 

Franklin.  Oh !  Ehhh  ! — It  is  not  fair  to  say  I 
take  no  exercise,  when  I  do  very  often,  going  out 
to  dine  and  returning  in  my  carriage. 

Gout.  That,  of  all  imaginable  exercises,  is  the 
most  slight  and  insignificant,  if  you  allude  to  the 
motion  of  a  carriage  suspended  on  springs.  By 
observing  the  degree  of  heat  obtained  by  different 
kinds  of  motion,  we  may  form  an  estimate  of  the 
quantity  of  exercise  given  by  each.  Thus,  for 
example,  if  you  turn  out  to  walk  in  winter  with 
cold  feet,  in  an  hour's  time  you  will  be  in  a  glow 
all  over ;  ride  on  horseback,  the  same  effect  will 
scarcely  be  perceived  by  four  hours' round  trotting; 
but  if  you  loll  in  a  carriage,  such  as  you  have 
mentioned,  you  may  travel  all  day,  and  gladly 
enter  the  last  inn  to  warm  your  feet  by  a  fire. 
Flatter  yourself  then  no  longer,  that  half  an  hour's 
airing  in  your  carriage  deserves  the  name  of  exer 
cise.  Providence  has  appointed  few  to  roll  in 
carriages,  while  he  has  given  to  all  a  pair  of  legs, 
which  are  machines  infinitely  more  commodious 
and  serviceable.  Be  grateful,  then,  and  make  a 
proper  use  of  yours.  Would  you  know  how  they 
forward  the  circulation  of  your  fluids,  in  the  very 
action  of  transporting  you  from  place  to  place ; 
observe  when  you  walk,  that  all  your  weight  is 
alternately  thrown  from  one  leg  to  the  other ;  this 
occasions  a  great  pressure  on  the  vessels  of  the  foot, 
and  repels  their  contents ;  when  relieved,  by  the 
weight  being  thrown  on  the  other  foot,  the  vessels 
of  the  first  are  allowed  to  replenish,  aftd,  by  a  re 
turn  of  this  weight,  this  repulsion  again  succeeds : 
thus  accelerating  the  circulation  of  the  blood. 
The  heat  produced  in  any  given  time  depends  on 
the  degree  of  this  acceleration;  the  fluids  are 
shaken,  the  humors  attenuated,  the  secretions  faci 
litated,  and  all  goes  well ;  the  cheeks  are  ruddy, 
and  health  is  established.  Behold  your  fair  friend 
at  Auteuil  ;*  a  lady  who  received  from  bounteous 
nature  more  really  useful  science  than  half  a 
dozen  such  pretenders  to  philosophy  as  you  have 
been  able  to  extract  from  all  your  books.  When 

*  Madame  Helvetius. 


68 


BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 


she  honours  you  with  a  visit,  it  is  on  foot.  She 
walks  all  hours  of  the  day,  and  leaves  indolence, 
and  its  concomitant  maladies,  to  be  endured  by 
her  horses.  In  this  see  at  once  the  preservative 
of  her  health  and  personal  charms.  But  when 
you  go  to  Auteuil,  you  must  have  your  carriage, 
though  it  is  no  further  from  Passy  to  Auteuil  than- 
from  Auteuil  to  Passy. 

Fra:iklm.     Your  reasonings  grow  very  tiresome. 

Gou'.  I  stand  corrected.  I  will  be  silent  and 
Continue  my  office ;  take  that,  and  that. 

Franklin.     Oh !  Ohh !  Talk  on,  I  pray  you  ! 

Gout.  No,  no;  I  have  a  good  number  of 
twinges  for  you  to-night,  and  you  may  be  sure  of 
some  more  to-rnorrow. 

Franklin.  What,  with  such  a  fever !  I  shall 
go  distracted.  Oh !  Eh !  Can  no  one  bear  it 
for  me  ] 

Gout.  Ask  that  of  your  horses;  they  have 
served  you  faithfully. 

Franklin.  How  can  you  so  cruelly  sport  with 
my  torments  1 

Gout.  Sport !  I  arn  very  serious.  1  have  here 
a  list  of  offences  against  your  own  health  distinctly 
written,  and  can  justify  every  stroke  inflicted  on 
you. 

Franklin.     Read  it  then. 

Gout.  It  is  too  long  a  detail ;  but  I  will  briefly 
mention  some  particulars. 

Franklin.     Proceed.     I  am  all  attention. 

Gout.  Do  you  remember  how  often  you  have 
promised  yourself,  the  following  morning,  a  walk 
in  the  grove  of  Boulogne,  in  the  garden  de  la 
Muette,  or  in  your  own  garden,  and  have  violated 
your  promise,  alleging,  at  one  time,  it  was  too 
cold,  at  another  too  warm,  too  windy,  too  moist, 
or  what  else  you  pleased ;  when  in  truth  it  was 
too  nothing,  but  your  insuperable  love  of  ease  1 

Franklin.  That  I  confess  may  have  happened 
occasionally,  probably  ten  times  in  a  year. 

Gout.  Your  confession  is  very  far  short  of  the 
truth;  the  gross  amount  is  one  hundred  and 
ninety-nine  times. 

Franklin.     Is  it  possible  1 

Gout.  So  possible,  that  it  is  fact ;  you  may  rely 
on  the  accuracy  of  my  statement.  You  know 
Mr.  Brilton's  gardens,  and  what  fine  walks  they 
contain ;  you  know  the  handsome  flight  of  an 
hundred  steps,  which  lead  from  the  terrace  above 
to  the  lawn  below.  You  have  been  in  the  prac 
tice  of  visiting  this  amiable  family  twice  a  week, 
after  dinner,  and  it  is  a  maxim  of  your  own,  that 
"  a  man  may  take  as  much  exercise  in  walking  a 
mile,  up  and  down  stairs,  as  in  ten  on  level 
ground."  What  an  opportunity  was  here  for  you 
to  have  had  exercise  in  both  these  ways!  Did 
you  embrace  it,  and  how  often  ? 

Franklin.  I  cannot  immediately  answer  that 
question. 

Gout.     I  will  do  it  for  you ;  not  once. 

Franklin.     Not  once  1 

Gout.  Even  so.  During  the  summer  you  went 
*here  at  six  o'clock.  You  found  the  charming 
lady,  with  her  lovely  children  and  friends,  eager 
to  walk  with  you,  and  entertain  you  with"  their 


agreeable  conversation ;  and  what  has  been  your 
choice1?  Why  to  sit  on  the  terrace,  satisfying 
yourself  with  the  fine  prospect,  and  passing  your 
eye  over  the  beauties  of  the  garden  below,  with 
out  taking  one  step  to  descend  and  walk  about  in 
them.  On  the  contrary,  you  call  for  tea  and  the 
chessboard;  and  lo!  you  are  occupied  in  your 
seat  till  nine  o'clock,  and  that  besides  two  hours' 
play  after  dinner;  and  then,  instead  of  walking 
home,  which  would  have  bestirred  you  a  little, 
you  step  into  your  carriage.  How  absurd  to  sup 
pose  that  all  this  carelessness  can  be  reconcilable 
with  health,  without  my  interposition! 

Franklin.  I  am  convinced  now  of  the  justness 
of  poor  Richard's  remark,  that  "  Our  debts  and  our 
sins  are  always  greater  than  we  think  for." 

Gout.  So  it  is.  You  philosophers  are  sages  in 
your  maxims,  and  fools  in  your  .conduct. 

Franklin.  But  do  you  charge  among  my 
crimes,  that  I  return  in  a  carriage  from  Mr.  Bril- 
lon's  1 

Gout.  Certainly;  for,  having  been  seated  all 
the  while,  you  cannot  object  the  fatigue  of  the 
day,  and  cannot  want  therefore  the  relief  of  a 
carriage. 

Franklin.  What  then  would  you  have  me  to 
do  with  my  carriage  ] 

Gout.  Burn  it  if  you  choose;  you  would  at 
least  get  heat  out  of  it  once  in  this  way ;  or,  if  you 
dislike  that  proposal,  here's  another  for  you  ;  ob 
serve  the  poor  peasants,  who  work  in  the  vine 
yards  and  grounds  about  the  villages  of  Passy, 
Auteuil,  Chaillot,  &c. ;  you  may  find  every  day, 
among  these  deserving  creatures,  four  or  five  old 
men  and  women,  bent  and  perhaps  crippled  by 
weight  of  years,  and  too  long  and  too  great  labour. 
After  a  most  fatiguing  day,  these  people  have  to 
trudge  a  mile  or  two  to  their  smoky  huts.  Order 
your  coachman  to  set  them  down.  This  is  an  act 
that  will  be  good  for  your  soul ;  and,  at  the  same 
time,  after  your  visit  to  the  Brillons,  if  you  return 
on  foot,  that  will  be  good  for  your  body. 

Franklin.     Ah !  how  tiresome  you  are ! 

Gout.  Well,  then,  to  my  office ;  it  should  not 
be  forgotten  that  I  am  your  physician.  There. 

Franklin.     Ohhh !  what  a  devil  of  a  physician  ! 

Gout.  How  ungrateful  you  are  to  say  so !  Is 
it  not  I  who,  in  the  character  of  your  physician, 
have  saved  you  from  the  palsy,  dropsy,  and  apo 
plexy  ?  one  or  other  of  which  would  have  done 
for  you  long  ago,  but  for  me. 

Franklin.  I  submit,  and  thank  you  for  the 
past,  but  entreat  the  discontinuance  of  your  visits 
for  the  future ;  for,  in  my  mind,  one  had  better 
die  than  be  cured  so  dolefully.  Permit  me  just  to 
hint,  that  I  have  also  not  been  unfriendly  to  you. 
I  never  feed  physician  or  quack  of  any  kind,  to 
enter  the  list  against  you;  if  then  you  do  not 
leave  me  to  my  repose,  it  may  be  said  you  are 
ungrateful  too. 

Gout.  I  can  scarcely  acknowledge  that  as  any 
objection.  As  to  quacks,  I  despise  them;  they 
may  kill  you  indeed,  but  cannot  injure  me.  And, 
as  to  regular  physicians,  they  are  at  last  convinced, 
that  the  gout,  in  such  a  subject  as  you  are,  is  no 


BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 


disease,  but  a  remedy ;  and  wherefore  cure  a  re 
medy  '! — but  to  our  business, — there. 

Franklin.  Oh!  Oh! — for  Heaven's  sake  leave 
me ;  and  I  promise  faithfully  never  more  to  play 
at  chess,  but  to  take  exercise  daily,  and  live  tem 
perately. 

Gout.  I  know  you  too  well.  You  promise 
fair ;  but,  after  a  few  months  of  good  health,  you 
will  return  to  your  old  habits ;  your  fine  promises 
will  be  forgotten  like  the  forms  of  the  last  year's 
clouds.  Let  us  then  finish  the  account,  and  I  will 
go.  But  I  leave  you  with  an  assurance  of  visiting 
you  again  at  a  proper  time  and  place ;  for  my  ob 
ject  is  your  good,  and  you  are  sensible  now  that  I 
am  your  real  friend. 


TO  MADAME  HELVETIUS. 

WRITTEN   AT   PASSY. 

MORTIFIED  at  the  barbarous  resolution  pro 
nounced  by  you  so  positively  yesterday  evening, 
that  you  would  remain  single  the  rest  of  your  life, 
as  a  compliment  due  to  the  memory  of  your  hus 
band,  I  retired  to  my  chamber.  Throwing  myself 
upon  my  bed,  I  dreamt  that  I  was  dead,  and  was 
transported  to  the  Elysian  Fields. 

I  was  asked  whether  I  wished  to  see  any  per 
sons  in  particular ;  to  which  I  replied,  that  I  wished 
to  see' the  philosophers.  "There  are  two  who 
live  here  at  hand  in  this  garden ;  they  are  good 
neighbours,  and  very  friendly  towards  one  another." 
«  Who  are  they  1"  «  Socrates  and  Helvetius." 
"  I  esteem  them  both  highly ;  but  let  me  see  Hel 
vetius  first,  because  I  understand  a  little  French, 
but  not  a  word  of  Greek."  I  was  conducted  to 
him ;  he  received  me  with  much  courtesy,  having 
known  me,  he  said,  by  character,  some  time  past. 
He  asked  me  a  thousand  questions  relative  to  the 
war,  the  present  state  of  religion,  of  liberty,  of  the 
government  in  France.  "  You  do  not  inquire, 
then,"  said  I,  "  after  your  dear  friend,  Madame 
Helvetius ;  yet  she  loves  you  exceedingly  ;  I  was 
in  her  company  not  more  than  an  hour  ago." 
"  Ah,"  said  he,  "  you  make  me  recur  to  my  past 
happiness,  which  ought  to  be  forgotten  in  order  to 
be  happy  here.  For  many  years  I  could  think  of 
nothing  but  her,  though  at  length  I  am  consoled. 
I  have  taken  another  wife,  the  most  like  her  that 
I  could  find ;  she  is  not  indeed  altogether  so  hand 
some,  but  she  has  a  great  fund  of  wit  and  good 
sense  ;  and  her  whole  study  is  to  please  me.  She 
is  at  this  moment  gone  to  fetch  the  best  nectar 
and  ambrosia  to  regale  me ;  stay  here  awhile  and 
you  will  see  her."  "  I  perceive,"  said  I,  "  that 
your  former  friend  is  more  faithful  to  you  than 
you  are  to  her ;  she  has  had  several  good  offers, 
but  has  refused  them  all.  I  will  confess  to  you 
that  I  loved  her  extremely ;  but  she  was  cruel  to 
me,  and  rejected  me  peremptorily  for  your  sake." 
"  I  pity  you  sincerely,"  said  he,  "  for  she  is  an  ex 
cellent  woman,  handsome  and  amiable.  But  do 

not  the  Abbe  de  la  R and  the  Abbe  M 

visit  her?"  «  Certainly  they  do;  not  one  of  your 


friends  has  dropped  her  acquaintance."     "  If  you 

had  gained  the  Abbe   M with  a  bribe  of 

good  coffee  and  cream,  perhaps  you  would  have 
succeeded ;  for  he  is  as  deep  a  reasoner  as  Duns 
Scotus  or  St.  Thomas ;  he  arranges  and  method 
izes  his  arguments  in  such  a  manner  that  they  are 
almost  irresistible.  Or,  if  by  a  fine  edition  of 
..some  old  classic,  you  had  gained  the  Abbe  de  la 
R  .  .  .  .  to  speak  against  you,  that  would  have 
been  still  better ;  as  I  always  observed,  that  when 
he  recommended  any  thing  to  her,  she  had  a  great 
inclination  to  do  directly  the  contrary."  As  he 
finished  these  words  the  new  Madame  Helvetius 
entered  with  the  nectar,  and  I  recognised  her  im 
mediately  as  my  former  American  friend,  Mrs. 
Franklin !  I  reclaimed  her,  but  she  answered  me 
coldly ;  "  I  was  a  good  wife  to  you  for  forty-nine 
years  and  four  months,  nearly  half  a  century ;  let 
that  content  you.  I  have  formed  a  new  connec 
tion  here,  which  will  last  to  eternity." 

Indignant  at  this  refusal  of  my  Eurydice,  I  im 
mediately  resolved  to  quit  those  ungrateful  shades, 
and  return  to  this  good  world  again,  to  behold  the 
sun  and  you!  Here  I  am;  Ictus  avenge  ourselves! 


AN  ARABIAN  TALE. 

ALBUMAZAR,  the  good  magician,  retired  in  his 
old  age  to  the  top  of  the  lofty  mountain  Calabut ; 
avoided  the  society  of  men,  but  was  visited  nightly 
by  gomi  and  spirits  of  the  first  rank,  who  loved 
him,  and  amused  him  with  their  instructive  con 
versation. 

Belubel,  the  strong,  came  one  evening  to  see 
Albumazar;  his  height  was  seven  leagues,  and 
his  wings  when  spread  might  overshadow  a  king 
dom.  He  laid  himself  gently  down  between  the 
long  ridges  of  Elluem ;  the  tops  of  the  trees  in  the 
valley  were  his  couch ;  his  head  rested  on  Cala 
but  as  on  a  pillow,  and  his  face  shone  on  the  tent 
of  Albumazar. 

The  magician  spoke  to  him  with  rapturous 
piety  of  the  wisdom  and  goodness  of  the  Most 
High ;  but  expressed  his  wonder  at  the  existence 
of  evil  in  the  world,  which  he  said  he  could  not 
account  for  by  all  the  efforts  of  his  reason. 

"  Value  not  thyself,  my  friend,"  said  Belubel, 
"  on  that  quality  which  thou  callest  reason.  If 
thou  knewest  its  origin  and  its  weakness,  it  would 
rather  be  matter  of  humiliation." 

"  Tell  me  then,"  said  Albumazar,  "  what  I  do 
not  know  ;  inform  my  ignorance,  and  enlighten 
my  understanding."  "  Contemplate,"  said  Be 
lubel,  "  the  scale  of  beings,  from  an  elephant 
down  to  an  oyster.  Thou  secst  a  gradual  dimi 
nution  of  faculties  and  powers,  so  small  in  each 
step  that  the  difference  is  scarce  perceptible. 
There  is  no  gap,  but  the  gradation  is  complete. 
Men  in  general  do  not  know,  but  thou  knowest, 
that  in  ascending  from  an  elephant  to  the  infinitely 
Great,  Good,  and  Wise,  there  is  also  a  long  gra 
dation  of  beings,  who  possess  powers  and  faculties 
of  which  thou  canst  yet  have  no  conception." 


70 


BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 


THE  EPHEMERA; 
AN  EMBLEM  OF  HUMAN  LIFE. 

WRITTEN    TO    MADAME    BEILLON,     OF    PASSY. 

You  may  remember,  my  dear  friend,  that  when 
we  lately  spent  that  happy  day  in  the  delightful 
garden  and  sweet  society  of  the  Moulin  Joly,  I 
stopped  a  little  in  one  of  our  walks,  and  stayed" 
some  time  behind  the  company.  We  had  been 
shown  numberless  skeletons  of  a  kind  of  little  fly, 
called  an  ephemera,  whose  successive  generations, 
we  were  told,  were  bred  and  expired  within  the 
day.  I  happened  to  see  a  living  company  of  them 
on  a  leaf,  who  appeared  to  be  engaged  in  conver 
sation.  You  know  I  understand  all  the  inferior 
animal  tongues.  My  too  great  application  to  the 
stuily  of  them  is  the  best  excuse  I  can  give  for 
the  little  progress  I  have  made  in  your  charming 
lang  .tage.  I  listened  through  curiosity  to  the 
disc*  »urse  of  these  little  creatures ;  but  as  they,  in 
their  national  vivacity,  spoke  three  or  four  toge 
ther,  I  could  make  but  little  of  their  conversation. 
I  found,  however,  by  some  broken  expressions 
that  I  heard  now  and  then,  they  were  disputing 
warmly  on  the  merit  of  two  foreign  musicians,  the 
one  a  cousin,  the  other  a  moscheto  •  in  which  dis 
pute  they  spent  their  time,  seemingly  as  regard 
less  of  the  shortness  of  life  as  if  they  had  been 
sure  of  living  a  month.  Happy  people  !  thought 
I ;  you  are  certainly  under  a  wise,  just,  and  mild 
government,  since  you  have  no  public  grievances 
to  complain  of,  nor  any  subject  of  contention  but 
the  perfections  and  imperfections  of  foreign  music. 
I  turned  my  head  from  them  to  an  old  gray- 
headed  one,  who  was  single  on  another  leaf,  and 
talking  to  himself.  Being  amused  with  his  soli 
loquy,  I  put  it  down  in  writing,  in  hopes  it  will 
likewise  amuse  her  to  whom  I  am  ,so  much  in 
debted  for  the  most  pleasing  of  all  amusements, 
her  delicious  company  and  heavenly  harmony. 

"  It  was,"  said  he,  "  the  opinion  of  learned  phi 
losophers  of  our  race,  who  lived  and  nourished 
long  before  my  time,  that  this  vast  world,  the 
Moulin  Joly,  could  not  itself  subsist  more  than 
eighteen  hours;  and  I  think  there  was  some 
foundation  for  that  opinion,  since,  by  the  apparent 
motion  of  the  great  luminary  that  gives  life  to  ail 
nature,  and  which  in  my  time  has  evidently  de 
clined  considerably  towards  the  ocean  at  the  end 
of  our  earth,  it  must  then  finish  its  course,  be  ex 
tinguished  in  the  waters  that  surround  us,  and 
leave  the  world  in  cold  and  darkness,  necessarily 
producing  universal  death  and  destruction.  I 
have  lived  seven  of  those  hours,  a  great  age,  being 
no  less  than  four  hundred  and  twenty  minutes  of 
time.  How  very  few  of  us  continue  so  long !  I 
have  seen  generations  born,  nourish,  and  expire. 
My  present,  friends  are  the  children  and  grand 
children  of  the  friends  of  my  youth,  who  are  now, 


alas,  no  more  !  And  I  must  soon  follow  them ; 
for,  by  the  course  of  nature,  though  still  in  health, 
I  cannot  expect  to  live  above  seven  or  eight  mi 
nutes  longer.  What  now  avails  all  my  toil  and 
labour,  in  amassing  honey-dew  on  this  leaf,  which 
I  cannot  live  to  enjoy  !  What  the  political  strug 
gles  I  have  been  engaged  in,  for  the  good  of  my 
compatriot  inhabitants  of  this  bush,  or  my  philo 
sophical  studies  for  the  benefit  of  our  race  in 
general !  for,  in  politics,  what  can  laws  do  with 
out  morals  1  Our  present  race  of  ephemerae  will 
in  a  course  of  minutes  become  corrupt,  like  those 
of  other  and  older  bushes,  and  consequently  as 
wretched.  And  in  philosophy  how  small  our 
progress !  Alas !  art  is  long,  and  life  is  short ! 
My  friends  would  comfort  me  with  the  idea  of  a 
name,  they  say,  I  shall  leave  behind  me ;  and  they 
tell  me  I  have  lived  long  enough  to  nature  and  to 
glory.  But  what  will  fame  be  to  an  ephemera 
who  no  longer  exists !  And  what  will  become 
of  all  history  in  the  eighteenth  hour,  when  the 
world  itself,  even  the  whole  Moulin  Joly,  shall 
come  to  its  end, and  be  buried  in  universal  ruin!" 
To  me,  after  all  my  eager  pursuits,  no  solid 
pleasures  now  remain,  but  the  reflection  of  a  long 
life -spent  in  meaning  well,  the  sensible  conversa 
tion  of  a  few  good  lady  ephemerae,  and  now  and 
then  a  kind  smile  and  a  tune  from  the  ever  amia 
ble  Brillante. 


APOLOGUE  ON  WAR. 

FROM  A  LETTER  TO  THE  REV.  DR.  PRIESTLEY. 

IN  what  light  we  are  viewed  by  superior  beings, 
may  be  gathered  from  a  piece  of  late  West  India 
news,  which  possibly  has  not  yet  reached  you. 
A  young  angel  of  distinction  being  sent  down  to 
this  world  on  some  business,  for  the  first  time,  had 
an  old  courier-spirit  assigned  him  as  a  guide. 
They  arrived  over  the  seas  of  Martinico,  in  the 
middle  of  the  long  day  of  obstinate  fight  between 
the  fleets  of  Rodney  and  De  Grasse.  When, 
through  the  clouds  of  smoke,  he  saw  the  fire  of 
the  guns,  the  decks  covered  with  mangled  limbs, 
and  bodies  dead  or  dying ;  the  ships  sinking,  burn 
ing,  or  blown  into  the  air;  and  the  quantity  of 
pain,  misery,  and  destruction,  the  crews  yet  alive 
were  thus  with  so  much  eagerness  dealing  round 
to  one  another ;  he  turned  angrily  to  his  guide, 
and  said,  "  You  blundering  blockhead,  you  are 
ignorant  of  your  business ;  you  undertook  to  con 
duct  me  to  the  earth,  and  you  have  brought  me 
into  hell !"  "  No,  sir,"  says  the  guide,  "  I  have 
made  no  mistake;  this  is  really  the  earth,  and 
these  are  men.  Devils  never  treat  one  another  in 
this  cruel  manner;  they  have  more  sense,  and 
more  of  what  men  (vainly)  call  humanity." 


THOMAS  JEFFERSON. 


[Born  1743.    Died  1826.] 


IT  was  a  remarkable  exhibition  of  God's 
good  providence,  when  the  dignity  of  human 
ity  was  to  be  vindicated  anew  on  these  fresh 
and  vast  fields  which  the  pious  spirit  of  Co 
lumbus  had  opened  to  the  elder  nations,  that 
so  many  great  men  stood  ready  for  the  apostle- 
ship  to  which  they  were  called.  The  illustri 
ous  person  whose  name  occupies  the  highest 
place  in  our  history,  had  no  type  in  the  past, 
and  has  had  no  parallel  in  the  present.  The 
youthful  secretary,  who  in  years  of  turbulent 
toil  shared  his  midnight  conversations,  and 
when  Peace  smiled  upon  an  exhausted  but  free 
people,  became  the  chief  architect  of  that  sys 
tem  of  government  which  exists  among  the 
noblest  monuments  of  human  wisdom,  has  not 
received  the  measure  of  praise  which  awaits 
him,  but  the  rays  of  his  glory  brighten  as  they 
diverge  in  the  distance  of  time,  and  he  will 
yet  be  regarded  as  the  most  gigantic-minded 
of  the  statesmen  of  his  century.  And  that 
pure  and  august  intelligence,  in  the  alembic  | 
of  whose  mind  the  treasures  of  the  memory  | 
were  turned  to  reason,  who  seemed  while  in 
terpreting  the  laws  of  man  to  utter  the  eternal 
ordinations  of  Justice,  was  worthy,  with  his 
friend,  to  be  united,  in  purpose,  principle,  and  , 
action,  to  the  Great  Captain.  Washington,  i 
Hamilton,  and  Marshall, — the  soldier,  the 
statesman,  the  jurist — how  grateful  ought  we 
to  be  that  in  the  period  of  our  greatest  need 
they  were  raised  up !  What  hopes  of  our  race 
are  justified  by  their  appearance  in  these  latter 
days,  and  in  this  new  world ! 

But  there  were  others,  besides  the  three 
who  in  their  respective  spheres  held  such  su 
premacy,  to  whom  we  owe  the  homage  of 
grateful  recollection.  Franklin,  already  a 
sage,  approved  himself  a  hero  ;  and  the  fiery- 
hearted  Adams,  the  undaunted  Henry,  the  fer 
vid  Rutledge,  the  wise  and  pure-minded  Jay, 
and  at  a  later  time  Madison,  Bradford,  and 
many  more,  with  powerful  and  peculiar  facul 
ties,  did  ample  service  to  the  cause  of  freedom. 
And  in  the  second  class  of  our  great  men, 
though  the  receding  tide  of  popular  applause 


may  bear  him  farther  toward  the  sea  of  un 
distinguishable  men,  with  bold  and  peculiai 
lineaments  stands  THOMAS  JEFFERSON,  who  as 
a  simple  politician,  acting  for  the  present,  had 
a  more  powerful  influence  than  any  of  his  con 
temporaries  or  successors. 

Thomas  Jefferson  was  born  in  the  county 
of  Albemarle,  in  Virginia,  on  the  second  day 
of  April,  1743.  At  the  age  of  fourteen,  left 
entirely  to  himself,  with  no  relative  or  friend 
to  guide  or  counsel  him,  he  exhibited  a  deci 
sion  and  energy  of  character  that  secured  the 
esteem  of  the  most  respectable  persons  of  his 
acquaintance.  He  entered  William  and  Mary 
College  at  seventeen,  and  subsequently  stu 
died  law  under  George Wythe.  The  difficulties 
with  England  had  already  begun,  and  while  a 
student  he  was  a  listener  to  the  celebrated  de 
bate  on  Patrick  Henry's  resolutions  against  the 
Stamp  Act.  From  this  period  his  mind  was 
occupied  with  public  affairs.  In  1769  he  was 
chosen  to  represent  his  native  county  in  the  co 
lonial  assembly,  and  in  1775  took  his  seat  in 
the  old  Congress, "  where,"  says  John  Adams, 
"  though  a  silent  member,  he  was  so  prompt, 
frank,  explicit  and  decisive,  upon  committees, 
that  he  soon  seized  my  heart."  He  retired  from 
Congress  in  the  autumn  of  1776,  and  was  two 
years  engaged  in  the  laborious  and  important 
duty  of  revising  and  reducing  to  a  single  code 
the  statutes  of  Parliament,  the  acts  of  the  Vir 
ginia  Assembly,  and  parts  of  the  common  law. 
In  1779  he  was  chosen  governor,  but  resigned 
the  office  at  the  end  of  two  years,  and  in  1783 
was  again  elected  a  member  of  Congress.  In 
1784  he  was  appointed  Minister  to  the  Court 
of  Paris,  where  he  continued  six  years,  except 
during  brief  intervals  in  which  he  visited  Hol 
land,  Piedmont,  the  southern  and  western 
parts  of  France,  and  England.  In  Noven> 
ber,  1789,  he  returned  to  Virginia,  and  imme 
diately  after  was  appointed  Secretary  of  State 
by  Washington.  He  resigned  this  office  in 
1793,  and  was  in  retirement  until  1797,  when 
he  was  chosen  Vice-President  of  the  United 

States.    In  1801  he  was  elected  Piesident,  by 

71 


72 


THOMAS    JEFFERSON. 


a  majority  of  one  over  Mr.  Adams,  in  the 
House  of  Representatives,  and  at  the  end  of 
eight  years  he  finally  quitted  public  life.  The 
remainder  of  his  days  was  passed  at  Monti- 
cello,  in  the  care  of  his  estate,  in  reading 
and  correspondence,  and  in  efforts  to  promote 
the  prosperity  of  the  University  of  Virginia, 
of  which  he  was  the  founder.  He  died  in  the 
eighty-fourth  year  of  his  age,  on  the  fourth 
of  July,  1826,  just  half  a  century  from  the 
declaration  of  independence. 

Mr.  Jefferson's  claims  to  consideration  as 
an  author  rest  chiefly  upon  his  Notes  on  Vir 
ginia,  State  Papers,  and  the  Autobiography, 
Correspondence,  and  Anas,  included  in  the 
four  volumes  of  his  writings,  published  after 
his  death  by  Mr.  Randolph.  The  letters 
which  are  here  printed  commence  with  the 
year  1775  and  continue  until  a  few  days  be 
fore  his  death.  They  are  addressed  to  the 
most  distinguished  persons  of  this  extraordi 
nary  period,  so  prolific  of  great  men  as  well 
as  of  great  events,  are  upon  an  infinite  variety 
of  subjects,  and  afford  the  best  view  that  can 
be  given  of  his  intellectual  and  moral  charac 
ter.  The  friendly  intercourse  between  himself 
and  Mr.  Adams,  which  had  been  suspended  in 
the  heats  of  political  controversy,  was  resumed 
many  years  before  they  died.  They  forgot  the 
infirmities  of  age  "  in  the  recollection  of  ancient 
times ;"  and  perhaps  the  most  interesting  por 
tion  of  this  correspondence  is  that  which  was 
addressed  to  his  illustrious  associate. 

From  an  early  period  he  had  written  down 
all  such  facts  respecting  the  country  as  pro 
mised  to  be  of  use  to  him  in  any  public  or 
private  station,  and  in  1781,  while  confined 
to  his  chamber  by  an  injury  received  in  falling 
from  his  horse,  he  compiled  from  his  memo 
randa  the  Notes  on  Virginia,  to  oblige  M.  de 
Marbois,  of  the  French  legation,  who  had 
been  instructed  by  his  government  to  procure 
information  in  regard  to  the  natural  and  poli 
tical  condition  of  the  different  states.  While 
in  Paris,  in  1784,  he  revised  and  enlarged  the 
work,  and  had  two  hundred  copies  of  it  printed 
for  distribution  among  his  friends.  One  of 
these,  upon  the  death  of  the  person  to  whom 
it  nad  been  given,  fell  into  the  hands  of  a 
bookseller,  who  employed  the  Abbe  Morellet 
to  translate  it,  and  his  version,  which  was  a 
very  poor  one,  was  submitted  to  Mr.  Jefferson 
for  approval.  He  would  gladly  have  sup 
pressed  it,  but  as  this  was  not  practicable  he 


'  corrected  a  few  of  its  worst  faults,  and  when, 
i  upon  its  appearance,  Stockdale  of  London  ap 
plied  to  him  for  the  original,  he  consented  to 
the  publication  of  an  English  edition,  though 
j  reluctantly,  for  he  feared  the  effects  in  Virgi 
nia  of  what  he  had  said  in  it  of  slavery.  There 
was  no  alternative,  however,  for  if  he  had  de 
clined,  a  retranslation  would  have  been  made 
from  the  version  of  Morellet,  and  he  chose  to 
let  the  world  see  that  his  work  was  not  so  bad 
as  the  abbe  had  made  it  appear. 

Mr.  Jefferson  desired  that  it  should  be  en 
graved  upon  his  monument  that  he  was  the 
author  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence, 
which  was  reported  to  the  Congress  by  a 
committee  of  which  he  was  a  member.  A 
letter  on  this  subject  which  he  wrote  to  Mr. 
Adams  in  1819  has  caused  much  controversy, 
and  coincidences  of  expression,  which  could 
hardly  have  been  accidental,  have  been  pointed 
out  in  the  Declaration  and  documents  previ 
ously  written  by  other  men.  The  instances 
are  rare  in  which  the  committees  of  public 
bodies  are  in  any  just  sense  the  authors  of  its 
reports,  which  are  commonly  but  embodiments 
of  the  spirit  of  its  discussions.  While  the 
Congress  was  in  a  state  of  intense  excitement, 
on  the  seventh  of  June,  1776,  Richard  Henry 
Lee  moved  that  the  country  be  declared  in 
dependent,  and  soon  after  the  committee  to 
prepare  the  declaration  was  appointed.  For 
twenty  days  the  subject  was  discussed  in  fer 
vid  and  powerful  speeches  by  the  ablest  men 
in  the  assembly  :  Mr.  Jefferson  being  present 
all  the  while,  taking  notes  of  the  heads  of  the 
arguments,  and  treasuring  in  his  mind  every 
striking  expression  of  fact  or  opinion.  It  is 
reasonable  to  suppose  that  no  important  state 
ment  or  suggestion  is  contained  in  the  Declara 
tion  which  had  not  been  uttered  in  the  debates. 
Its  literary  merits  are  not  remarkable,  and  they 
were  less  as  it  came  from  the  hands  of  Mr.  Jef 
ferson.  Mr.  Adams  and  Dr.  Franklin  suggest 
ed  some  improvements  in  the  committee,  and 
others  were  made  in  the  House,  which  struck 
out  or  amended  the  style  of  several  passages. 
As  a  cultivator  of  elegant  literature,  under 
favourable  circumstances,  Mr.  Jefferson  would 
have  attained  to  considerable  excellence.  His 
appropriate  field  perhaps  would  have  been  the 
essay  on  manners.  He  was  wanting  in  power, 
assiduity  and  integrity  for  moral  speculations, 
but  had  the  ready  penetration  and  vivacity  ne 
cessary  to  a  painter  of  society.  His  style  was 


THOMAS    JEFFERSON. 


73 


flexible,  easy,  and  familiar,  and  had  considera 
ble  variety,  but  was  diffuse.  He  cannot  with 
propriety  be  said  to  have  been  a  student,  yet 
he  read  much,  especially  in  his  old  age.  His 
reading,  however,  was  one-sided,  though  dis 
cursive,  and  seldom  brought  him  into  contact 
with  the  master  minds.  In  his  elevation,the  air, 
to  his  bewildered  eyes,  was  filled  with  storms 
of  stars,  and  he  mistook  the  disorder  for  the  per 
fection  of  vision.  The  light  which  comes  from 
the  past  to  him  was  darkness.  He  tells  us  that 
"  Plato's  brain  was  foggy,"  and  that "  a  child 
should  be  ashamed  of  his  whimsies  and  peur- 
ilities ;"  that  the  sweet  singer  of  Israel,  and 
wisest  of  kings,  gave  us  but  "fumeaof  disor 
dered  imaginations,"  and  that  the  holy  compa 
ny  of  the  apostles  was  a  "band  of  dupes  and 
impostors."  Christ  himself  he  regarded  for  his  j 
wit,  and  was  kindly  incredulous  of  the  "  dis-  ' 
honesty"  of  which  he  was  "  reasonably  sus-  I 
pected."  It  was  one  of  his  political  doctrines 
that  one  generation  is  not  bound  by  the  acts  of 
another.  Struck  with  its  brevity  and  point, 
which  would  have  given  it  currency,  and  final 
ly  authority,  if  more  plausible,  he  was  ready 
to  publish  it  with  all  the  circumstance  of  a  new 


revelation;  but  Madison  saw  its  absurdity, 
and  persuaded  him  not  to  give  it  to  the  world. 
Many  of  his  views,  in  religion,  morals,  and  po 
litics,  were  but  reflexes  of  the  radicalism  of  the 
French  revolution,  of  which  he  had  been  a 
sympathizing  spectator. 

Mr.  Jefferson's  hatred  of  Marshall  and  Ha 
milton  was  deep,  constant,  and  undisguised, 
and  his  friendship  for  Thomas  Paine,  whose 
|  intellect  was  really  almost  as  mean  as  his 
I  life  was  scandalous,  was  to  the  same  degree 
warm  and  abiding.  He  was  the  associate 
and  patron  of  several  other  writers  of  a  simi 
lar  character.  He  contracted  also  an  intimacy 
with  Destutt  Tracy,  whose  Commentaries  on 
Montesquieu  and  Political  Economy  were 
translated  or  edited  by  him. 

A  want  of  steadiness,  comprehensiveness, 
and  foresight  is  apparent  in  all  Mr.  Jefferson's 
controversies  and  speculations,  and  we  are  left 
in  doubt,  after  the  most  careful  study  of  his  life 
and  works,  whether  he  possessed  any  inherent 
greatness,  or  in  any  pursuit  or  condition  would 
have  entitled  himself  to  a  higher  reputation 
than  is  awarded  to  him  at  the  close  of  the  first 
quarter  of  a  century  after  his  death. 


THE  HEAD  AND  THE  HEART. 

FROM   A   LETTER  TO   MRS.    COSWAY. 


HAVING  performed  the  last  sad  office  of  handing 
you  into  your  carriage,  at  the  pavilion  de  St.  Denis, 
and  seen  the  wheels  get  actually  into  motion,  I  turned 
on  my  heel  and  walked,  more  dead  than  alive,  to  the 
opposite  door,  where  qjy  own  was  awaiting  me. 
M.  Danquerville  was  missing.  He  was  sought  for, 
found,  and  dragged  down  stairs.  We  were  cram 
med  into  the  carriage,  like  recruits  for  the  Bastile, 
and  not  having  soul  enough  to  give  orders  to  the 
coachman,  he  presumed  Paris  our  destination,  and 
drove  off.  After  a  considerable  interval,  silence  was 
broke,  with  a  '  Je  suis  vraiment  afflige  du  depart  de 
ces  bons  gens.'  This  was  a  signal  for  a  mutual  con 
fession  of  distress.  We  began  immediately  to  talk 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cosway,  of  their  goodness,  their 
talents,  their  amiability  ;  and  though  we  spoke  of 
nothing  else,  we  seemed  hardly  to  have  entered  into 
the  matter,  when  the  coachman  announced  the  rue 
of  St.  Denis,  and  that  we  were  opposite  M.  Dan- 
querville's.  He  insisted  on  descending  there,  and 
traversing  a  short  passage  to  his  lodgings.  I  was 
carried  home.  Seated  by  my  fire-side,  solitary  and 
sad,  the  following  dialogue  took  place  between  my 
Head  and  my  Heart. 

Head.  Well,  friend,  you  seem  to  be  in  a  pretty 
trim. 

Heart.  I  am  indeed  the  most  wretched  of  all 
10 


earthly  beings.  Overwhelmed  with  grief,  every  fibre 
of  my  frame  distended  beyond  its  natural  powers 
to  bear,  I  would  willingly  meet  whatever  catastro 
phe  should  leave  me  np  more  to  feel,  or  to  fear. 

Head.  These  are  the  eternal  consequences  of 
your  warmth  and  precipitation.  This  is  one  of 
the  scrapes  into  which  you  are  ever  leading  us. 
You  confess  your  follies,  indeed ;  but  still  you 
hug  and  cherish  them ;  and  no  reformation  can  be 
hoped  where  there  is  no  repentance. 

Heart.  Oh,  my  friend  !  this  is  no  moment  to 
upbraid  my  foibles.  I  am  rent  into  fragments  by 
the  force  of  my  grief!  If  you  have  any  balm, 
pour  it  into  my  wounds ;  if  none,  do  not  harrow 
them  by  new  torments.  Spare  me  this  awful  mo 
ment  !  At  any  other,  I  will  attend  with  patience 
to  your  admonitions. 

Head.  On  the  contrary,  I  never  found  that  the 
moment  of  triumph,  with  you,  was  the  moment  of 
attention  to  my  admonitions.  While  suffering  under 
your  follies,  you  may  perhaps  be  made  sensible  of 
them,  but  the  paroxysm  over,  you  fancy  it  can  ne 
ver  return.  Harsh,  therefore,  as  the  medicine  may 
be,  it  is  my  office  to  administer  it.  You  will  be 
pleased  to  remember,  that  when  our  friend  Tru in- 
bull  used  to  be  telling  us  of  the  merits  and  talents  of 
these  good  people,  I  never  ceased  whispering  to  you 
that  we  had  no  occasion  for  new  acquaintances ; 
that  the  greater  their  merit  and  talents,  the  more 
dangerous  their  friendship  to  our  tranquillity,  be 
cause  the  regret  at  parting  would  be  greater. 


74 


THOMAS   JEFFERSON. 


Heart.  Accordingly,  sir,  this  acquaintance  was 
not  the  consequence  of  my  doings.  It  was  one 
of  your  projects,  which  threw  us  in  the  way  of  it. 
It  was  you,  remember,  and  not  I,  who  desired  the 
meeting  at  Legrand  and  Motinos.  I  never  trouble 
myself  with  domes  nor  arches.  The  Halle  aux 
bleds  might  have  rotted  down,  before  I  should 
have  gone  to  see  it.  But  you,  forsooth,  who  are 
eternally  getting  us  to  sleep  with  your  diagrams 
and  crotchets,  must  go  and  examine  this  wonder 
ful  piece  of  architecture ;  and  when  you  had  seen 
it,  oh  !  it  was  the  most  superb  thing  on  earth ! 
What  you  had  seen  there  was  worth  all  you  had 
yet  seen  in  Paris !  I  thought  so  too.  But  I 
meant  it  of  the  lady  and  gentleman  to  whom  we 
had  been  presented ;  and  not  of  a  parcel  of  sticks 
and  chips  put  together  in  pens.  You  then,  sir, 
and  not  I,  have  been  the  cause  of  the  present  dis 
tress. 

Head.  It  would  have  been  happy  for  you,  if 
my  diagrams  and  crotchets  had  gotten  you  to 
sleep  on  that  day,  as  you  are  pleased  to  say  they 
eternally  do.  My  visit  to  Legrand  and  Motinos 
had  public  utility  for  its  object.  A  market  is  to 
be  built  in  Richmond.  What  a  commodious  plan 
is  that  of  Legrand  and  Motinos, ;  especially,  if  we 
put  on  it  the  noble  dome  of  the  Halle  aux  bleds.  If 
such  a  bridge  as  they  showed  us  can  be  thrown 
across  the  Schuylkill,  at  Philadelphia,  the  floating 
bridges  taken  up,  and  the  navigation  of  that  river 
opened,  what  a  copious  resource  will  be  added, 
of  wood  and  provisions,  to  warm  and  feed  the 
poor  of  that  city  1  While  I  was  occupied  with 
these  objects,  you  were  dilating  with  your  new 
acquaintances,  and  contriving  how  to  prevent 
a  separation  from  them.  Every  soul  of  you  had 
an  engagement  for  the  day.  Yet  all  these  were 
to  be  sacrificed,  that  you  might  dine  together. 
Lying  messengers  were  to  be  despatched  into 
every  quarter  of  the  city,  with  apologies  for  your 
breach  of  engagement.  You,  particularly,  had 
the  effrontery  to  send  word  to  the  Duchess  Dan 
ville,  that  on  the  moment  we  were  setting  out  to 
dine  with  her,  despatches  came  to  hand,  which  re 
quired  immediate  attention.  You  wanted  me  to 
invent  a  more  ingenious  excuse ;  but  I  knew  you 
were  getting  into  a  scrape,  and  I  would  have 
nothing  to  do  with  it.  Well ;  after  dinner  to  St. 
Cloud,  from  St.  Cloud  to  Ruggieri's,  from  Rug- 
gieri's  to  Krumfoltz ;  and  if  the  day  had  been  as 
long  as  a  Lapland  summer  day,  you  would  still 
have  contrived  means  among  you,  to  have  filled  it 

Heart.  Oh !  my  deat  friend,  how  you  have  re 
vived  me,  oy  recalling  to  mj  mind  the  transactions 
of  that  day  !  How  well  1  remember  them  all, 
and  that  when  I  came  home  at  night,  and  looked 
back  to  the  morning,  it  seemed  to  have  been  a 
month  agone.  Go  on,  then,  like  a  kind  comfort 
er,  and  paint  to  me  the  day  we  went  to  St.  Ger- 
mains.  How  beautiful  was  every  object !  the  Port 
«le  Reuilly,  the  hills  along  the  Seine,  the  rainbows 
of  the  machine  of  Marley,  the  terms  of  St.  Ger- 
mains,  the  chateaux,  the  gardens,  the  statues  of 
Marly,  the  pavilion  of  Lucienne.  Recollect,  too, 
Madrid  Bagatelle,  the  King's  garden,  the  Des 


sert.  How  grand  the  idea  excited  by  the  remains 
of  such  a  column.  The  spiral  staircase,  too,  was 
beautiful.  Every  moment  was  filled  with  some 
thing  agreeable.  The  wheels  of  time  moved  on 
with  a  rapidity,  of  which  those  of  our  carriage 
gave  but  a  faint  idea.  And  yet,  in  the  evening, 
when  one  took  a  retrospect  of  the  day,  what  a 
mass  of  happiness  had  we  travelled  over !  Re 
trace  all  those  scenes  to  me,  my  good  companion, 
and  I  will  forgive  the  unkindness  with  which  you 
were  chiding  me.  The  day  we  went  to  St.  Ger- 
mains  was  a  little  too  warm,  I  think ;  was  it  not  ] 

Head.  Thou  art  the  most  incorrigible  of  all  the 
beings  that  ever  sinned !  I  reminded  you  of  the 
follies  of  the  first  day,  intending  to  deduce  from 
thence  some  useful  lessons  for  you ;  but  instead 
of  listening  to  them,  you  kindle  at  the  recollec 
tion,  you  ietrace  the  whole  series  with  a  fondness, 
which  shews  you  want  nothing  but  the  opportu 
nity,  to  act  it  over  again.  I  often  told  you,  dur 
ing  its  course,  that  you  were  imprudently  engag 
ing  your  affections,  under  circumstances  that  must 
cost  you  a  great  deal  of  pain ;  that  the  persons, 
indeed,  were  of  the  greatest  merit,  possessing  good 
sense,  good  humour,  honest  hearts,  honest  man 
ners,  and  eminence  in  a  lovely  art ;  that  the  lady 
had,  moreover,  qualities  and  accomplishments  be 
longing  to  her  sex,  which  might  form  a  chapter 
apart,  for  her ;  such  as  music,  modesty,  beauty, 
and  that  softness  of  disposition,  which  is  the  orna 
ment  of  her  sex  and  charm  of  ours :  but  that  all 
these  considerations  would  increase  the  pang  of 
separation  ;  that  their  stay  here  was  to  be  short ; 
that  you  rack  our  whole  system  when  you  are 
parted  from  those  you  love,  complaining  that  such 
a  separation  is  worse  than  death,  inasmuch  as 
this  ends  our  sufferings,  whereas  that  only  begins 
them;  and  that  the  separation  would,  in  this  in 
stance,  be  the  more  severe,  as  you  would  probably 
never  see  them  again. 

Heart.  But  they  told  me  they  would  come 
back  again,  the  next  year. 

Head.  But  in  the  mean  time,  see  what  you 
suffer:  and  their  return,  too,  depends  on  so 
many  circumstances,  that  if  you  had  a  grain  of 
prudence,  you  would  not  count  upon  it.  Upon 
the  whole,  it  is  improbable,  and  therefore  you 
should  abandon  the  idea  of  ever  seeing  them 
again. 

Heart.     May  heaven  abandon  me  if  I  do  ! 

Head.  Very  well.  Suppose,  then,  they  come 
back.  They  are  to  stay  two  months,  and  when 
these  are  expired,  what  is  to  follow1!  Perhaps 
you  flatter  yourself  they  may  come  to  America  1 

Heart.  God  only  knows  what  is  to  happen. 
I  see  nothing  impossible  in  that  supposition :  and 
I  see  things  wonderfully  contrived  sometimes,  to 
make  us  happy.  Where  could  they  find  such  ob 
jects  as  in  America,  for  the  exercise  of  their  en 
chanting  art?  especially  the  lady,  who  paints 
landscapes  so  inimitably.  She  wants  only  sub 
jects  worthy  of  immortality,  to  render  her  pencil 
immortal.  The  Falling  Spring,  the  Cascade  of 
Niagara,  the  Passage  of  the  Potomac  through 
the  Blue  Mountains,  the  Natural  Bridge ;  it  is 


THOMAS   JEFFERSON. 


75 


worth  r  voyage  across  the  Atlantic  to  see  these 
objects ;  much  more  to  paint,  and  make  them,  and 
thereby  ourselves,  known  to  all  ages.  And  our 
own  dear  Monticello ;  where  has  nature  spread  so 
rich  a  mantle  under  the  eye  1  mountains,  forests, 
rocks,  rivers.  With  what  majesty  do  we  there 
ride  above  the  storms !  How  sublime  to  look 
down  into  the  workhouse  of  nature,  to  see  her 
clouds,  hail,  snow,  rain,  thunder,  all  fabricated  at 
our  feet !  and  the  glorious  sun  when  rising  as  if 
out  of  a  distant  water,  just  gilding  the  tops  of  the 
mountains,  and  giving  life  to  all  nature  !  I  hope  in 
God,  no  circumstance  may  ever  make  either  seek 
an  asylum  from  grief !  With  what  sincere  sym 
pathy  I  would  open  every  cell  of  my  composition, 
to  receive  the  effusion  of  their  woes !  I  would  pour 
my  tears  into  their  wounds  ;  and  if  a  drop  of  balm 
could  be  found  on  the  top  of  the  Cordilleras,  or  at 
the  remotest  sources  of  the  Missouri,  I  would  go 
thither  myself  to  seek  and  to  bring  it.  Deeply 
practised  in  the  school  of  affliction,  the  human  heart 
knows  no  joy  which  I  have  not  lost,  no  sorrow  of 
which  I  have  not  drank !  Fortune  can  present 
no  grief  of  unknown  form  to  me !  Who,  then, 
can  so  softly  bind  up  the  wound  of  another,  as  he 
who  has  felt  the  same  wound  himself?  But  Heaven 
forbid  they  should  ever  know  a  sorrow  !  Let  us 
turn  over  another  leaf,  for  this  has  distracted  me. 

Head.  Well.  Let  us  put  this  possibility  to  trial 
then,  on  another  point.  When  you  consider  the 
character  which  is  given  of  our  country,  by  the 
lying  newspapers  of  London,  and  their  credulous 
copyers  in  other  countries;  when  you  reflect  that 
all  Europe  is  made  to  believe  we  are  a  lawless 
banditti,  in  a  state  of  absolute  anarchy,  cutting 
one  another's  throats,  and  plundering  without  dis 
tinction,  how  could  you  expect  that  any  reasona 
ble  creature  would  venture  among  us  ] 

Heart.  But  you  and  I  know  that  all  this  is 
false :  that  there  is  not  a  country  on  earth  where 
there  is  greater  tranquillity ;  where  the  laws  are 
milder,  or  better  obeyed  ;  where  every  one  is  more 
attentive  to  his  own  business,  or  meddles  less  with 
that  of  others ;  where  strangers  are  better  received, 
more  hospitably  treated,  and  with  a  more  sacred 
respect. 

Head.  True,  you  and  I  know  this,  •  but  your 
friends  do  not  know  it. 

Heart'.  But  they  are  sensible  people,  who  think 
for  themselves.  They  will  ask  of  impartial  fo 
reigners,  who  have  been  among  us,  whether  they 
saw  or  heard  on  the  spot  any  instance  of  anar 
chy.  They  will  judge,  too,  that  a  people  occu 
pied  as  we  are,  in  opening  rivers,  digging  naviga 
ble  canals,  making  roads,  building  public  schools, 
establishing  academies,  erecting  busts  and  statues 
to  our  great  men,  protecting  religious  freedom, 
abolishing  sanguinary  punishments,  reforming 
and  improving  our  laws  in  general;  they  will 
judge,  I  say,  for  themselves,  whether  these  are  not 
the  occupations  of  a  people  at  their  ease  ;  whether 
this  is  not  better  evidence  of  our  true  state,  than  a 
London  newspaper,  hired  to  lie,  and  from  which  no 
truth  can  ever  be  extracted  but  by  reversing  every 
thing  it  says. 


Head.  I  did  not  begin  this  lecture,  my  friend, 
with  a  view  to  learn  from  you  what  America  is 
doing.  Let  us  return,  then,  to  our  point.  I  wish 
to  make  you  sensible  how  imprudent  it  is  to  place 
your  affections,  without  reserve,  on  objects  you 
must  so  soon  lose,  and  whose  loss,  when  it  comes, 
must  cost  you  such  severe  pangs.  Remember  the 
last  night.  You  knew  your  friends  were  to  leave 
Paris  to-day.  This  was  enough  to  throw  you  into 
agonies.  All  night  you  tossed  us  from  one  side 
of  the  bed  to  the  other :  no  sleep,  no  rest.  The 
poor  crippled  wrist,  too,  never  left  one  moment  in 
the  same  position ;  now  up,  now  down,  now  here, 
now  there ;  was  it  to  be  wondered  at,  if  its  pains 
returned  ]  The  surgeon  then  was  to  be  called, 
and  to  be  rated  as  an  ignoramus,  because  he  could 
not  divine  the  cause  of  this  extraordinary  change. 
In  fine,  my  friend,  you  must  mend  your  manners. 
This  is  not  a  world  to  live  at  random  in,  as  you 
do.  To  avoid  those  eternal  distresses,  to  which 
you  are  for  ever  exposing  us,  you  must  learn  to 
look  forward,  before  you  take  a  step  which  may 
interest  our  peace.  Every  thing  in  this  world  is 
matter  of  calculation.  Advance  then  with  cau 
tion,  the  balance  in  your  hand.  Put  into  one 
scale  the  pleasures  which  any  object  may  offer ; 
but  put  fairly  into  the  other,  the  pains  which  are 
to  follow,  and  see  which  preponderates.  The 
making  an  acquaintance  is  not  a  matter  of  indif 
ference.  When  a  new  one  is  proposed  to  vou, 
view  it  all  round.  Consider  what  advantages  it 
presents,  and  to  what  inconveniences  it  may  ex 
pose  you.  Do  not  bite  at  the  bait  of  pleasure,  till 
you  know  there  is  no  hook  beneath  it.  The  art 
of  life  is  the  art  of  avoiding  pain ;  and  he  is  the 
best  pilot,  who  steers  clearest  of  the  rocks  and 
shoals  with  which  it  is  beset.  Pleasure  is  always 
before  us ;  but  misfortune  is  at  our  side :  while 
running  after  that,  this  arrests  us.  The  most 
effectual  means  of  being  secure  against  pain,  is 
to  retire  within  ourselves,  and  to  suffice  for  our 
own  happiness.  Those  which  depend  on  our 
selves,  are  the  only  pleasures  a  wise  man  will 
count  on ;  for  nothing  is  ours,  which  another 
may  deprive  us  of.  Hence  the  inestimable  value 
of  intellectual  pleasures.  Ever  in  our  power,  al 
ways  leading  us  to  something  new,  never  cloying, 
we  ride  serene  and  sublime  above  the  concerns  of 
this  mortal  world,  contemplating  truth  and  nature, 
matter  and  motion,  the  laws  which  bind  up  their 
existence,  and  that  Eternal  Being  who  made  and 
bound  them  up  by  those  laws.  Let  this  be  oui 
employ.  Leave  the  bustle  and  tumult  of  society 
to  those  who  have  not  talents  to  occupy  them 
selves  without  them.  Friendship  is  but  another 
name  for  an  alliance  with  the  follies  and  the  mis 
fortunes  of  others.  Our  own  share  of  miseries  is 
sufficient :  why  enter  then  as  volunteers  into  those 
of  another  1  Is  there  so  little  gall  poured  into  our 
cup,  that  we  must  need  help  to  drink  that  of  our 
neighbour  1  A  friend  dies,  or  leaves  us  :  w\3  feel  as 
if  a  limb  was  cut  off.  He  is  sick :  we  must  watch 
over  him,  and  participate  of  his  pains.  His  for 
tune  is  shipwrecked :  ours  must  be  laid  under  con 
tribution.  He  loses  a  child,  a  parent,  or  a  part- 


76 


THOMAS    JEFFERS03N. 


ner :  we  must  mourn  the  loss  as  if  it  were  our 
own. 

Heart.  And  what  more  sublime  delight  than 
to  mingle  tears  with  one  whom  the  hand  of  heaven 
hath  smitten !  to  watch  over  the  bed  of  sickness, 
and  to  beguile  its  tedious  and  its  painful  moments ! 
to  share  our  bread  with  one  to  whom  misfortune 
has  left  none  !  This  world  abounds  indeed  with 
misery  ;  to  lighten  its  burden,  we  must  divide  it 
with  one  another.  But  let  us  now  try  the  virtue 
of  your  mathematical  balance,  and  as  you  have 
put  into  one  scale  the  burdens  of  friendship,  let 
me  put  its  comforts  into  the  other.  When  lan 
guishing  then  under  disease,  how  grateful  is  the 
solace  of  our  friends !  how  are  we  penetrated  with 
their  assiduities  and  attentions !  how  much  are 
we  supported  by  their  encouragements  and  kind 
offices !  When  heaven  has  taken  from  us  some 
object  of  our  love,  how  sweet  is  it  to  have  a  bosom 
whereon  to  recline  our  heads,  and  into  which  we 
may  pour  the  torrent  of  our  tears !  Grief,  with 
such  a  comfort,  is  almost  a  luxury !  In  a  life 
where  we  are  perpetually  exposed  to  want  and  ac 
cident,  yours  is  a  wonderful  proposition,  to  insu 
late  ourselves,  to  retire  from  all  aid,  and  to  wrap 
ourselves  in  the  mantle  of  self-sufficiency  !  For 
assuredly,  nobody  will  care  for  him,  who  cares 
for  nobody.  But  friendship  is  precious,  not  only 
in  the  shade,  but  in  the  sunshine  of  life :  and  thanks 
to  a  benevolent  arrangement  of  things,  the  greater 
part  of  life  is  sunshine.  I  will  recur  for  proof  to 
the  days  we  have  lately  passed.  On  these,  in 
deed,  the  sun  shone  brightly  !  How  gay  did  the 
face  of  nature  appear !  Hills,  valleys,  chateaux, 
gardens,  rivers,  every  object  wore  its  liveliest  hue  ! 
Whence  did  they  borrow  it]  From  the  presence 
of  our  charming  companion.  They  were  pleas 
ing,  because  she  seemed  pleased.  Alone,  the 
scene  would  have  been  dull  and  insipid :  the  par 
ticipation  of  it  with  her  gave  it  relish.  Let  the 
gloomy  monk,  sequestered  from  the  world,  seek 
unsocial  pleasures  in  the  bottom  of  his  cell !  Let 
the  sublimated  philosopher  grasp  visionary  happi 
ness,  while  pursuing  phantoms  dressed  in  the  garb 
of  truth  !  Their  supreme  wisdom  is  supreme 
folly :  and  they  mistake  for  happiness  the  mere 
absence  of  pain.  Had  they  ever  felt  the  solid 
pleasure  of  one  generous  spasm  of  the  heart,  they 
would  exchange  for  it  all  the  frigid  speculations 
of  their  lives,  which  you  have  been  vaunting  in 
such  elevated  terms.  Believe  me,  then,  my  friend, 
that  that  is  a  miserable  arithmetic  which  could  es 
timate  friendship  at  nothing,  or  at  less  than  no 
thing.  Respect  for  you  has  induced  me  to  enter 
into  this  discussion,  and  to  hear  principles  uttered 
which  I  detest  and  abjure.  Respect  for  myself 
now  obliges  me  to  recall  you  into  the  proper  limits 
of  your  office.  When  nature 'assigned  us  the  same 
habitation,  she  gave  us  over  it  a  divided  empire. 
To  you,  she  allotted  the  field  of  science ;  to  me, 
tnat  of  morals.  When  the  circle  is  to  be  squared, 
or  the  orbit  of  a  comet  to  be  traced ;  when  the 
arch  of  greatest  strength,  or  the  solid  of  least  re 
sistance,  is  to  be  investigated,  take  up  the  pro 
blem  ;  it  is  yours ;  nature  has  given  me  no  cogni 


sance  of  it.  In  like  manner,  in  denying  to  you 
the  feelings  of  sympathy,  of  benevolence,  of  gra 
titude,  of  justice,  of  love,  of  friendship,  she  has 
excluded  you  from  their  control.  To  these  she 
has  adapted  the  mechanism  of  the  heart.  Morals 
were  too  essential  to  the  happiness  of  man,  to  be 
risked  on  the  uncertain  combinations  of  the  head. 
She  laid  their  foundation,  therefore,  in  sentiment, 
not  in  science.  That  she  gave  to  all,  as  necessary 
to  all :  this  to  a  few  only,  as  sufficing  with  a  few. 
I  know,  indeed,  that  you  pretend  authority  to  the 
sovereign  control  of  our  conduct,  in  all  its  parts  : 
and  a  respect  for  your  grave  saws  and  maxims,  a 
desire  to  do  what  is  right,  has  sometimes  induced 
me  to  conform  to  your  counsels.  A  few  facts, 
however,  which  I  can  readily  recall  to  your  me 
mory,  will  suffice  to  prove  to  you,  that  nature  has 
not  organized  you  for  our  moral  direction.  WThen 
the  poor  wearied  soldier  whom  we  overtook  at 
Chickahomony,  with  his  pack  on  his  back,  begged 
us  to  let  him  get  up  behind  our  chariot,  you  be 
gan  to  calculate  that  the  road  was  full  of  soldiers, 
and  that  if  all  should  be  taken  up,  our  horses 
would  fail  in  their  journey.  We  drove  on,  there 
fore.  But  soon  becoming  sensible  you  had  made 
me  do  wrong,  that  though  we  cannot  relieve  all 
the  distressed,  we  should  relieve  as  many  as  we 
can,  I  turned  about  to  take  up  the  soldier ;  but  he 
had  entered  a  by-path,  and  was  no  more  to  be 
found :  and  from  that  moment  to  this,  I  could 
never  find  him  out,  to  ask  his  forgiveness.  Again, 
when  the  poor  woman  came  to  ask  a  charity  in 
Philadelphia,  you  whispered  that  she  looked  like  a 
drunkard,  and  that  half  a  dollar  was  enough  to 
give  her  for  the  ale-house.  Those  who  want  the 
dispositions  to  give,  easily  find  reasons  why  they 
ought  not  to  give.  When  I  sought  her  out  after 
wards,  and  did  what  I  should  have  done  at  first, 
you  know  that  she  employed  the  money  imme 
diately,  towards  placing  her  child  at  school.  If  our 
country,  when  pressed  with  wrongs  at  the  point 
of  the  bayonet,  had  been  governed  by  its  heads 
instead  of  its  hearts,  where  should  we  have  been 
now  1  Hanging  on  a  gallows  as  high  as  Haman's. 
You  began  to  calculate,  and  to  compare  wealth 
and  numbers :  we  threw  up  a  few  pulsations  of 
our  blood ;  we  supplied  enthusiasm  against  wealth 
and  numbers ;  we  put  our  existence  to  the  hazard, 
when  the  hazard  seemed  against  us,  and  we  saved 
our  country:  justifying,  at  the  same  time,  the 
ways  of  Providence,  whose  precept  is,  to  do  al 
ways  what  is  right,  and  leave  the  issue  to  him. 
In  short,  my  friend,  as  far  as  my  recollection  serves 
me,  I  do  not  know  that  I  ever  did  a  good  thing  on 
your  suggestion,  or  a  dirty  one  without  it.  I  do 
for  ever,  then,  disclaim  your  interference  in  my 
province.  Fill  paper  as  you  please  with  triangles 
and  squares :  try  how  many  ways  you  can  hang 
and  combine  them  together.  I  shall  never  envy 
nor  control  your  sublime  delights.  But  leave  me  to 
decide,  when  and  where  friendships  are  to  be  con 
tracted.  You  say  I  contract  them  at  random.  So 
you  said  the  woman  at  Philadelphia  was  a  drunk 
ard.  I  receive  none  into  my  esteem,  till  I  know 
they  are  worthy  of  it.  Wealth,  title,  office,  are 


THOMAS    JEFFERSON. 


77 


no  recommendations  to  my  friendship.  On  the 
contrary,  great  good  qualities  are  requisite  to  make 
amends  for  their  having  wealth,  title  and  office. 
You  confess,  that  in  the  present  case,  I  could  not 
have  made  a  worthier  choice.  You  only  object 
that  I  was  so  soon  to  lose  them.  We  are  not  im 
mortal  ourselves,  my  friend ;  how  can  we  expect 
our  enjoyments  to  be  so  1  We  have  no  rose 
without  its  thorn ;  no  pleasure  without  alloy.  It 
is  the  law  of  our  existence  ;  and  we  must  acqui 
esce.  It  is  the  condition  annexed  to  all  our  plea 
sures,  not  by  us  who  receive,  but  by  him  who 
gives  them.  True,  this  condition  is  pressing 
cruelly  on  me  at  this  moment.  I  feel  more  fit  for 
death  than  life.  But  when  I  look  back  on  the 
pleasures  of  which  it  is  the  consequence,  I  am 
conscious  they  were  worth  the  price  I  am  paying. 
Notwithstanding  your  endeavours,  too,  to  damp  my 
hopes,  I  comfort  myself  with  expectations  of  their 
promised  return.  Hope  is  sweeter  than  despair  ; 
and  they  were  too  good,  to  mean  to  deceive  me. 
« In  the  summer,'  said  the  gentleman  ;  but '  in  the 
spring,'  said  the  lady  ;  and  I  should  love  her  for 
ever,  were  it  only  for  that!  Know,  then,  my 
.friend,  that  I  have  taken  these  good  people  into 
my  bosom ;  that  I  have  lodged  them  in  the  warm 
est  cell  I  could  find ;  that  I  love  them,  and  will 
continue  to  love  them  through  life  ;  that  if  fortune 
should  dispose  them  on  one  side  the  globe,  and 
me  on  the  other,  my  affections  shall  pervade  its 
whole  mass  to  reach  them.  Knowing  then  my 
determination,  attempt  not  to  disturb  it.  If  you 
can,  at  any  time,  furnish  matter  for  their  amuse 
ment,  it  will  be  the  office  of  a  good  neighbour  to 
do  it.  I  will,  in  like  manner,  seize  any  occasion 
which  may  offer,  to  do  the  like  good  turn  for  you 
with  Condorcet,  Rittenhouse,  Madison,  La  Cre 
te!  le,  or  any  other  of  those  worthy  sons  of  science, 
whom  you  so  justly  prize. 

I  thought  this  a  favourable  proposition  whereon 
to  rest  the  issue  of  the  dialogue.  So  I  put  an  end 
to  it  by  calling  for  my  night-cap.  Methinks,  I  hear 
you  wish  to  heaven  I  had  called  a  little  sooner,  and 
so  spared  you  the  ennui  of  such  a  sermon.  I  did 
not  interrupt  them  sooner,  because  I  was  in  a 
mood  for  hearing  sermons.  You  too  were  the 
subject:  and  on  such  a  thesis,  I  never  think  the 
theme  long ;  not  even  if  I  am  to  write  it,  and  that 
slowly  and  awkwardly,  as  now,  with  the  left  hand. 
But  that  you  may  not  be  discouraged  from  a  cor 
respondence  which  begins  so  formidably,  I  will 
promise  you,  on  my  honour,  that  my  future  letters 
shall  be  of  a  reasonable  length.  I  will  even  agree 
to  express  but  half  my  esteem  for  you. 


SOCIETY  IN  FRANCE  AND  AMERICA. 

FROM  A    LETTER  TO  MR.    BELLINI. 

You  are,  perhaps,  curious  to  know  how  this 
new  scene  has  struck  a  savage  of  the  mountains 
of  America.  Not  advantageously,  I  assure  you. 
I  find  the  general  fate  of  humanity  here  most  de 
plorable.  The  truth  of  Voltaire's  observation 


offers  itself  perpetually,  that  every  man  here  must 

be  either  the  hammer  or  the  anvil Whib  the 

great  mass  of  the  people  are  thus  suffering  under 
physical  and  moral  oppression,  I  have  endeavoured 
to  examine  more  nearly  the  condition  pf  the  great, 
to  appreciate  the  true  value  of  the  circumstances 
in  their  situation,  which  dazzle  the  bulk  of  spec 
tators,  and  especially,  to  compare  it  with  that  de 
gree  of  happiness  which  is  enjoyed  in  America, 
by  every  class  of  people.  Intrigues  of  love  oc 
cupy  the  younger,  and  those  of  ambition,  the  elder 
part  of  the  great.  Conjugal  love  having  no  exist 
ence  among  them,  domestic  happiness,  of  which 
that  is  the  basis,  is  utterly  unknown.  In  lieu  of 
this,  are  substituted  pursuits  which  nourish  and 
invigorate  all  our  bad  passions,  and  which  offer 
only  moments  of  ecstasy,  amidst  days  and  months 
of  restlessness  and  torment.  Much,  very  much 
inferior,  this,  to  the  tranquil,  permanent  felicity 
with  which  domestic  society  in  America  blesses 
most  of  its  inhabitants  ;  leaving  them  to  follow 
steadily  those  pursuits  which  health  and  reason 
approve,  and  rendering  truly  delicious  the  inter 
vals  of  those  pursuits. 


PASSAGE  OF  THE  POTOMAC  THROUGH 
THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

FROM  THE   NOTES   ON  VIRGINIA. 

THE  passage  of  the  Potomac,  through  the 
Blue  Ridge,  is  perhaps  one  of  the  most  stupendous 
scenes  in  nature.  You  stand  on  a  very  high  point 
of  land.  On  your  right  comes  up  the  Shenandoah, 
having  ranged  along  the  foot  of  the  mountain  a 
hundred  miles  to  seek  a  vent.  On  your  left  ap 
proaches  the  Potomac,  seeking  a  passage  also.  In 
the  moment  of  their  junction  they  rush  together 
against  the  mountain,  rend  it  asunder,  and  pass 
off  to  the  sea.  The  first  glance  at  this  scene  hur 
ries  our  senses  into  the  opinion  that  this  earth 
has  been  created  in  time ;  that  the  mountains  were 
formed  first ;  that  the  rivers  began  to  flow  after 
wards  ;  that,  in  this  place,  particularly,  they  have 
been  dammed  up  by  the  Blue  Ridge  of  mountains, 
and  have  formed  an  ocean  which  filled  the  whole 
valley ;  that,  continuing  to  rise,  they  have  at 
length  broken  over  at  this  spot,  and  have  torn  the 
mountain  down  from  its  summit  to  its  base.  The 
piles  of  rock  on  each  hand,  but  particularly  on 
the  Shenandoah,  the  evident  marks  of  their  dis- 
rupture  and  avulsion  from  their  beds  by  the  most 
powerful  agents  of  nature,  corroborate  the  impres 
sion.  But  the  distant  finishing  which  Nature 
has  given  to  the  picture  is  of  a  different  character. 
It  is  a  true  contrast  to  the  foreground.  It  is  as 
placid  and  delightful  as  that  is  wild  and  tremen 
dous.  For,  the  mountain  being  cloven  asunder, 
she  presents  to  your  eye,  through  the  cleft,  a  small 
catch  of  smooth  blue  horizon,  at  an  infinite  dis 
tance  in  the  plain  country,  inviting  you,  as  it  were, 
from  the  riot  and  tumult  roaring  round,  to  pass 
through  the  beach,  and  participate  of  the  calm  be 
low.  Here  the  eye  ultimately  composes  itself; 


78 


THOMAS   JEFFERSON. 


and  that  way,  too,  the  road  happens  actually  to 
lead.  You  cross  the  Potomac  above  its  junction, 
pass  along  its  side  through  the  base  of  the  moun 
tain  for  three  miles,  its  terrible  precipices  hanging 
n  fragments,  over  you,  and  within  about  twenty 
miles  reach  Fredericktown,  and  the  fine  country 
round  that.  This  scene  is  worth  a  voyage  across 
the  Atlantic.  Yet  here,  as  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  Natural  Bridge,  are  people  who  have  passed 
their  lives  within  half  a  dozen  miles,  and  have 
never  been  to  survey  these  monuments  of  a  war 
between  rivers  and  mountains,  which  must  have 
shaken  the  earth  itself  to  its  centre. 


PARTY  SPIRIT  AND   GOOD  GOVERN 
MENT. 

FROM  HIS  FIRST  INAUGURAL  ADDRESS. 

DURING  the  contest  of  opinion  through  which 
we  have  passed,  the  animation  of  discussion  and 
of  exertions  has  sometimes  worn  an  aspect  which 
might  impose  on  strangers  unused  to  think  freely 
and  to  speak  and  to  write  what  they  think;  but, 
this  being  now  decided  by  the  voice  of  the  nation, 
announced  according  to  the  rules  of  the  constitu 
tion,  all  will  of  course  arrange  themselves  under 
the  will  of  the  law,  and  unite  in  common  efforts 
for  the  common  good.  All,  too,  will  bear  in  mind 
this  sacred  principle,  that  though  the  will  of  the 
majority  is  in  all  cases  to  prevail,  that  will,  to  be 
rightful,  must  be  reasonable;  that  the  minority 
possess  their  equal  rights,  which  equal  laws  must 
protect,  and  to  violate  which  would  be  oppression. 
Let  us,  then,  fellow  citizens,  unite  with  one  heart 
and  one  mind.  Let  us  restore  to  social  intercourse 
that  harmony  and  affection  without  which  liberty 
and  even  life  itself  are  but  dreary  things.  And 
let  us  reflect  that  having  banished  from  our  land 
that  religious  intolerance  under  which  mankind  so 
long  bled  and  suffered,  we  have  yet  gained  little  if  we 
countenance  a  political  intolerance  as  despotic,  as 
wicked,  and  capable  of  as  bitter  and  bloody  perse 
cutions.  During  the  throes  and  convulsions  of 
the  ancient  world,  during  the  agonizing  spasms  of 
infuriated  man,  seeking  through  blood  and  slaugh 
ter  his  long  lost  liberty,  it  was  not  wonderful  that 
the  agitation  of  the  billows  should  reach  even  this 
distant  and  peaceful  shore;  that  this  should  be 
more  felt  and  feared  by  some  and  less  by  others ;  that 
this  should  divide  opinions  as  to  measures  of  safety. 
But  every  difference  of  opinion  is  not  a  difference  of 
principle.  We  have  called  by  different  names  breth- 
en  of  the  same  principle.  We  are  all  republicans — 


we  are  all  federalists.  If  there  be  any  among  us  who 
would  wish  to  dissolve  this  Union  or  to  change 
its  republican  form,  let  them  stand  undisturbed  as 
monuments  of  the  safety  with  which  error  of 
opinion  may  be  tolerated  where  reason  is  left  free 
to  combat  it.  I  know  indeed  that  some  honest 
men  fear  that  a  republican  government  cannot  be 
strong ;  that  this  government  is  not  strong  enough. 
But  would  the  honest  patriot,  in  the  full  tide  of 
successful  experiment,  abandon  a  government 
which  has  so  far  kept  us  free  and  firm,  on  the  theo 
retic  and  visionary  fear  that  this  government,  the 
world's  best  hope,  may  by  possibility  want  energy 
to  preserve  itself!  I  trust  not.  I  believe  this,  on 
the  contrary,  the  strongest  government  on  earth. 
I  believe  it  the  only  one  where  every  man,  at  the 
call  of  the  laws,  would  fly  to  the  standard  of  the 
law,  and  would  meet  invasions  of  the  public  order 
as  his  own  personal  concern.  Sometimes  it  is  said 
that  man  cannot  be  trusted  with  the  government 
of  himself.  Can  he,  then,  be  trusted  with  the 
government  of  others  ]  Or  have  we  found  an 
gels  in  the  forms  of  kings  to  govern  him  1  Let 
history  answer  this  question. 

Let  us,  then,  with  courage  and  confidence  pur 
sue  our  own  federal  and  republican  principles,  our 
attachment  to  our  union  and  representative  go 
vernment.  Kindly  separated  by  nature  and  a  wide 
ocean  from  the  exterminating  havoc  of  one  quar 
ter  of  the  globe ;  too  high-minded  to  endure  the 
degradations  of  the  others ;  possessing  a  chosen 
country,  with  room  enough  for  our  descendants  to 
the  hundreth  and  thousandth  generation;  enter 
taining  a  due  sense  of  our  equal  right  to  the  use 
of  our  own  faculties,  to  the  acquisitions  of  our  in 
dustry,  to  honour  and  confidence  from  our  fellow 
citizens,  resulting  not  from  birth  but  from  our  ac 
tions  and  their  sense  of  them ;  enlightened  by  a 
benign  religion,  professed,  indeed,  and  practised 
in  various  forms,  yet  all  of  them  including  honesty, 
truth,  temperance,  gratitude,  and  the  love  of  man  ; 
acknowledging  and  adoring  an  overruling  Provi 
dence,  which  by  all  its  dispensations  proves  that 
it  delights  in  the  happiness  of  man  here  and 
his  greater  happiness  hereafter ;  with  all  these 
blessings,  what  more  is  necessary  to  make  us  a 
happy  and  prosperous  people]  Still  one  thing 
more,  fellow  citizens, — a  wise  and  frugal  go 
vernment,  which  shall  restrain  man  from  injuring 
one  another,  which  shall  leave  them  otherwise  free 
to  regulate  their  own  pursuits  of  industry  and  im 
provement,  and  shall  not  take  from  the  mouth  of 
labour  the  bread  it  has  earned.  This  is  the  sum 
of  good  government,  and  this  is  necessary  to  close 
the  circle  of  our  felicities. 


JAMES  MADISON. 


[Born  1751.    Died  1836.] 


MR.  MADISON  was  born  on  the  sixteenth  of 
March,  1751,  in  the  county  of  Orange,  in  Vir 
ginia.  He  was  educated  at  the  college  of 
Princeton,  in  New  Jersey,  where  he  received 
the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts,  from  Dr. 
Witherspoon,  in  1771.  He  appears  to  have 
led  an  inactive  life  during  the  early  part  of 
the  Revolution,  or  at  least  to  have  taken  no 
part  in  public  affairs.  In  1776  he  was  elected 
to  the  Virginia  Assembly,  but  was  superseded 
in  the  following  year.  The  House  of  Dele 
gates,  however,  which  was  more  capable  of 
judging  of  his  merits  than  his  constituents 
had  been,  chose  him  to  be  a  member  of  the 
Executive  Council,  in  which  he  continued  un 
til  transferred  to  the  old  Congress,  in  which 
he  made  his  first  appearance  on  the  twentieth 
of  March,  1780.  From  this  period  his  name 
is  one  of  the  most  prominent  in  the  political 
history  of  the  country.  His  writings  on  the 
Constitution  and  other  subjects  were  second 
only  to  those  of  Hamilton  in  ability  and  influ 
ence;  and  his  extensive  information,  sound 
judgment,  skill  as  a  logician,  and  unvarying 
courtesy,  secured  him  the  highest  considera 
tion  in  the  congresses  of  which  he  was  a 
member,  the  National  Convention  that  formed 
the  Constitution,  the  Virginia  Convention  to 
which  it  was  submitted  for  approval,  and  the 
legislature  of  his  state  whenever  he  held  a 
seat  in  that  body.  Upon  the  accession  of  Mr. 
Jefferson  to  the  presidency,  Mr.  Madison  was 
made  Secretary  of  State,  and  he  succeeded 
Mr.  Jefferson  as  President.  At  the  end  of 
his  second  term,  in  1817,  he  retired  from  the 
public  service,  and  he  held  no  other  office 
except  for  a  short  period  in  1829,  in  which 
he  was  a  member  of  the  Virginia  Consti 
tutional  Convention.  He  passed  the  remain 
der  of  his  life  in  dignified  retirement  at 
Montpelier,  where  he  died  on  the  twenty- 
eighth  of  June,  1836,  in  the  eighty-fifth  year 
of  his  age. 

This  great  statesman  and  philosopher  was 
the  confidential  personal  and  political  friend 
of  Jefferson,  but  in  almost  every  respect  thtir 
characters  were  essentially  different.  Mr. 


Madison's  intellect  was  of  a  far  higher  order, 
and  i'ts  ascendency  over  his  passions  was 
nearly  perfect.  His  triumphs  were  those  of 
pure  reason.  His  public  and  private  life  were 
above  reproach. 

In  his  correspondence  with  John  Adams 
Mr.  Jefferson  had  given  the  first  intimation 
which  found  its  way  before  the  public  that 
Mr.  Madison  had  made  a  full  report  of  the 
debates  in  the  Federal  Convention.  After  his 
death,  this  manuscript  and  his  reports  of  de 
bates  in  the  Congress  of  the  Confederation, 
with  a  selection  from  his  letters  written  be 
tween  1780  and  1784,  were  purchased  by  the 
government,  and  in  1840  were  published, 
in  three  octavo  volumes,  under  the  superinten 
dence  of  Mr.  Henry  D.  Gilpin.  They  con 
stitute  a  work  of  extraordinary  value  to  stu 
dents  in  history  and  political  philosophy. 

Mr.  Madison  was  the  author  of  a  consider 
able  and  important  portion  of  the  Federal 
ist,  written  by  Mr.  Hamilton,  Mr.  Jay  and 
himself,  to  secure  the  adoption  of  the  Con 
stitution,  and  by  his  speeches  in  the  Virginia 
Convention  he  contributed  with  equal  ability 
and  efficiency  to  the  same  object.  Upon  the 
appearance  of  the  Proclamation  of  Neutrality, 
in  1793,  he  and  Mr.  Hamilton  were  opposed 
to  each  other  in  a  debate  upon  the  distribution 
of  the  excutive  and  legislative  powers  inci 
dent  to  war,  and  he  replied  to  the  Letters  of 
Pacificus,  by  Mr.  Hamilton,  in  five  essays 
signed  Helvidius,  in  which  a  degree  of  asperity 
scarcely  congenial  with  his  nature  showed 
that  his  more  intimate  associates  had  succeeded 
in  lessening  his  confidence  in  Mr.  Hamilton's 
attachment  to  republican  principles. 

The  writings  of  Mr.  Madison  would  make 
about  fifteen  octavo  volumes,  each  of  six  hun 
dred  pages,  similar  to  those  already  mentioned 
as  published  under  the  authority  of  the  go 
vernment.  They  are  chiefly  on  constitutional, 
political  and  historical  subjects,  but  among 
them  are  some  relating  to  eminent  persons,  and 
of  a  miscellaneous  character  which  will  be 
more  generally  interesting.  His  style  is  clear 

exact  and  justly  modulated. 

79 


80 


JAMES    MADISON. 


VAGUENESS  OF  PHILOSOPHICAL 
DISTINCTIONS. 

FROM   THE  THIRTY-SEVENTH   NUMBER  OF   THE   FEDERALIST. 

THE  faculties  of  the  mind  itself  have  never  yet 
been  distinguished  and  denned,  with  satisfactory 
precision,  by  all  the  efforts  of  the  most  acute  and 
metaphysical  philosophers.  Sense,  perception, 
judgment,  desire,  volition,  memory,  imagination, 
are  found  o  be  separated  by  such  delicate  shades 
and  minutv.  gradations,  that  their  boundaries  have 
eluded  the  most  subtle  investigations,  and  remain 
a  pregnant  source  of  ingenious  disquisition  and 
controversy.  The  boundaries  between  the  great 
kingdoms  of  nature,  and,  still  more,  between  the 
various  provinces  and  lesser  portions  into  which 
they  are  subdivided,  afford  another  illustration  of 
the  same  important  truth.  The  most  sagacious 
and  laborious  naturalists  have  never  yet  succeed 
ed  in  tracing  with  certainty  the  line  which  sepa 
rates  the  district  of  vegetable  life  from  the  neigh 
bouring  region  of  unorganized  matter,  or  which 
marks  the  termination  of  the  former  and  the  com 
mencement  of  the  animal  empire.  A  still  greater 
obscurity  lies  in  the  distinctive  characters  by 
which  the  objects  in  each  of  these  great  depart 
ments  of  nature  have  been  arranged  and  assorted. 

When  we  pass  from  the  works  of  nature,  in 
which  all  the  delineations  are  perfectly  accurate, 
and  appear  to  be  otherwise  only  from  the  imper 
fection  of  the  eye  which  surveys  them,  to  the  in 
stitutions  of  man,  in  which  the  obscurity  arises  as 
well  from  the  object  itself,  as  from  the  organ  by 
which  it  is  contemplated ;  we  must  perceive  the 
necessity  of  moderating  still  further  our  expec 
tations  and  hopes  from  the  efforts  of  human  saga 
city.  Experience  has  instructed  us,  that  no  skill 
in  the  science  of  government  has  yet  been  able  to 
discriminate  and  define,  with  sufficient  certainty, 
its  three  great  provinces,  the  legislative,  executive, 
and  judiciary  ;  or  even  the  privileges  and  powers 
of  the  different  legislative  branches.  Questions 
daily  occur  in  the  course  of  practice,  which  prove 
the  obscurity  which  reigns  in  these  subjects,  and 
which  puzzle  the  greatest  adepts  in  political  science. 

The  experience  of  ages,  with  the  continued  and 
combined  labours  of  the  most  enlightened  legisla 
tors  and  jurists,  have  been  equally  unsuccessful  in 
delineating  the  several  objects  and  limits  of  differ 
ent  codes  of  laws  and  different  tribunals  of  jus 
tice.  The  precise  extent  of  the  common  law, 
the  statute  law,  the  maritime  law,  the  eccle 
siastical  law,  the  law  of  corporations,  and  other 
local  laws  and  customs,  remains  still  to  be  clearly 
and  finally  established  in  Great  Britain,  where  ac 
curacy  in  such  subjects  has  been  more  industri 
ously  pursued  than  in  any  other  part  of  the  world. 
The  jurisdiction  of  her  several  courts,  general  and 
local,  of  law,  of  equity,  of  admiralty,  &c.,  is  not 
less  a  source  of  frequent  and  intricate  discussions, 
sufficiently  denoting  the  indeterminate  limits  by 
which  they  are  respectively  circumscribed.  All 
new  laws,  though  penned  with  the  greatest  tech 
nical  skill,  and  passed  on  the  fullest  and  most  ma 


ture  deliberation,  are  considered  as  more  or  less 
obscure  and  equivocal,  until  their  meaning  be  li 
quidated  and  ascertained  by  a  series  of  particular 
discussions  and  adjudications.  Besides  the  ob 
scurity  arising  from  the  complexity  of  objects,  and 
the  imperfection  of  the  human  faculties,  the  me 
dium  through  which  the  conceptions  of  men  are 
conveyed  to  each  other  adds  a  fresh  embarrass 
ment.  The  use  of  words  is  to  express  ideas. 
Perspicuity  therefore  requires,  not  only  that  the 
ideas  should  be  distinctly  formed,  but  that  they 
should  be  expressed  by  words  distinctly  and  ex 
clusively  appropriated  to  them.  But  no  language 
is  so  copious  as  to  supply  words  and  phrases  for 
every  complex  idea,  or  so  correct  as  not  to  include 
many,  equivocally  denoting  different  ideas.  Hence 
it  must  happen,  that  however  accurately  objects 
may  be  discriminated  in  themselves,  and  however 
accurately  the  discrimination  may  be  conceived, 
the  definition  of  them  may  be  rendered  inaccu 
rate,  by  the  inaccuracy  of  the  terms  in  which  it  is 
delivered.  And  this  unavoidable  inaccuracy  must 
be  greater  or  less,  according  to  the  complexity  and 
novelty  of  the  objects  defined.  When  the  Al 
mighty  himself  condescends  to  address  mankind 
in  their  own  language,  hi|>  meaning;  luminous  as 
it  must  be,  is  rendered  dim  and  doubtful,  by  the 
cloudy  medium  through  which  it  is  communi 
cated. 


THE  RESPONSIBILITY  OF  OUR  COUN 
TRY  TO  MANKIND. 

FROM  AN  ADDRESS  TO  THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES. 

LET  it  be  remembered,  that  it  has  ever  been  the 
pride  and  boast  of  America,  that  the  rights  for 
which  she  contended  were  the  rights  of  human 
nature.  By  the  blessing  of  the  Author  of  these 
rights  on  the  means  exerted  for  their  defence, 
they  have  prevailed  over  all  opposition No  in 
stance  has  heretofore  occurred,  nor  can  any  in 
stance  be  expected  hereafter  to  occur,  in  which 
the  unadulterated  forms  of  republican  government 
can  pretend  to  so  fair  an  opportunity  of  justi 
fying  themselves  by  their  fruits.  In  this  view  the 
citizens  of  the  United  States  are  responsible  for 
the  greatest  trust  ever  confided  to  a  political  so 
ciety.  If  justice,  good  faith,  honour,  gratitude, 
and  all  the  other  qualities  which  ennoble  the  cha 
racter  of  a  nation,  and  fulfil  the  ends  of  govern 
ment,  be  the  fruits  of  our  establishments,  the  cause 
of  Liberty  will  acquire  a  dignity  and  lustre  which 
it  has  never  yet  enjoyed ;  and  an  example  will  be 
set  which  cannot  but  have  the  most  favourable  in 
fluence  on  the  rights  of  mankind.  If,  on  the  other 
side,  our  governments  should  be  unfortunately 
blotted  with  the  reverse  of  these  cardinal  and  es 
sential  virtues,  the  great  cause  which  we  have  en 
gaged  to  vindicate  will  be  dishonoured  and  betrayed ; 
the  last  and  fairest  experiment  in  favour  of  the 
rights  of  human  nature  will  be  turned  against 
them ;  and  their  patrons  and  friends  exposed  to  be 
insulted  and  silenced  by  the  votaries  of  tyranny 
and  usurpation. 


TIMOTHY  DWIGHT. 


[Born  1752.    Died  1817..] 


HAVING  given  the  personal  history  of  Dr. 
Dwight  in  the  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America, 
I  shall  here  only  present  a  chronological  state 
ment  of  its  principal  incidents.  His  father  was 
a  merchant,  and  his  mother  was  a  daughter 
of  the  great  Jonathan  Edwards.  They  re 
sided  in  Northampton,  Massachusetts,  where 
our  author  was  born  on  the  fourteenth  of  May, 
1752.  He  was  graduated  at  Yale  College  in 
1769 ;  was  chosen  a  tutor  in  that  institution 
in  1771,  and  held  the  office  six  years  ;  was 
licensed  to  preach  in  the  Congregational 
church  in  1777,  and  in  the  same  year  entered 
the  army  as  a  chaplain ;  on  the  death  of  his 
father  in  1778  resigned  his  commission  and 
returned  to  Northampton,  where  he  acted  in 
various  capacities  until  1782 ;  was  installed 
pastor  of  the  Congregational  Church  in  Green 
field,  Connecticut,  in  1783 ;  was  elected  pre 
sident  of  Yale  College  and  removed  to  New 
Haven  in  1795 ;  and  died  in  1817. 

Whether  Dr.  Dwight  has  in  this  country 
had  an  equal  as  a  college  instructor  and  presi 
dent  is  questionable,  but  it  may  be  safely  said 
that  he  has  had  no  superior.  The  cause  of 
sound  learning  was  in  many  ways  very 
largely  indebted  to  him.  He  was  also  an 
eloquent  and  successful  preacher,  and  an 
accomplished  and  most  agreeable  gentle 
man. 

His  first  literary  works  were  in  verse.  His 
Conquest  of  Canaan,  an  epic  poem,  was  fin 
ished  when  he  was  but  twenty-two  years  of 
age ;  and  he  subsequently  published  several 
other  volumes  of  poetry,  in  all  of  which  were 
passages  of  considerable  beauty,  but  none  of 
which  were  of  so  elevated  and  sustained  a 
character  as  to  be  altogether  creditable  to  a 
man  of  his  distinguished  reputation  for  ta 
lents,  scholarship  and  taste.  His  fame  as  an 
author  must  therefore  rest  principally  upon 
his  prose  writings,  and  these  are  of  such  ex 
cellence  that  no  fears  need  be  entertained  that 
it  will  not  be  honourable  and  permanent. 

The  most  important  works  of  Dr.  Dwight 

have  been  published  since  his  death.    Besides 
11 


his  poems,  however,  he  permitted  the  appear 
ance  during  his  life  of  many  of  the  discourses 
which  he  delivered  on  public  occasions,  and 
he  contributed  numerous  papers  to  religious 
periodicals  and  the  memoirs  of  scientific  so 
cieties.  An  anonymous  volume  entitled  Re 
marks  on  the  Review  of  Inchiquin's  Letters 
in  the  Quarterly  Review,  addressed  to  the  Rt. 
Hon.  George  Canning,  is  likewise  attributed 
to  him,  though  he  never  publicly  acknow 
ledged  it. 

His  Theology  Explained  and  Defended 
consists  of  nearly  two  hundred  sermons 
preached  before  the  classes  of  Yale  College 
during  his  presidency.  His  views  as  here  ex 
hibited  are  moderately  Calvinistic,  and  are 
maintained  with  great  ability,  dignity  and 
eloquence.  Probably  no  work  of  the  sort  in 
the  English  language  was  ever  so  widely  and 
generally  popular. 

His  Travels  in  New  England  and  New 
York  are  in  four  octavo  volumes.  In  the  col 
lege  vacations  of  nearly  every  year  from  the 
commencement  of  his  administration  he  made 
excursions  in  various  directions  through  the 
northern  states,  and  by  personal  inquiry  and 
observation  collected  an  extraordinary  amount 
of  historical,  topographical  and  statistical  in 
formation,  which  will  always  be  interesting 
and  valuable ;  and  no  other  work  presents  a 
view  so  particular  and  authentic  of  American 
society  and  manners  in  the  beginning  of  the 
present  century. 

Several  works  which  he  left  in  readiness 
for  the  press  are  still  unpublished.  The  larg 
est  and  most  elaborate  of  these  is  on  the  Cha 
racter  and  Writings  of  St.  Paul.  Another  is 
called  The  Friend,  and  comprises  a  series  of 
essays  commenced  during  his  residence  in 
Greenfield  and  concluded  near  the  close  of 
his  life. 

The  style  of  Dr.  Dwight  is  fluent,  graceful, 
picturesque  and  glowing;  but  diffuse.  The 
erasure  of  redundances  would  render  it  much 
more  vigorous  and  attractive.  He  presented 
the  most  abstruse  propositions  in  metaphysics 


82 


TIMOTHY    D  WIGHT. 


with  clearness,  and  was  successful  in  de 
scriptions  of  external  nature ;  but  hardly  a 
discourse,  or  essay  or  letter  can  be  pointed 
to  in  all  his  works  the  effect  of  which  is 


not  injured  by  superfluous  epithets.  Yet 
for  his  wisdom,  earnestness,  and  courtesy, 
greater  faults  could  be  easily  forgiven  and 
forgotten. 


APPROACH  OF  EVENING  ON  LAKE 
GEORGE. 

FROM  TRAVELS  IN  NEW  ENGLAND  AND  NEW  YORK. 

THE  whole  scenery  of  this  lake  is  greatly  en 
hanced  in  beauty  and  splendour  by  the  progres 
sive  change  which  the  traveller,  sailing  on  its  bo 
som,  perpetually  finds  in  his  position,  and  by  the 
unceasing  variegations  of  light  and  shade  which 
attend  his  progress.  The  gradual  and  the  sudden 
openings  of  scoops  arid  basins,  of  islands  and 
points,  of  promontories  and  summits ;  the  continual 
change  of  their  forms,  and  their  equally  gradual 
or  sudden  disappearance ;  impart  to  every  object  a 
brilliancy,  life  and  motion An  opening  lay  be 
fore  us  between  the  mountains  on  the  West,  and 
thosa  on  the  East,  gilded  by  the  departing  sun 
beams.  The  lake,  alternately  glassy  and  gently 
rippled,  of  a  light  and  exquisite  sapphire,  gay  and 
brilliant  with  the  tremulous  lustre  floating  upon 
its  surface,  stretched  in  prospect  to  a  vast  distance, 
through  a  great  variety  of  larger  and  smaller  aper- 
tuies.  In  the  chasm  formed  by  the  mountains  lay  a 
multitude  of  islands,  differing  in  size,  shape  and  um 
brage,  and  clothed  in  deeply  shaded  green.  Beyond 
them,  and  often  partly  hidden  behind  the  tall  and 
variously  figured  trees  with  which  they  were  tufted, 
rose  a  long  range  of  distant  mountains,  tinged  with 
a  deep  misty  azure,  and  crowned  with  an  immense 
succession  of  lofty  pines.  Above  the  mountains, 
and  above  each  other,  were  extended  in  great  num 
bers  long  streaming  clouds,  of  the  happiest  forms, 
and  painted  with  red  and  orange  light  in  all  their 
diversities  of  tincture.  Between  them  the  sky 
was  illumined  with  a  vivid  yellow  lustre.  The 
tall  trees  on  the  western  mountains  lifted  their 
heads  in  the  crimson  glory,  and  on  this  back 
ground  displayed  their  diversified  forms  with  a 
distinctness  and  beauty  never  surpassed.  -On  a 
high  and  semi-circular  summit,  the  trees,  ascend 
ing  far  without  limbs,  united  their  crowns  above, 
and  thus  formed  a  majestic  and  extensive  arch  in 
the  sky,  dark,  defined,  and  corresponding  with  the 
arch  of  the  summit  below.  Between  this  crown 
and  the  mountain  the  vivid  orange  light,  shining 
through  the  grove,  formed  a  third  arch,  equally 
extended,  and  striped  with  black  by  the  stems  of 
the  trees. 

Directly  over  the  gap  which  I  have  mentioned, 
and  through  which  this  combination  of  beauty 
was  presented  to  us,  the  moon,  far  southward,  in 
her  handsomest  crescent,  sat  on  the  eastern,  and 
the  evening  star,  on  the  western,  side  of  the  open 
ing,  at  equal  distances  from  the  bordering  moun 
tains,  and,  shining  from  a  sky  perfectly  pure  and 
Fercne,  finished  the  prospect. 


The  crimson  lustre  however  soon  faded;  the 
mountains  lost  their  gilding,  and  the  clouds, 
changing  their  fine  glow  into  a  dull,  leaden-coloured 
hue,  speedily  vanished.  The  lake,  though  still 
brilliant,  became  misty  and  dim.  The  splendour 
of  the  moon  and  of  Hesper  increased,  and  trem 
bled  on  its  surface  until  they  both  retired  behind 
the  western  mountains,  and  just  as  we  reached 
the  shore,  left  the  world  to  the  darkness  of  night. 


SCENE  ON  THE  KAATSKILL  MOUN 
TAINS. 

FROM   THE  SAME. 

WE  entered  the  forest  on  the  South ;  and,  after 
penetrating  it  about  a  mile,  came  to  a  scene  which 
amply  repaid  us  for  our  toil.  On  the  rear  of  the 
great  ridge,  stretched  out  before  us  two  spurs  of  a 
vast  height.  Between  them  sunk  a  ravine,  seve 
ral  miles  in  length,  and  in  different  places  from  a 
thousand  to  fifteen  hundred  feet  in  depth.  The 
mountains  on  either  side  were  steep,  wild  and 
shaggy,  covered  almost  everywhere  with  a  dark 
forest,  the  lofty  trees  of  which  approached  nearer 
and  nearer  to  each  other  as  the  eye  wandered  to 
ward  the  bottom.  In  some  places  their  branches 
became  united ;  in  others,  separated  by  a  small 
distance,  they  left  a  line  of  absolute  darkness,  re 
sembling  in  its  dimensions  a  winding  rivulet,  here 
somewhat  wider,  there  narrower,  and  appearing 
as  if  it  were  a  solitary  by-path  to  the  nether  world. 
All  beneath  seemed  to  be  midnight,  although  the 
day  was  uncommonly  bright  and  beautiful ;  and  all 
above  a  dreary  solitude,  secluded  from  the  world, 
and  destined  never  to  be  wandered  over  by  the 
feet  of  man.  At  the  head  of  this  valley  stood  a 
precipice ;  here  descending  perpendicularly,  there 
overhanging  with  a  stupendous  and  awful  gran 
deur.  Over  a  bed  of  stone  beside  our  feet  ran  a 
stream,  which  discharged  the  waters  of  the  lakes,  and 
from  the  brow  of  the  precipice  rushed  in  a  perpen 
dicular  torrent  perfectly  white  and  glittering  near 
ly  three  hundred  feet  in  length.  This  magnifi 
cent  current,  after  dashing  upon  a  shelf,  falls  over 
a  second  precipice  of  one  hundred  feet ;  when  it 
vanishes  in  the  midnight  beneath,  and  rolls  over  a 
succession  of  precipices  until  it  finally  escapes  from 
the  mountains,  and  empties  it's  waters  into  the 
river  Kaaterskill.  A  cloud  of  vapour,  raised  by 
the  dashing  of  this  stream  on  the  successive  shelves 
in  its  bed,  rises  above  the  forests  which  shroud  the 
bottom  of  the  valley,  and  winds  beautifully  away 
from  the  sight  until  it  finally  vanishes  in  the  be 
wildered  course  of  this  immense  chasm.  On  the 


TIMOTHY    DWIGHT. 


83 


bosom  of  this  volume  of  mist  appears  to  the  eye  a 
succession  of  rainbows,  floating  slowly  and  grace 
fully  down  the  valley,  and  reluctantly  yielding 
their  place  to  others  by  which  they  are  continually 
followed.  No  contrast  can  be  more  perfect  than 
that  of  these  circles  of  light  to  the  rude  scenery 
by  which  they  are  environed ;  and  no  object  of 
this  nature  which  I  have  seen  awakens  emotions 
of  such  grandeur. 


THE  NOTCH  OF  THE  WHITE  MOUN 
TAINS. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

THE  Notch  of  the  White  Mountains  is  a  phrase 
appropriated  to  a  very  narrow  defile,  extending 
two  miles  in  length  between  two  huge  cliffs  ap 
parently  rent  asunder  by  some  vast  convulsion  of 
nature.  The  entrance  of  the  chasm  is  formed  by 
two  rocks  standing  perpendicularly  at  the  distance 
of  twenty-two  feet  from  each  other;  one  about 
twenty  feet  in  height,  the  other  about  twelve. 
Half  of  the  space  is  occupied  by  the  brook  men 
tioned  as  the  head  stream  of  the  Saco ;  the 
other  half  by  the  road.  The  stream  is  lost  and 
invisible  beneath  a  mass  of  fragments  partly  blown 
out  of  the  road,  and  partly  thrown  down  by  some 
great  convulsion. 

When  we  entered  the  Notch  we  were  struck 
with  the  wild  and  solemn  appearance  of  every 
thing  before  us.  The  scale  on  which  all  the 
objects  in  view  were  formed  was  the  scale  of 
grandeur  only.  The  rocks,  rude  and  ragged  in  a 
manner  rarely  paralleled,  were  fashioned  and  piled 
by  a  hand  operating  only  in  the  boldest  and  most 
irregular  manner.  As  we  advanced,  these  appear 
ances  increased  rapidly.  Huge  masses  of  granite, 
of  every  abrupt  form,  and  hoary  with  a  moss, 
which  seemed  the  product  of  ages,  recalling  to 
the  mind  the  saxvm  vetustum  of  Virgil,  speedily 
rose  to  a  mountainous  height.  Before  us  the 
view  widened  fast  to  the  south-east.  Behind  us 
it  closed  almost  instantaneously,  and  presented 
nothing  to  the  eye  but  an  impassable  barrier  of 
mountains. 

About  half  a  mile  from  the  entrance  of  the 
chasm  we  saw,  in  full  view,  the  most  beautiful 
cascade,  perhaps,  in  the  world.  It  issued  from  a 
mountain  on  the  right,  about  eight  hundred  feet 
above  the  subjacent  valley,  and  at  the  distance 
from  us  of  about  two  miles.  The  stream  ran 
over  a  series  of  rocks  almost  perpendicular,  with  a 
course  so  little  broken  as  to  preserve  the  appear 
ance  of  a  uniform  current,  and  yet  so  far  disturbed 
as  to  be  perfectly  white.  The  sun  shone  with  the 
clearest  splendour,  from  a  station  in  the  heavens 
the  most  advantageous  to  our  prospect ;  and  the 
cascade  glittered  down  the  vast  steep,  like  a  stream 
of  burnished  silver. 

At  the  distance  of  three  quarters  of  a  mile  from 
the  entrance,  we  passed  a  brook,  known  in  this 
region  by  the  name  of  the  flume.  •  from  the  strong 
resemblance  to  that  object  exhibited  by  the  chan 
nel,  which  it  has  worn  for  a  considerable  length 


in  a  bed  of  rocks ;  the  sides  being  perpendicular 
to  the  bottom.  This  elegant  piece  of  water  we 
determined  to  examine  farther;  and,  alighting 
from  our  horses,  walked  up  the  acclivity  perhaps 
a  furlong.  The  stream  fell  from  a  height  of  two 
hundred  and  forty  or  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet, 
over  three  precipices;  the  second  receding  a  small 
distance  from  the  front  of  the  first,  and  the  third 
from  that  of  the  second.  Down  the  first  and  se 
cond  it  fell  in  a  single  current ;  and  down  the 
third  in  three,  which  united  their  streams  at  the 
bottom  in  a  fine  basin,  formed  by  the  hand  of  na 
ture  in  the  rocks  immediately  beneath  us.  It  is 
impossible  for  a  brook  of  this  size  to  be  modelled 
into  more  diversified  or  more  delightful  forms  ;  or 
for  a  cascade  to  descend  over  precipices  more  hap 
pily  fitted  to  finish  its  beauty.  The  cliffs,  together 
with  a  level  at  their  foot,  furnished  a  considerable 
opening,  surrounded  by  the  forest.  The  sunbeams, 
penetrating  through  the  trees,  painted  here  a  great 
variety  of  fine  images  of  light,  and  edged  an  equally 
numerous  and  diversified  collection  of  shadows  ; 
both  dancing  on  the  waters,  and  alternately  sil 
vering  and  obscuring  their  course.  Purer  water 
was  never  seen.  Exclusively  of  its  murmurs,  the 
world  around  us  was  solemn  and  silent.  Eveiy 
thing  assumed  the  character  of  enchantment ;  and, 
had  I  been  educated  in  the  Grecian  mythology,  I 
should  scarcely  have  been  surprised  to  find  an  as 
semblage  of  Dryads,  Naiads  and  Oreades,  spoil 
ing  on  the  little  plain  below  our  feet.  The  purify 
of  this  water  was  discernible,  not  only  by  its  lim 
pid  appearance,  and  its  taste,  but  from  several 
other  circumstances.  Its  course  is  wholly  over 
hard  granite ;  and  the  rocks  and  the  stones  in  its 
bed  and  at  its  side,  instead  of  being  covered  with  ad 
ventitious  substances,  were  washed  perfectly  clean  ; 
and,  by  their  neat  appearance,  added  not  a  little 
to  the  beauty  of  the  scenery. 

From  this  spot  the  mountains  speedily  began  to 
open  with  increased  majesty  ;  and,  in  several  in 
stances,  rose  to  a  perpendicular  height  little  lees 
than  a  mile.  The  bosom  of  both  ranges  wss 
overspread,  in  all  the  inferior  regions,  by  a  mix 
ture  of  evergreens  with  trees,  whose  leaves  are  de 
ciduous.  The  annual  foliage  had  been  already 
changed  by  the  frost.  Of  the  effects  of  this 
change  it  is,  perhaps,  impossible  for  an  inhabitant 
of  Great  Britain,  as  I  have  been  assured  by 
several  foreigners,  to  form  an  adequate  con 
ception,  without  visiting  an  American  forest. 
When  I  was  a  youth,  I  remarked  that  Thomson 
had  entirely  omitted  in  his  Seasons  this  fine  part 
of  autumnal  imagery.  Upon  inquiring  of  an  Eng 
lish  gentleman  the  probable  cause  of  the  omission, 
he  informed  me  that  no  such  scenery  existed  in 
Great  Britain.  In  this  country  it  is  often  among 
the  most  splendid  beauties  of  nature.  All  the 
leaves  of  trees,  which  are  not  evergreens,  are,  by 
the  first  severe  frost,  changed  from  their  verdure 
toward  the  perfection  of  that  colour  which  they  are 
capable  of  ultimately  assuming,  through  yellow, 
orange  and  red,  to  a  pretty  deep  brown.  As  the 
frost  affects  different  trees,  and  different  leaves  of 
the  same  tree,  in  very  different  degrees,  a  vast 


84 


TIMOTHY   D  WIGHT. 


multitude  of  tinctures  are  commonly  found  on 
those  of  a  single  tree,  and  always  on  those  of  a  j 
grove  or  forest.  These  colours  also,  in  all  their 
varieties,  are  generally  full;  and,  in  many  in 
stances,  are  among  the  most  exquisite  which  are 
found  in  the  regions  of  nature.  Different  sorts  of 
trees  are  susceptible  of  different  degrees  of  this 
beauty.  Among  them  the  maple  is  pre-eminently 
distinguished  by  the  prodigious  varieties,  the  fin 
ished  beauty,  and  the  intense  lustre  of  its  hues ; 
varying  through  all  the  dyes  between  a  rich  green 
and  the  most  perfect  crimson,  or,  more  definitely, 
the  red  of  the  prismatic  image. 

There  is,  however,  a  sensible  difference  in  the 
beauty  of  this  appearance  of  nature  in  different 
parts  of  the  country,  even  when  the  forest  trees 
are  the  same.  I  have  seen  no  tract  where  its 
splendour  was  so  highly  finished,  as  in  the  region 
which  surrounds  Lancaster  for  a  distance  of  thirty 
miles.  The  colours  are  more  varied  and  more  in 
tense;  and  the  numerous  evergreens  furnish,  in 
their  deep  hues,  the  best  groundwork  of  the  pic 
ture. 

I  have  remarked,  that  the  annual  foliage  on 
these  mountains  had  been  already  changed  by  the 
frost.  Of  course,  the  darkness  of  the  evergreens  was 
finely  illumined  by  the  brilliant  yellow  of  the  birch, 
the  beech  and  the  cherry,  and  the  more  brilliant 
orange  and  crimson  of  the  maple.  The  effect  of  this 
universal  diffusion  of  gay  and  splendid  light  was,  to 
render  the  preponderating  deep  green  more  solemn. 
The  mind,  encircled  by  this  scenery,  irresistibly 
remembered  that  the  light  was  the  light  of  decay, 
autumnal  and  melancholy.  The  dark  was  the  gloom 
of  evening,  approximating  to  night.  Over  the  whole, 
the  azure  of  the  sky  cast  a  deep,  misty  blue ;  blend 
ing,  toward  the  summit,  every  other  hue,  and  pre 
dominating  over  all. 

As  the  eye  ascended  these  steeps,  the  light  de 
cayed,  and  gradually  ceased.  On  the  inferior  sum 
mits  rose  crowns  of  conical  firs  and  spruces.  On 
the  superior  eminences,  the  trees,  growing  less 
and  less,  yielded  to  the  chilling  atmosphere,  and 
marked  the  limit  of  forest  vegetation.  Above, 
the  surface  was  covered  with  a  mass  of  shrubs, 
terminating,  at  a  still  higher  elevation,  in  a  shroud 
of  dark-coloured  moss. 

As  we  passed  onward  through  this  singular  val 
ley,  occasional  torrents,  formed  by  the  rains  and 
dissolving  snows  at  the  close  of  winter,  had  left 
behind  them,  in  many  places,  perpetual  monu 
ments  of  their  progress,  in  perpendicular,  narrow 
and  irregular  paths  of  immense  length,  where  they 
had  washed  the  precipices  naked  and  white,  from 
the  summit  of  the  mountain  to  the  base.  Wide  and 
deep  chasms  also  met  the  eye,  both  on  the  sum 


mits  and  the  sides  ;  and  strongly  impressed  the 
imagination  with  the  thought,  that  a  hand  of  immea 
surable  power  had  rent  asunder  the  solid  rocks, 
and  tumbled  them  into  the  subjacent  valley.  Over 
all,  hoary  cliffs,  rising  with  proud  supremacy, 
frowned  awfully  on  the  world  below,  and  finished 
the  landscape. 

By  our  side,  the  Saco  was  alternately  visible 
and  lost,  and  increased,  almost  at  every  step,  by 
the  junction  of  tributary  streams.  Its  course  was 
a  perpetual  cascade ;  and  with  its  sprightly  mur 
murs  furnished  the  only  contrast  to  the  scenery 
around  us. 


THE  PLEASURE  DERIVED  FROM  THE 
BEAUTY  OF  NATURE. 

FKOM  THEOLOGY  EXPLAINED  AND  DEFENDED. 

WERE  all  the  interesting  diversities  of  colour 
and  form  to  disappear,  how  unsightly,  dull,  and 
wearisome,  would  be  the  aspect  of  the  world ! 
The  pleasures  conveyed  to  us  by  the  endless  vari 
eties  with  which  these  sources  of  beauty  are  pre 
sented  to  the  eye,  are  so  much  things  of  course, 
and  exist  so  much  without  intermission,  that  we 
scarcely  think  either  of  their  nature,  their  num 
ber,  or  the  great  proportion  which  they  constitute 
in  the  whole  mass  of  our  enjoyment.  But  were 
an  inhabitant  of  this  country  to  be  removed  from 
its  delightful  scenery  to  the  midst  of  an  Arabian 
desert,  a  boundless  expanse  of  sand,  a  waste  spread 
with  uniform  desolation,  enlivened  by  the  murmur 
of  no  stream  and  cheered  by  the  beauty  of  no  ver 
dure,  although  he  might  live  in  a  palace  and  riot 
in  splendour  and  luxury,  he  would,  I  think,  find 
life  a  dull,  wearisome,  melancholy  round  of  exist 
ence,  and  amid  all  his  gratifications  would  sigh 
for  the  hills  and  valleys  of  his  native  land,  the 
brooks  and  rivers,  the  living  lustre  of  the  Spring, 
and  the  rich  glories  of  the  Autumn.  The  ever- vary 
ing  brilliancy  and  grandeur  of  the  landscape,  and 
the  magnificence  of  the  sky,  sun,  moon,  and  stars, 
enter  more  extensively  into  the  enjoyment  of  man 
kind  than  we,  perhaps,  ever  think,  or  can  possibly 
apprehend,  without  frequent  and  extensive  inves 
tigation.  This  beauty  and  splendour  of  the  ob 
jects  around  us,  it  is  ever  to  be  remembered,  are  not 
necessary  to  their  existence,  nor  to  what  we  com 
monly  intend  by  their  usefulness.  It  is  therefore 
to  be  regarded  as  a  source  of  pleasure  gratuitous 
ly  superinduced  upon  the  general  nature  of  the 
objects  themselves,  and  in  this  light,  as  a  testimony 
of  the  divine  goodness  peculiarly  affecting. 


JOHN  MARSHALL. 


[Born  1755.    Died  1835.] 


JOHN  MARSHALL,  the  son  of  Colonel  Thomas 
Marshall,  was  born  in  Germantown,  Fauquier 
county,  Virginia,  on  the  twenty-fourth  of  Sep 
tember,  1755.  When  twenty-one  years  of  age 
he  was  commissioned  as  a  lieutenant  in  the  con 
tinental  service,  and  marching  with  his  regi 
ment  to  the  north  was  appointed  captain  in  the 
spring  of  1777,  and  in  that  capacity  served  in 
the  battles  of  Brandywine,  Germantown,  and 
Monmouth,  was  at  Valley  Forge  during  the 
winter  of  1778,  and  was  one  of  the  covering 
party  at  the  assault  of  Stoney  Point,  in  June, 
1779.  Having  returned  to  his  native  state  at 
the  expiration  of  the  enlistment  of  the  Virginia 
troops,  in  1780  he  received  a  license  for  the 
practice  of  the  law,  and  rapidly  rose  to  dis 
tinction  in  that  profession.  In  1782  he  was 
chosen  a  representative  to  the  legislature,  and 
afterward  a  member  of  the  executive  council. 
In  January,  1783,  he  married  Mary  Willis 
Arnbler,  of  York,  in  Virginia,  with  whom  he 
lived  for  fifty  years  in  the  tenderest  aifection. 
He  was  a  delegate  to  the  convention  of  Vir 
ginia,  which  met  on  the  second  of  June,  1788, 
to  take  into  consideration  the  new  constitution, 
and  in  conjunction  with  his  friend  Mr.  Madi 
son,  mainly  contributed  to  its  adoption,  in  op 
position  to  the  ardent  efforts  of  Henry,  Gray- 
son  and  Mason.  Hi»  name  first  became  ge 
nerally  known  throughout  the  nation  by  his 
vindication,  in  the  legislature  of  the  state,  of 
the  ratification  of  Jay's  treaty  by  President 
Washington.  No  report  of  that  speech  re 
mains,  but  the  evidence  of  its  ability  survives 
in  the  effects  which  it  produced  on  the  legis 
lature  and  the  country.  He  continued  in  the 
practice  of  the  law,  having  declined  succes 
sively  the 'offices  of  Attorney  General  of  the 
United  States  and  Minister  to  France,  until 

1797,  when  with  General  Pinckney  and  Mr. 
Gerry  he  was  sent  on  a  special  mission  to  the 
French  republic.     The  manner  in  which  the 
dignity  of  the  American  character  was  main 
tained  against  the  corruption  of  the  Directory 
and  its  ministers  is  well  known.     The  letters 
of  the  seventeenth  of  January  and  third  of  April, 

1798,  to  Talleyrand  the  Minister  of  Foreign 


Relations  have  always  been  attributed  to  Mar 
shall,  and  they  rank  among  the  ablest  and  most 
effective  of  diplomatic  communications.  Mr. 
Marshall  arrived  in  New  York  on  the  seven 
teenth  of  June,  1798,  and  on  the  nineteenth 
entered  Philadelphia.  At  the  intelligence  of 
his  approach  the  whole  city  poured  out  toward 
Frankford  to  receive  him,  and  escorted  him  to 
his  lodgings  with  all  the  honours  of  a  triumph. 
In  after  years,  when  he  visited  Philadelphia, 
he  often  spoke  of  the  feelings  with  which,  as 
he  came  near  the  city  on  that  occasion,  with 
some  doubts  as  to  the  reception  which  he 
might  meet  with  in  the  existing  state  of  par 
ties,  he  beheld  the  multitude  rushing  forth  to 
crowd  about  him  with  every  demonstration  of 
respect  and  approbation,  as  having  been  the 
most  interesting  and  gratifying  of  his  life. 

On  his  return  to  Virginia,  at  the  special  re 
quest  of  General  Washington,*  he  became  a 
candidate  for  the  House  of  Representatives, 
and  was  elected  in  the  spring  of  1799.  His 
greatest  effort  in  Congress  was  his  speech  in 
opposition  to  the  resolutions  of  Edward  Liv 
ingston  relative  to  Thomas  Nash,  alias  Jona 
than  Robbins.  Fortunately  we  possess  an  ac 
curate  report  of  it,  revised  by  himself.  The 
case  was,  that  Thomas  Nash,  having  com 
mitted  a  murder  on  board  the  British  frigate 
Hermione,  navigating  the  high  seas  under  a 
commission  from  the  British  king,  had  sought 
an  asylum  within  the  United  States,  and  his 
delivery  had  been  demanded  by  the  British 
minister  under  the  twenty-seventh  article  of 
the  treaty  of  amity  between  the  two  nations. 
Mr.  Marshall's  argument  first  established  that 
the  crime  was  within  the  jurisdiction  of  Great 
Britain,  on  the  general  principles  of  public 
law,  and  then  demonstrated  that  under  the 
constitution  the  case  was  subject  to  the  dispo 
sal  of  the  executive,  and  not  the  judiciary. 
He  distinguished  these  departments  from  one 
another  with  an  acuteness  of  discrimination 
and  a  force  of  logic  which  frustrated  the  at 
tempt  to  carry  the  judiciary  out  of  its  orbit, 

*See  notice  of  Marshall  in  the  l;ortrait  Gallery,  writ 
ten  by  Judge  Story. 

H  85 


S8 


JOHN   MARSHALL. 


and  settled  the  political  question,  then  and 
for  ever.  It  is  said  that  Mr.  Gallatin,  whose 
part  it  was  to  reply  to  Mr.  Marshall,  at  the 
close  of  the  speech  turned  to  some  of  his 
friends  and  said,  "  You  may  answer  that  if 
you  choose;  /cannot."  That  argument  de 
serves  to  rank  among  the  most  dignified  dis 
plays  of  human  intellect.  At  the  close  of  the 
session  Mr.  Marshall  was  appointed  Secretary 
i  of  War,  and  soon  after  Secretary  of  State. 
During  his  continuance  in  that  department 
our  relations  with  England  were  in  a  very  in 
teresting  condition,  and  his  correspondence 
with  Mr.  King  exhibits  his  abilities  and  spirit 
in  the  most  dignified  point  of  view.  "  His 
despatch  of  the  twentieth  of  September,  1800," 
says  Mr.  Binney,  "  is  a  noble  specimen  of  the 
first  order  of  state  papers,  and  shows  the  most 
finished  adaptation  of  parts  for  the  station  of 
an  American  Secretary  of  State."  On  the 
thirty-first  of  January,  1801,  he  was  appointed 
Chief  Justice  of  the  United  States,  in  which 
office  he  continued  until  his  death.  In  1804 
he  published  the  Biography  of  Washington, 
which  for  candour,  accuracy,  and  comprehen 
sion,  will  for  ever  be  the  most  authentic  history 
of  the  Revolution.  He  died  in  Philadelphia 
on  the  sixth  of  July,  1835. 

Mr.  Marshall's  career  as  Chief  Justice  ex 
tended  through  a  period  of  more  than  thirty- 
four  years,  which  is  the  longest  judicial  tenure 
recorded  in  history.  To  one  who  cannot  follow 
his  great  judgments,  in  which,  at  the  same 
time,  the  depths  of  legal  wisdom  are  disclosed 
and  the  limits  of  human  reason  measured,  the 
language  of  just  eulogy  must  wear  an  appear 
ance  of  extravagance.  In  his  own  profession 
he  stands  for  the  reverence  of  the  wise  rather 
than  for  the  enthusiasm  of  the  many.  The 
proportion  of  the  figure  was  so  perfect,  that 
the  sense  of  its  vastness  was  lost.  Above 
the  difficulties  of  common  minds,  he  was  in 
some  degree  above  their  sympathy.  Saved 
from  popularity,  by  the  very  rarity  of  his  quali 
ties,  he  astonished  the  most  where  he  was 
best  understood.  The  questions  upon  which 
his  judgment  was  detained,  and  the  conside 
rations  by  which  his  decision  was  at  last  de 
termined,  were  such  as  ordinary  understand 
ings,  not  merely  could  not  resolve,  but  were 
often  inadequate  even  to  appreciate  or  appre 
hend.  It  vvj.s  his  manner  to  deal  directly  with 
the  results  of  thought  and  learning,  and  the 
length  and  labour  of  the  processes  by  which 


these  results  were  suggested  and  verified  might 
elude  the  consciousness  of  those  who  had  not 
themselves  attempted  to  perform  them.  From 
the  position  in  which  he  stood  of  evident  su 
periority  to  his  subject,  it  was  obviously  so 
easy  for  him  to  describe  its  character  and  de 
fine  its  relations,  that  we  sometimes  forgot  to 
wonder  by  what  faculties  or  what  efforts  he 
had  attained  to  that  eminence.  We  were  so 
much  accustomed  to  see  his  mind  move  only 
in  the  light,  that  there  was  a  danger  of  our  not 
observing  that  the  illumination  by  which  it 
was  surrounded  was  the  beam  of  its  own  pre 
sence,  and  not  the  natural  atmosphere  of  the 
scene. 

The  true  character  and  measure  of  Marshall's 
greatness  are  missed  by  those  who  conceive  of 
him  as  limited  within  the  sphere  of  the  jus 
tices  of  England,  and  who  describe  him  mere 
ly  as  the  first  of  lawyers.  To  have  been  "  the 
most  consummate  judge  that  ever  sat  in  judg 
ment,"  was  the  highest  possibility  of  Eldon's 
merit,  but  was  only  a  segment  of  Marshall's 
fame.  It  was  in  a  distinct  department,  of 
more  dignified  functions,  almost  of  an  op 
posite  kind,  that  he  displayed  those  abilities 
that  advance  his  name  to  the  highest  renown, 
and  shed  around  it  the  glories  of  a  statesman 
and  legislator.  The  powers  of  the  Supreme 
Court  of  the  United  States  are  such  as  were 
never  before  confided  to  a  judicial  tribunal  by 
any  people.  As  determining,  without  appeal, 
its  own  jurisdiction,  and  that  of  the  legislature 
and  executive,  that  court  is  not  merely  the 
highest  estate  in  the  country,  but  it  settles  and 
continually  moulds  the  constitution  of  the  go 
vernment.  Of  the  great  work  of  constructing 
a  nation,  but  a  small  part,  practically,  had  been, 
performed  when  the  written  document  had  been 
signed  by  the  convention :  a  vicious  theory  of 
interpretation  might  defeat  the  grandeur  and 
unity  of  the  organization,  and  a  want  of  com 
prehension  and  foresight  might  fatally  perplex 
the  harmony  of  the  combination.  The  admin 
istration  of  a  system  of  polity  is  the  larger  part 
of  its  establishment.  What  the  constitution 
was  to  be,  depended  on  the  principles  on  which 
the  federal  instrument  was  to  be  construed, 
and  they  were  not  to  be  found  in  the  maxims 
and  modes  of  reasoning  by  which  the  law  de 
termines  upon  social  contracts  between  man 
and  man,  but  were  to  be  sought  anew  in  the 
elements  of  political  philosophy  and  the  ge 
neral  suggestions  of  legislative  wisdom.  To 


JOHN    MARSHALL. 


87 


these  august  duties  Judge  Marshall  brought 
a  greatness  of  conception  that  was  commen 
surate  with  their  difficulty ;  he  came  to  them 
in  the  spirit  and  with  the  strength  of  one  who 
would  minister  to  the  development  of  a  nation  : 
and  it  was  the  essential  sagacity  of  his  guiding 
mind  that  saved  us  from  illustrating  the  sar 
casms  of  Mr.  Burke  about  paper  constitutions. 
He  saw  the  futility  of  attempting  to  control 
society  by  a  metaphysical  theory ;  he  appre 
hended  the  just  relation  between  opinion  and 
life,  between  the  forms  of  speculation  and  the 
force  of  things.  Knowing  that  we  are  wise 
in  respect  to  nature,  only  as  we  give  back  to  it 
faithfully  what  we  have  learned  from  it  obe 
diently,  he  sought  to  fix  the  wisdom  of  the  real 
and  to  resolve  it  into  principles.  He  made  the 
nation  explain  its  constitution,  and  compelled 
the  actual  to  define  the  possible.  Experience 
was  the  dialectic  by  which  he  deduced  from 
substantial  premises  a  practical  conclusion. 
The  might  of  reason  by  which  convenience 
and  right  were  thus  moulded  into  union,  was 
amazing.  But  while  he  knew  the  folly  of  en 
deavouring  to  be  wiser  than  time,  his  match 
less  resources  of  good  sense  contributed  to  the 
orderly  development  of  the  inherent  elements 
of  the  constitution,  by  a  vigour  and  dexterity 
as  eminent  in  their  kind  as  they  were  rare  in 
their  combination.  A  The  vessel  of  state  was 
launched  by  the  patriotism  of  many:  the  chart 
of  her  course  was  designed  chiefly  by  Hamil 
ton  :  but  when  the  voyage  was  begun,  the  eye 
that  observed,  and  the  head  that  reckoned,  and 
the  hand  that  compelled  the  ship  to  keep  her 
course  amid  tempests  without  and  threats  of 
mutiny  within,  were  those  of  the  great  Chief 
Justice.  Posterity  will  give  him  reverence 
as  one  of  the  founders  of  the  nation ;  and  of 
that  group  of  statesmen  who  may  one  day  per 
haps  be  regarded  as  above  the  nature,  as  they 
certainly  were  beyond  the  dimensions  of  men, 
no  figure,  save  ONE  alone,  will  rise  upon  the 
eye  in  grandeur  more  towering  than  that  of 
John  Marshall. 

The  authority  of  the  Supreme  Court  how 
ever  is  not  confined  to  cases  of  constitu 
tional  law :  it  embraces  the  whole  range  of 
judicial  action,  as  it  is  distributed  in  Eng 
land,  into  legal,  equitable,  and  maritime  juris 
dictions.  The  equity  system  of  this  court  was 
too  little  developed  to  enable  us  to  say  what 
Marshall  would  have  been  as  a  chancellor. 
It  is  difficult  to  admit  that  he  would  have 


been  inferior  to  Lord  Eldon  :  it  is  impossible 
to  conceive  that  he  could  at  all  have  resem 
bled  Lord  Eldon.  But  undoubtedly  the  na 
tive  region  and  proper  interest  of  a  mind  so 
analytical  and  so  sound,  so  piercing  and  so 
practical,  was  the  Common  Law,  that  vigor 
ous  system  of  manly  reason  and  essential 
right,  that  splendid  scheme  of  morality  ex 
panded  by  logic  and  informed  by  prudence. 
Perhaps  the  highest  range  of  English  intelli 
gence  is  illustrated  in  the  law  :  yet  where  in 
the  whole  line  of  that  august  succession  will 
be  found  a  character  which  fills  the  measure 
of  judicial  greatness  so  completely  as  Chief 
Justice  Marshall  1  Where  in  English  history 
is  the  judge,  whose  mind  was  at  once  so  en 
larged  and  so  systematic,  who  so  thoroughly 
had  reduced  professional  science  to  general 
reason,  in  whose  disciplined  intellect  techni 
cal  learning  had  so  completely  passed  into  na 
tive  sense!  Vast  as  the  reach  of  the  law  is, 
it  is  not  an  exaggeration  to  say  that  Marshall's 
understanding  was  greater,  and  embraced  the 
forms  of  legal  sagacity  within  it,  as  a  part  of 
its  own  spontaneous  wisdom.  He  discrimi 
nated  with  instinctive  accuracy  between  those 
technicalities  which  have  sprung  from  the 
narrowness  of  inferior  minds,  and  those  which 
are  set  by  the  law  for  the  defence  of  some 
vital  element  of  justice  or  reason.  The  former 
he  brushed  away  like  cobwebs,  while  he 
yielded  to  the  latter  with  a  respect  which 
sometimes  seemed  to  those  "whose  eyes 
were"  not  «*  opened"  a  species  of  superstition. 
In  his  judicial  office  the  method  of  Marshall 
appeared  to  be,  first  to  bow  his  understanding 
reverently  to  the  law,  and  calmly  and  patient 
ly  to  receive  its  instructions  as  those  of  an 
oracle  of  which  he  was  the  minister ;  then,  to 
prove  these  dictates  by  the  most  searching  pro 
cesses  of  reason,  and  to  deliver  them  to  others, 
not  as  decrees  to  be  obeyed,  but  as  logical  mani 
festations  of  moral  truth.  Undoubtedly  he  made 
much  use  of  adjudged  cases  ;  but  he  used  them 
to  give  light  and  certainty  to  his  own  judg 
ment,  and  not  for  the  vindication  or  support 
of  the  law.  He  would  have  deemed  it  a  re 
proach  alike  to  his  abilitiesand  his  station,  if  he 
should  have  determined  upon  precedent  what 
could  have  been  demonstrated  by  reason,  or 
had  referred  to  authority  what  belonged  to 
principle.  With  singular  capacity,  he  united 
systematic  reason  with  a  perception  of  parti 
cular  equity :  too  scrupulous  a  regard  for  the 


88 


JOHN    MARSHALL. 


latter  led  Lord  Eldon  in  most  instances  to  ad 
judicate  nothing  but  the  case  before  him  ;  but 
Marshall  remembered  that  while  he  owed  to 
the  suitors  the  decision  of  the  case,  he  owed  I 
to  society  the  establishment  of  the  principle./ 
His  mind  naturally  tended,  not  to  suggestion 
and  speculation,  but  to  the  determination  of 
opinion  and  the  closing  of  doubts.  On  the 
bench  he  always  recollected  that  he  was  not 
merely  a  lawyer,  and  much  less  a  legal  essay 
ist  ;  he  was  conscious  of  an  official  duty  and 
an  official  authority ;  and  considered  that  ques 
tions  might  be  discussed  elsewhere,  but  came 
to  be  settled  by  him.  The  dignity  with  which 
these  duties  were  discharged  was  not  the  least 
admirable  part  of  the  display.  It  was  Wis 
dom  on  the  seat  of  Power,  pronouncing  the 
decrees  of  Justice.*/ 

Political  and  legal  sense  are  so  distinct  from 
one  another  as  almost  to  be  irreconcilable  in 
the  same  mind.  The  latter  is  a  mere  course 
of  deduction  from  premises;  the  other  calls 
into  exercise  the  highest  order  of  perceptive 
faculties,  and  that  quick  felicity  of  intuition 
which  flashes  to  its  conclusions  by  a  species 
of  mental  sympathy  rather  than  by  any  con 
scious  process  of  argumentation.  The  one 
requires  that  the  susceptibility  of  the  judg 
ment  should  be  kept  exquisitely  alive  to  every 
suggestion  of  the  practical,  so  as  to  catch  and 
follow  the  insensible  reasonings  of  life,  rather 
than  to  reason  itself:  the  other  demands  the 
exclusion  of  every  thing  not  rigorously  exact, 
and  the  concentration  of  the  whole  conscious 
ness  of  the  mind  in  kindling  implicit  truth 
into  formal  principles.  The  wonder,  in  Judge 
Marshall's  case,  was  to  see  these  two  almost 
inconsistent  faculties,  in  quality  so  matchless 
and  in  development  so  magnificent,  harmoniz 
ed  and  united  in  his  marvellous  intelligence. 
We  beheld  him  pass  from  one  to  the  other  de 
partment  without  confusing  their  nature,  and 
without  perplexing  his  own  understanding. 
When  he  approached  a  question  of  constitu 
tional  jurisprudence,  we  saw  the  lawyer  expand 
into  the  legislator ;  and  in  returning  to  a  nar- 
r«wer  sphere,  pause  from  the  creative  glow  of 
statesmanship,  and  descend  from  intercourse 
with  the  great  conceptions  and  great  feel 
ings  by  which  nations  are  guided  and  society 
is  advanced,  to  submit  his  faculties  with  doci 
lity  to  the  yoke  of  legal  forms,  and  with  im 
passible  calmness  to  thread  the  tangled  intri 
cacies  of  forensic  technicalitiesA 


There  was  in  this  extraordinary  man  an  un 
usual  combination  of  the  capacity  of  appre 
hending  truth,  with  the  ability  to  demonstrate 
and  make  it  palpable  to  others.  They  often 
exist  together  in  unequal  degrees.  Lord  Mans 
field's  power  of  luminous  explication  was  so 
surpassing  that  one  might  almost  say  that  he 
made  others  perceive  what  he  did  not  under 
stand  himself;  but  the  numerous  instances  in 
which  his  decisions  have  been  directly  over 
thrown  by  his  successors,  and  the  still  greater 
number  of  cases  in  which  his  opinions  have 
been  silently  departed  from,  compel  a  belief 
that  his  judgment  was  not  of  the  truest  kind. 
Lord  Eldon's  judicial  sagacity  was  a  species 
of  inspiration  ;  but  he  seemed  to  be  unable  not 
only  to  convince  others,  but  even  to  certify 
himself  of  the  correctness  of  his  own  greatest 
and  wisest  determinations.  But  Judge  Mar 
shall's  sense  appeared  to  be  at  once  both  in 
stinctive  and  analytical :  his  logic  extended  as 
far  as  his  perception  :  he  had  no  propositions 
in  his  thoughts  which  he  could  not  resolve  into 
their  axioms.  Truth  came  to  him  as  a  revela 
tion,  and  from  him  as  a  demonstration.  His 
mind  was  more  than  the  faculty  of  vision ;  it 
was  a  body  of  light,  which  irradiated  the  sub 
ject  to  which  it  was  directed,  and  rendered  it  as 
distinct  to  every  other  eye  as  it  was  to  its  own. 

The  mental  integrity  of  this  illustrious  man 
was  not  the  least  important  element  of  his 
greatness.  Those  qualities  of  vanity,  fond 
ness  for  display,  the  love  of  effect,  the  solici 
tation  of  applause,  sensibility  to  opinions, 
which  are  the  immoralities  of  intellect,  never 
attached  to  that  stainless  essence  of  pure  rea 
son.  He  seemed  to  men  to  be  a  passionless 
intelligence;  susceptible  to  no  feeling  but  the 
constant  love  of  right;  subject  to  no  affection 
but  a  polarity  toward  truth. 

— Chief  Justice  Marshall's  History  of  the 
Colonies  planted  by  the  English  on  the  Conti 
nent  of  North  America,  from  their  Settlement 
to  the  Commencement  of  the  War  which  ter 
minated  in  their  Independence,  was  first  printed 
as  an  introductory  volume  to  the  Life  of  Wash 
ington,  but  in  1824  was  published  separately. 
The  Life  of  Washington,  originally  in  five  vo 
lumes,  in  1832  was  republished  in  two.  Both 
these  works  had  been  revised  with  great  care. 
A  volume  entitled  The  Writings  of  John  Mar 
shall  upon  the  Constitution,  was  published  in 
Boston  in  1839,  under  the  direction  of  Judge 
Story. 


ALEXANDER  HAMILTON. 


[Born  1757.    Died  1804.] 


IN  the  summer  of  1772  the  leeward  West 
India  islands  were  desolated  by  a  hurricane. 
While  its  effects  were  still  visible,  and  men 
were  looking  fearfully  into  the  skies,  Thomas 
Hewes's  St.  Christopher's  Gazette  was  dis 
tributed,  with  an  account  of  the  calamity  writ 
ten  with  such  singular  ability  that  when  it 
reached  Saint  Croix,  where  it  was  dated, 
the  governor  and  chief  men  of  the  place  set 
themselves  to  work  to  discover  its  author.  It 
was  traced  to  a  youth — in  the  counting-house 
of  Nicholas  Cruger,  a  merchant  there — named 
ALEXANDER  HAMILTON,  born  some  fifteen 
years  before  in  the  island  of  Nevis ;  whose 
father  was  a  decayed  Scottish  gentleman,  and 
whose  mother  was  of  the  good  Huguenot 
stock  of  France.  It  was  a  happy  day  for  our 
young  author :  a  lad  who  could  write  in  this 
way  should  not  spend  his  life  in  casting  up 
accounts  :  it  was  at  once  determined  to  send 
him  to  New  York  to  complete  his  education. 
While  on  his  way,  the  ship  which  bore  him 
was  on  fire,  dangerously,  but  not  fatally,  and 
in  the  month  of  October,  in  that  year,  he 
landed  at  Boston. 

Francis  Barber,  afterward  a  colonel,  and  a 
brave  man  in  several  battles,  was  at  this  time 
principal  of  a  grammar  school  in  Elizabeth- 
town,  New  Jersey  :"a  school  of  good  repute, 
for  Brockholst  Livingston  and  Jonathan  Day 
ton  were  among  his  pupils  ;  and  hither  came 
the  young  West  Indian  to  be  prepared  for 
college :  a  handsome  youth,  erect,  graceful, 
eagle-eyed,  and  wise  in  conversation  as  a  man. 

Before  the  end  of  1773  he  had  finished  his 
preliminary  studies,  and  with  honest  Hercules 
Mulligan,  tailor,  afterward  member  of  the 
revolutionary  committee,  and  secret  corre 
spondent  of  the  command er-in-chief,  he  pro 
ceeded  to  Princeton,  to  inquire  of  Dr.  Wither- 
spoon  if  he  could  enter  Nassau  Hall  with  the 
privilege  of  passing  from  class  to  class  as  fast 
as  he  advanced  in  scholarship.  The  president 
was  sorry,  but  the  laws  of  the  institution 
would  not  permit.  He  was  more  success 
ful  in  New  York.  In  King's  College  he 
might  sue  for  a  degree  whenever  he  could 

12 


show  the  title  of  sufficient  learning.  The 
chrysales  of  great  men  were  in  the  college,  but 
there  was  only  one  Alexander  Hamilton  there, 
and  this  soon  became  manifest.  In  the  de 
bating  club  he  controlled  every  thing  by  his 
acute  ness  and  eloquence,  and  his  room-mate 
was  awed,  night  and  morning,  by  the  fervid 
passion  of  his  prayers.  He  wrote  hymns  and 
burlesqued  the  royal  printer's  leaders  ;  he  was 
pious  and  punctilious  ;  ambitious  and  gay. 

The  days  of  trouble  were  already  come. 
Macdougal  had  been  imprisoned  for  his  ap 
peal  to  the  betrayed  inhabitants  of  the  colony ; 
and  the  liberty  tree,  coated  with  hoops  which 
no  garrison  axe  could  cut,  had  been  the  rally 
ing  point  for  numerous  assemblies  of  the 
people.  All  the  proceedings  were  watched 
by  the  young  collegian,  who  walked  night 
and  morning  under  the  large  trees  in  Batteau 
street  for  hours,  with  a  thoughtful  face. 
Every  week  he  read  the  honest  Post  Boy, 
mercenary  Hugh  Gaines's  neutral  Mercury, 
and  the  unscrupulous  "  Brussels  Gazette" 
of  well-fed  James  Rivington,  printer  to  the 
king.  On  the  sixth  of  July,  1774,  the  long- 
remembered  great  meeting  in  the  fields  was 
held,  and  as  the  hot  sun  was  going  down, 
and  the  multitude  was  about  to  separate,  a 
youth  of  diminutive  form  and  a  pale  intel 
lectual  face,  ascended  the  stand,  recounted 
the  oppressions  of  the  government,  insisted 
on  the  duty  of  resistance,  and  foretold  that 
the  waves  of  rebellion,  sparkling  with  fire, 
would  wash  back  to  England  the  wrecks  of 
her  wealth  and  power  from  the  New  World. 
He  closed  amid  breathless  silence,  and  the 
air  was  filled  with  the  tumult  of  wonder  and 
applause.  So,  at  seventeen  years  of  age, 
Alexander  Hamilton  commenced  his  glorious 
public  life. 

The  Episcopal  clergy,  all  through  the 
country,  were  opposed  to  liberty.  The  king 
was  the  head  of  the  church.  Doctors  Chand 
ler,  Cooper,  Inglis,  Seabury,  Wilkins,  and 
others,  had  already  written  largely  in  defence 
of  the  ministry,  and  they  now  redoubled  their 
i  efforts.  With  his  master,  President  Myles 


90 


ALEXANDER   HAMILTON. 


Cooper,  Hamilton  had  tried  his  lance  through 
Holt's  paper,  and  when  Seabury  and  Wilkins 
attacked  the  Congress  in  their  Free  Thoughts 
and  Congress  Canvassed, — distributed  by  the 
Tories  all  through  the  colonies,  and  tarred, 
feathered,  and  nailed  to  the  pillories  by  the 
people — a  defence  appeared  from  the  student, 
anonymous,  like  the  pamphlets  of  the  priests, 
and  remarkable  for  its  directness,  ingenuity, 
and  spirit.  The  clerical  combatants  published 
A  View  of  the  Controversy,  and  within  a 
month  Hamilton  produced  a  rejoinder,  in  a 
pamphlet  of  nearly  a  hundred  pages.  It  was 
more  able  than  the  first ;  grasped  great  prin 
ciples  with  a  master  hand ;  and  by  a  course 
of  argument  equally  original  and  forcible, 
vindicated  the  Whigs,  while  its  author  seemed 
to  look  clearly  into  the  distant  future  and  see 
our  state  and  policy.  The  Whigs  received 
these  pamphlets  as  text-books,  and  they  were 
attributed  to  the  maturest  intellects  of  the 
party.  "  How  absurd,"  said  Dr.  Myles 
Cooper,  "  to  suppose  that  they  were  written 
by  so  young  a  man  as  Hamilton !"  But  the 
truth  came  out,  and  the  gallant  Marinus  Wil- 
lett  says,  the  "Vindicator  of  Congress,"  as 
he  was  from  that  time  called,  "became  our 
oracle." 

From  this  period  Hamilton  was  a  "citi 
zen."  All  his  thoughts,  all  his  energies 
were  given  to  the  country.  I  shall  not  attempt 
to  trace  with  particularity  his  history,  except 
as  it  is  connected  with  the  press.  His  next 
publication  was  Remarks  on  the  Quebec  Bill, 
in  two  numbers.  His  style  was  more  highly 
polished,  his  views  were  more  statesmanlike 
and  profound.  In  1775  he  entered  a  military 
company,  studied  tactics,  and  was  engaged 
in  the  first  act  of  armed  opposition  to  the 
ministry. 

At  the  passage  of  the  Raritan,  in  the  memo 
rable  re  treat  through  New  Jersey,  Washington 
observed  with  admiration  the  courage  and 
skill  of  a  youthful  artillery  officer,  and  ordered 
his  aid-de-camp,  Fitzgerald,  to  ascertain  who 
he  was,  and  to  bring  him  to  head-quarters  at 
the  first  halt  of  the  army.  In  the  evening  of 
that  day  the  founder  of  the  republic  had  his 
first  interview  with  the  most  illustrious  of  her 
statesmen.  Hamilton  continued  in  the  family 
of  the  commander-in-chief  until  1781,  and  from 
the  beginning  to  the  end,  to  use  Washington's 
own  language,  was  his  "  principal  and  most 
confidential  aid." 


The  embarrassments  of  the  treasury  and 
consequent  sufferings  of  the  army  led  Hamil 
ton  to  the  study  of  finance,  and  in  1779,  in 
private  and  anonymous  communications  to 
Robert  Morris,  he  proposed  a  great  financial 
scheme  for  the  country,  in  which,  rising 
above  all  the  crude  systems  of  that  age,  and 
pointing  to  a  combination  of  public  with  pri 
vate  credit  as  the  basis  of  his  plan,  he  led  the 
way  to  the  establishment  of  the  first  Ameri 
can  bank.  In  the  following  spring,  when  he 
was  but  twenty-three  years  of  age,  he  wrote 
his  celebrated  letter  to  Mr.  Duane  on  the  state 
of  the  nation,  in  which  he  suggests  the  na 
tional  convention  to  form  a  constitution,  and 
the  mode  of  recommending  it  to  the  people, 
"  in  sensible  and  popular  writings,"  which 
he  afterward  pursued  in  the  Federalist. 

In  December,  1780,  he  was  married  to  a 
daughter  of  General  Schuyler,  and  on  the  first 
of  March,  1781,  he  retired  from  the  military 
family  of  Washington ;  with  the  disinterest 
edness  which  characterized  all  his  actions, 
though  without  resources,  resigning  his  pay, 
and  retaining  his  commission  only  that  he 
might  have  the  power,-  should  there  be  occa 
sion,  still  to  serve  his  country  in  the  field. 
His  brilliant  conduct  at  Yorktown  closed  his 
military  career. 

His  quick  apprehension  and  solid  judgmen 
enabled  him,  with  almost  unprecedented  rapi 
dity,  to  prepare  for  admission  to  the  bar.  He 
made  his  first  appearance  in  the  courts  in 
1782,  and  in  the  summer  of  the  same  year 
was  elected  by  the  legislature  of  New  York 
to  the  congress  of  the  confederation.  The 
war  at  an  end,  patriotism  and  enthusiasm 
seemed  to  have  died.  All  was  apathy  and 
irresolution.  The  Congress  of  1782  was  full 
of  weak  men  and  cowards.  "The  more  I 
see,"  wrote  Hamilton,  "  the  more  reason  I 
find  for  those  who  love  this  country  to  weep 
over  its  blindness."  His  far-reaching  saga 
city,  his  solemn  regard  for  justice,  and  his 
eloquence  soon  imparted  a  new  tone  to  that 
body.  He  was  always  a  member  and  often 
the  chairman  of  the  committees  which  had  in 
charge  the  subjects  of  greatest  importance. 
His  reports  are  evidences  of  his  extraordinary 
abilities,  and  of  the  correctness  of  the  judg 
ment  expressed  at  this  period  by  Washing 
ton,  that  "  no  one  exceeded  him  in  probity 
and  sterling  virtue." 

At  the  end  of  the  session  he  entered  with 


ALEXANDER    HAMILTON. 


91 


characteristic  ardour  upon  the  duties  of  his 
profession,  in  the  city  of  New  York ;  but  his 
mind  was  still  occupied  with  extensive 
schemes  for  the  general  benefit,  and  no  man 
exerted  so  wide  and  powerful  an  influence 
with  his  pen.  In  1786  he  was  a  member  of 
the  New  York  assembly,  and  in  1787  was 
one  of  the  three  delegates  to  the  convention 
for  the  formation  of  a  federal  constitution, 
which  he  had  proposed  in  his  letter  on  the 
state  of  the  nation  in  1779.  No  one  will 
question  the  justice  of  the  opinion  expressed 
by  Guizot  respecting  his  efforts  in  this  cele 
brated  body,  when  he  says,  that  "  there  is  not 
one  element  of  order,  strength,  or  durability 
in  the  constitution  which  he  did  not  power 
fully  contribute  to  introduce  into  the  scheme 
and  cause  to  be  adopted."  With  Madison, 
whose  labours  in  the  convention  had  been 
of  similar  importance,  and  John  Jay,  one  of 
our  purest  and  ablest  statesmen  and  jurists, 
upon  its  adjournment  he  commenced  a  series 
of  essays,  under  the  signature  of  Publius,  upon 
the  necessity  of  the  union  to  the  prosperity 
of  the  people,  the  insufficiency  of  the  articles 
of  confederation  to  maintain  it,  and  the  indis- 
pensableriess  of  a  government  organized  upon 
principles  and  clothed  with  powers  at  least 
equal  to  those  granted  in  the  one  proposed. 
These  essays  have  since  been  known  under 
the  name  of  The  Federalist.  They  constitute 
one  of  the  most  profound  and  lucid  treatises 
on  politics  that  has  ever  been  written.  Ha 
milton  was  the  author  of  nearly  three-fourths 
of  them,  and  admirable  for  various  qualities 
as  are  those  of  his^illustrious  associates,  his 
are  easily  distinguished  by  their  superior  com 
prehensiveness,  practicalness,  originality,  and 
condensed  and  polished  diction.  In  1788  he 
was  a  member  of  the  New  York  convention 
to  which  the  constitution  was  submitted,  and 
it  was  owing  to  his  luminous  arguments  and 
persuasive  eloquence,  as  it  was  to  Madison's 
in  Virginia,  that  it  was  accepted. 

Upon  the  organization  of  the  government, 
Washington  indicated  his  estimation  of  the 
talents  and  integrity  of  Hamilton  by  appoint 
ing  him  secretary  of  the  treasury.  This  office 
required  the  vigorous  exercise  of  all  his  pow 
ers  ;  and  his  reports  of  plans  for  the  restora 
tion  of  public  credit,  on  the  protection  and 
encouragement  of  manufactures,  on  the  neces 
sity  and  the  constitutionality  of  a  national 
bank,  and  on  the  establishment  of  a  mint, 


would  alone  have  given  him  the  reputation  of 
being  one  of  the  most  consummate  statesmen 
who  have  ever  lived.  The  plans  which  he 
proposed  were  adopted  by  Congress  almost 
without  alteration.  When  he  entered  upon 
the  duties  of  his  office  the  government  had 
neither  credit  nor  money,  and  the  resources 
of  the  country  were  unknown ;  when  he  re 
tired,  at  the  end  of  five  years,  the  fiscal  con 
dition  of  no  people  was  better,  or  more  clearly 
understood.  Mr.  Gallatin  has  said  that  secre 
taries  of  the  treasury  have  since  enjoyed  a 
sinecure,  the  genius  and  labours  of  Hamilton 
having  created  and  arranged  every  thing  that 
was  necessary  for  the  perfect  and  easy  dis 
charge  of  their  duties. 

While  Hamilton  was  in  the  treasury  the 
French  revolution  was  at  its  height,  and  na 
tive  demagogues  and  alien  emissaries  were 
busy  in  efforts  to  embroil  us  in  foreign  war. 
Hamilton  advised  the  proclamation  of  neutral 
ity  and  the  mission  of  Mr.  Jay,  the  two  acts 
which  distinguished  the  external  policy  of  the 
first  administration;  and  he  defended  the  pro 
clamation  under  the  signatures  of  No  Jacobin 
and  Pacificus,  and  Jay's  treaty  under  that  of 
Camillus,  in  essays  which  at  the  time  had  a 
controlling  influence  on  the  public  mind,  and 
which  are  still  regarded  as  among  the  most 
profound  commentaries  which  have  appeared 
on  the  principles  of  international  law  and 
policy  to  which  they  had  relation. 

A  false  economy  in  this  country  has  made 
almost  every  high  office  a  burden  to  its  pos 
sessor.  Hamilton's  increasing  family  warned 
him  that  his  public  must  in  some  degree  be 
sacrificed  to  his  private  obligations.  When 
he  resigned  his  seat  in  the  cabinet  and  resumed 
his  profession,  his  door  was  thronged  with 
clients,  and  he  seemed  on  the  high  road  to  for 
tune.  The  conduct  of  France  meanwhile 
made  every  patriot  a  sentinel,  and  when  her 
depredations  upon  our  commerce  and  insults 
to  our  ministers  left  no  alternative,  under  the 
signature  of  Titus  Manlius,  as  with  a  bugle 
whose  familiar  sound  marshalled  to  arms,  he 
roused  the  people  to  resistance.  The  recom 
mendations  which  he  made  were  adopted  by 
Congress,  and  when  the  provisional  army 
was  organized,  Washington  accepted  the  chief 
command  upon  condition  that  his  favourite 
old  associate  in  the  field  and  the  council 
should  be  his  first  officer.  Upon  the  death 
of  Washington  in  1799,  Hamilton  became 


92 


ALEXANDER   HAMILTON. 


lieutenant-general,  and  when  the  army  was 
disbanded  he  returned  to  the  bar. 

The  remainder  of  his  life  was  marked  by 
few  incidents,  and  the  melancholy  circum 
stances  of  its  close,  at  the  end  of  nearly  half 
a  century,  are  still  familiar  to  the  people. 
He  was  murdered  by  Aaron  Burr,  at  Wee- 
hawken,  near  the  city  of  New  York,  on  the 
eleventh  of  June,  1804.  There  has  been  but 
one  other  instance  of  such  profound  and  uni 
versal  mourning  in  the  United  States.  What 
ever  differences  of  opinion  may  have  divided 
from  him  some  of  his  countrymen,  there  was 
no  one  to  question  that  he  was  a  man  of  ex 
traordinary  abilities,  virtue,  and  independence. 
His  assassin,  then  in  the  second  office  of  the 
republic,  and  the  favourite  of  a  powerful  party, 
became  a  fugitive  and  a  vagabond. 

Hamilton  was  not  faultless;  but  his  errors 
have  been  greatly  exaggerated,  and  no  intelli 
gent  man  needs  be  told  that  Madison  was  the 
only  one  among  his  distinguished  political 
adversaries  whose  private  character  approached 
his  in  purity.  His  public  life  was  without  a 
stain.  He  was  undoubtedly  the  greatest 
statesman  of  the  eighteenth  century.  "  He 
must  be  classed,"  says  Guizot,  "  among  the 
men  who  have  best  known  the  vital  principles 
and  fundamental  conditions  of  a  government 
worthy  of  its  name  and  mission."  Consider 
ing  the  activity  of  his  life,  and  that  so  much 
of  it  was  passed  in  the  military  service,  afford 
ing  but  little  leisure  and  opportunity  for  his 
torical  studies,  the  extent  and  fulness  of  his 
information  is  astonishing.  There  was  never 
a  statesman  whose  views  were  more  explicit 
and  comprehensive,  and  they  seem  to  be  re 
sults  of  the  closest  inductive  reasoning  from 
the  experience  of  other  nations.  But  however 
deliberately  formed  and  firmly  founded  were 
his  opinions,  whenever  he  discovered  that 
they  could  not  be  maintained,  he  cheerfully 
acquiesced  in  the  plans  which  were  preferred 
by  his  associates,  and  exerted  his  abilities 
to  procure  their  adoption.  It  is  remarkable 
that  a  man  who  on  all  subjects  was  so  frank 
and  fearless  should  have  been  so  ill  under 
stood.  His  principles  have  been  systemati 
cally  perverted  and  misrepresented,  not  only 
without  any  sort  of  authority,  but  in  oppo 
sition  to  positive  declarations  in  his  writ 
ings*,  speeches,  and  conversations.  He  did 
indeed  have  fears  that  the  constitution  would 
not  ultimately  prove  to  be  practicable ;  that 


"if  we  inclined  too  much  to  democracy  w 
should  soon  shoot  into  a  monarchy;"  but 
no  one  had  more  dread  of  such  a  result, — no 
one  was  more  anxious  for  the  greatest  free 
dom  to  the  citizen  that  was  compatible  with 
efficiency  in  the  government.  It  is  an  inte 
resting  fact,  that  the  most  anti-democratic 
proposition  which  he  made  in  the  federal  con 
vention — that  for  choosing  a  president  and 
senate  to  hold  their  offices  during  good  beha 
viour — was  supported  by  the  democratic  states 
of  Pennsylvania  and  Virginia,  and  voted  for 
by  Mr.  Madison.  His  views  on  this  and 
other  points  were  essentially  modified  during 
the  progress  of  the  debates,  and  he  finally 
voted  to  limit  the  presidential  term  to  three 
years.  He  however  frankly  admitted,  when 
questioned,  that  he  had  favored  the  idea  of  the 
tenure  of  good  behaviour.  "  My  reasons,"  he 
said  to  General  Lewis,  "  were  an  exclusion, 
so  far  as  possible,  of  the  influence  of  execu 
tive  patronage  in  the  choice  of  a  chief  magis 
trate,  and  a  desire  to  avoid  the  incalculable 
mischief  which  must  result  from  the  too  fre 
quent  elections  of  that  officer.  You  and  I, 
my  friend,"  he  continued,  "  may  not  live  to 
see  the  day;  but  most  assuredly  it  will  come, 
when  every  vital  interest  of  the  state  will  be 
merged  in  the  all-absorbing  question  of  who 
shall  be  NEXT  PRESIDENT."  The  prophecy 
has  become  history.  It  became  so  earlier 
than  he  thought,  for  both  he  and  his  friend 
saw  it  fulfilled  in  the  controversy  of  1800. 

In  every  page  of  the  works  of  Hamilton 
we  discover  an  original,  vigorous,  and  prac 
tical  understanding,  informed  with  various 
and  profound  knowledge.  But  few  of  his 
speeches  were  reported,  and  even  these  very 
imperfectly;  but  we  have  traditions  of  his 
eloquence,  which  represent  it  as  wonder 
fully  winning  and  persuasive.  Indeed  it  is 
evident  from  its  known  effects  that  he  was  a 
debater  of  the  very  first  class.  He  thought 
clearly  and  rapidly,  had  a  ready  command  of 
language,  and  addressed  himself  solely  to  the 
reason.  He  never  lost  his  self-command,  and 
never  seemed  impatient,  but  from  the  braverv 
of  his  nature,  and  his  contempt  of  meanness 
and  servility,  he  was  perhaps  sometimes  in 
discreet.  His  works  were  written  hastily, 
but  we  can  discover  in  them  no  signs  of  im 
maturity  or  carelessness:  on  the  contrary  they 
are  hardly  excelled  in  compactness,  clearness, 
elegance,  and  purity  of  language. 


ALEXANDER    HAMILTON. 


93 


THE  FATE  OF  ANDRE. 

FROM     A     LETTER     TO     COL.     LAUREN  S. 

NEVER,  perhaps,  did  any  man  suffer  death  with 
more  justice,  or  deserve  it  less.  Th#  first  step  he 
took,  after  his  capture,  was  to  write  a  letter  to 
( Teneral  Washington,  conceived  in  terms  of  dignity 
without  insolence,  and  apology  without  meanness. 
The  scope  of  it,  was  to  vindicate  himself  from  the 
imputation  of  having  assumed  a  mean  character 
for  treacherous  or  interested  purposes;  a&'Jerting 
that  he  had  been  involuntarily  an  impostor ,  that 
contrary  to  his  intention,  which  was  to  me*.t  a 
person  for  intelligence  on  neutral  ground,  he  had 
been  betrayed  within  our  posts,  and  forced  into 
the  vile  condition  of  an  enemy  in  disguise :  soli 
citing  only,  that,  to  whatever  rigour  policy  might 
devote  him,  a  decency  of  treatment  might  be  ob 
served,  due  to  a  person,  who,  though  unfortunate, 
had  been  guilty  of  nothing  dishonourable.  His 
request  was  granted  in  its  full  extent ;  for,  in  the 
whole  progress  of  the  affair,  he  was  treated  with 
the  most  scrupulous  delicacy.  When  brought 
before  the  Board  of  Officers,  he  met  with  every 
mark  of  indulgence,  and  was  required  to  answer 
no  interrogatory  which  could  even  embarrass  his 
feelings.  On  his  part,  while  he  carefully  concealed 
every  thing  that  might  involve  others,  he  frankly 
confessed  all  the  facts  relating  to  himself;  and, 
upon  his  confession,  without  the  trouble  of  examin 
ing  a  witness,  the  board  made  their  report.  The 
members  of  it  were  not  more  impressed  with  the 
candour  and  firmness,  mixed  with  a  becoming 
sensibility,  which  he  displayed,  than  he  was  pene 
trated  with  their  liberality  and  politeness.  He 
acknowledged  the  generosity  of  the  behaviour  to 
ward  him  in  every  respect,  but  particularly  in  this, 
in  the  strongest  terms  of  manly  gratitude.  In  a. 
conversation  with  a  gentleman  who  visited  him 
after  his  trial,  he  said  he  flattered  himself  he  had 
never  been  illiberal ;  but  if  there  were  any  remains 
of  prejudice  in  his  mind,  his  present  experience 
must  obliterate  them.  ^ 

In  one  of  the  visits  I  made  to  him,  (and  I  saw 
him  several  times  during  his  confinement,)  he 
begged  me  to  be  the  bearer  of  a  request  to  the 
general,  for  permission  to  send  an  open  letter  to 
Sir  Henry  Clinton.  "  I  foresee  my  fate,"  said  he, 
"  and  though  I  pretend  not  to  play  the  hero,  or  to 
be  indifferent  about  life,  yet  I  am  reconciled  to 
whatever  may  happen,  conscious  that  misfortune, 
not  guilt,  has  brought  it  upon  me.  There  is  only 
one  thing  that  disturbs  my  tranquillity.  Sir  Henry 
Clinton  has  been  too  good  to  me ;  he  has  been 
lavish  of  his  kindness.  I  am  bound  to  him  by  too 
many  obligations,  and  love  him  too  well,  to  bear 
the  thought  that  he  should  reproach  himself,  or 
that  others  should  reproach  him,  on  the  supposi 
tion  of  my  having  conceived  myself  obliged,  by 
his  instructions,  to  run  the  risk  I  did.  I  would 
not,  for  the  world,  leave  a  sting  in  his  mind  that 
should  imbitter  his  future  days."  He  could  scarce 
finish  the  sentence,  bursting  into  tears  in  spite  of 
his  efforts  to  suppress  them ;  and  with  difficulty 
collected  himself  enough  afterward  to  add:  "I 


wish  to  be  permitted  to  assure  him,  I  did  not  act 
under  this  impression,  but  submitted  to  a  neces 
sity  imposed  upon  me,  as  contrary  to  my  own 
inclination  as  to  his  orders."  His  request  was 
readily  complied  with;  and  he  wrote  the  letter 
annexed,  with  which  I  dare  say  you  will  be  as 
much  pleased  as  I  am,  both  for  the  diction  and 
sentiment. 

When  his  sentence  was  announced  to  him,  he 
remarked,  that  since  it  was  his  lot  to  die,  there 
was  still  a  choice  in  the  mode,  which  would  make 
a  material  difference  in  his  feelings ;  and  he  would 
be  happy,  if  possible,  to  be  indulged  with  a  pro 
fessional  death.  He  made  a  second  application, 
by  letter,  in  concise  but  persuasive  terms.  It  was 
thought  this  indulgence,  being  incompatible  with 
the  customs  of  war,  could  not  be  granted ;  and  it 
was  therefore  determined,  in  both  cases,  to  evade  an 
answrer,  to  spare  him  the  sensations  which  a  certain 
knowledge  of  the  intended  mode  would  inflict. 

In  going  to  the  place  of  execution,  he  bowed 
familiarly,  as  he  went  along,  to  all  those  with 
whom  he  had  been  acquainted  in  his  confinement. 
A  smile  of  complacency  expressed  the  serene  for 
titude  of  his  mind.  Arrive^  at  the  fatal  spot,  he 
asked,  with  some  emotion,  "  Must  I  then  die  in 
this  manner  7"  He  was  told  it  had  been  unavoid 
able.  "I  am  reconciled  to  my  fate,"  said  he, 
"but  not  to  the  mode."  Soon,  however,  recol 
lecting  himself,  he  added :  "  It  will  be  but  a  mo 
mentary  pang ;"  and,  springing  upon  the  cart, 
performed  the  last  offices  to  himself,  with  a  com 
posure  that  excited  the  admiration  and  melted  the 
hearts  of  the  beholders.  Upon  being  told  the  final 
moment  was  at  hand,  and  asked  if  he  had  any 
thing  to  say,  he  answered,  « Nothing,  but  to 
request  you  will  witness  to  the  world,  that  I  die 
like  a  brave  man."  Among  the  extraordinary 
circumstances  that  attended  him,  in  the  midst  of 
his  enemies,  he  died  universally  esteemed  and 
universally  regretted. 

There  was  something  singularly  interesting  in 
the  character  and  fortunes  of  Andre.  To  an  ex 
cellent  understanding,  well  improved  by  education 
and  travel,  he  united  a  peculiar  elegance  of  mind 
and  manners,  and  the  advantage  of  a  pleasing 
person.  'T  is  said  he  possessed  a  pretty  taste  for 
the  fine  arts,  and  had  himself  attained  some  pro 
ficiency  in  poetry,  music,  and  painting.  His 
knowledge  appeared  without  ostentation,  and  em 
bellished  by  a  diffidence  that  rarely  accompanies 
so  many  talents  and  accomplishments ;  which  left 
you  to  suppose  more  than  appeared.  His  senti 
ments  were  elevated,  and  inspired  esteem :  they 
had  a  softness  that  conciliated  affection.  His  elo 
cution  was  handsome ;  his  address  easy,  polite, 
and  insinuating.  By  his  merit,  he  had  acquired 
the  unlimited  confidence  of  his  general,  and  was 
making  a  rapid  progress  in  military  rank  and  re 
putation.  But  in  the  height  of  his  career,  flushed 
with  new  hopes  from  the  execution  of  a  project, 
the  most  beneficial  to  his  party  that  could  be 
devised,  he  was  at  once  precipitated  from  the 
summit  of  prosperity,  and  saw  all  the  expecta 
tions  of  his  ambition  blasted,  and  himself  ruined. 


94 


ALEXANDER    HAMILTON. 


The  character  I  have  given  of  him  is  drawn 
partly  from  what  I  saw  of  him  myself,  and  partly 
from  information.  I  am  aware  that  a  man  of  real 
merit  is  never  seen  in  so  favourable  a  light  as 
through  the  medium  of  adversity :  the  clouds  that 
surround  him  arc  shades  that  set  off  his  good  quali 
ties.  Misfortune  cuts  down  the  little  vanities  that, 
in  prosperous  times,  serve  as  so  many  spots  in  his 
virtues ;  and  gives  a  tone  of  humility  that  makes 
his  worth  more  amiable.  His  spectators,  who 
enjoy  a  happier  lot,  are  less  prone  to  detract  from 
it,  through  envy,  and  are  more  disposed,  by  com 
passion,  to  give  him  the  credit  he  deserves,  and 
perhaps  even  to  magnify  it 

I  speak  not  of  Andre's  conduct  in  this  affair  as 
a  philosopher,  but  as  a  man  of  the  world.  The 
authorized  maxims  and  practices  of  war  are  the 
satires  of  human  nature.  They  countenance  al 
most  every  species  of  seduction  as  well  as  violence  ; 
and  the  general  who  can  make  most  traitors  in 
the  army  of  his  adversary,  is  frequently  most  ap 
plauded.  On  this  scale  we  acquit  Andre ;  while 
we  could  not  but  condemn  him,  if  we  were  to  ex 
amine  his  conduct  by  the  sober  rules  of  philosophy 
and  moral  rectitude.  *t  is,  however,  a  blemish  on 
his  fame,  that  he  once  intended  to  prostitute  a 
flag :  about  this,  a  man  of  nice  honour  ought  to 
hav<?  had  a  scruple  ;  but  the  temptation  was  great; 
let  his  misfortunes  cast  a  veil  over  his  error. 

Several  letters  from  Sir  Henry  Clinton  and 
others  were  received  in  the  course  of  the  affair, 
feebly  attempting  to  prove,  that  Andre  came  out 
under  the  protection  of  a  flag,  with  a  passport 
from  a  general  officer  in  actual  service ;  and  con 
sequently  could  not  be  justly  detained.  Clinton 
sent  a  deputation,  composed  of  Lieutenant-Gene- 
ral  Robinson,  Mr.  Elliot,  and  Mr.  William  Smith, 
to  represent,  as  he  said,  the  true  state  of  Major 
Andre's  case.  General  Greene  met  Robinson, 
and  had  a  conversation  with  him ;  in  which  he 
reiterated  the  pretence  of  a  flag;  urged  Andre's 
release  as  a  personal  favour  to  Sir  Henry  Clinton ; 
and  offered  any  friend  of  ours,  in  their  power,  in 
exchange.  Nothing  could  have  been  more  frivo 
lous  than  the  plea  which  was  used.  The  fact 
was,  that  besides  the  time,  manner,  object  of  the 
interview,  change  of  dress,  and  other  circumstances, 
there  was  not  a  single  formality  customary  with 
flags ;  and  the  passport  was  not  to  Major  Andre, 
but  to  Mr.  Anderson.  But  had  there  been,  on 
the  contrary,  all  the  formalities,  it  would  be  an 
.ibuse  of  language  to  say,  that  the  sanction  of  a 
flag  for  corrupting  an  officer  to  betray  his  trust 
ought  to  be  respected.  So  unjustifiable  a  purpose 
would  not  only  destroy  its  validity,  but  make  it  an 
aggravation.  Andre,  himself,  has  answered  the 
argument,  by  ridiculing  and  exploding  the  idea, 
in  his  examination  before  the  Board  of  Officers. 
It  was  a  weakness  to  urge  it. 

There  was.  in  truth,  no  way  of  saving  him. 
Arnold,  or  he,  must  have  been  the  victim:  the 
former  was  out  of  our  power. 

It  was  by  some  suspected,  Arnold  had  taken 
his  measures  in  such  a  manner,  that  if  the  inter 
view  had  been  discovered  in  the  act,  it  might 


have  been  in  his  power  to  sacrifice  Andre  to  his 
own  security.  This  surmise  of  double  treachery 
made  them  imagine  Clinton  might  be  induced  to 
give  up  Arnold  for  Andre;  and  a  gentleman  took 
occasion  to  suggest  this  expedient  to  the  latter,  as 
a  thing  that  might  be  proposed  by  him.  He  de 
clined  it.  The  moment  he  had  been  capable  of 
so  much  frailty,  I  should  have  ceased  to  esteem 
him. 

The  infamy  of  Arnold's  conduct  previous  to  his 
desertion,  is  only  equalled  by  his  baseness  since. 
Beside  the  folly  of  writing  to  Sir  Henry  Clinton, 
assuring  him  that  Andre  had  acted  under  a  pass 
port  from  him,  and  according  to  his  directions 
while  commanding  officer  at  a  post;  and  that, 
therefore,  he  did  not  doubt,  he  would  be  imme 
diately  sent  in ;  he  had  the  effrontery  to  write  to 
General  Washington  in  the  same  spirit ;  with  the 
addition  of  a  menace  of  retaliation,  if  the  sentence 
should  be  earned  into  execution.  He  has  since 
acted  the  farce  of  sending  in  his  resignation.  .  .  . 

To  his  conduct,  that  of  the  captors  of  Andre 
forms  a  striking  contrast.  He  tempted  them  with 
the  offer  of  his  watch,  his  horse,  and  any  sum  of 
money  they  should  name.  They  rejected  his 
offers  with  indignation :  and  the  jrold  that  could 
seduce  a  man  high  in  the  esteem  and  confidence 
of  his  country,  who  had  the  remembrance  of  past 
exploits,  the  motives  of  present  reputation  and 
future  glory,  to  prop  his  integrity,  had  no  charms 
for  three  simple  peasants,  leaning  only  on  their 
virtue  and  an  honest  sense  of  their  duty.  While 
Arnold  is  handed  down,  with  execration,  to  future 
times,  posterity  will  repeat,  with  reverence,  the 
names  of  Van  Wart,  Paulding,  and  Williams  ! 

I  congratulate  you,  my  friend,  on  our  happy 
escape  from  the  mischiefs  with  which  this  treason 
was  big.  It  is  a  new  comment  on  the  value  of 
an  honest  man,  and,  if  it  were  possible,  would 
endear  you  to  me  more  than  ever. 


EFFECTS    OF   A  DISSOLUTION    OF 
THE  UNION. 

FKOM  THE    FEDERALIST. 

ASSUMING  it,  therefore,  as  an  established  truth, 
that,  in  cases  of  disunion,  the  several  states,  or 
such  combinations  of  them  as  might  happen  to  be 
formed  out  of  the  wreck  of  the  general  confederacy, 
would  be  subject  to  those  vicissitudes  of  peace  and 
war,  of  friendship  and  enmity  with  each  other, 
which  have  fallen  to  the  lot  of  all  other  nations 
not  united  under  one  government,  let  us  enter  into 
a  concise  detail  of  some  of  the  consequences  that 
would  attend  such  a  situation. 

War  between  the  states,  in  the  first  periods  of  their 
separate  existence,would  be  accompanied  with  much 
greater  distresses  than  it  commonly  is  in  those  coun 
tries  where  regular  military  establishments  have  long 
obtained.  The  disciplined  armies  always  kept  on 
foot  on  the  continent  of  Europe,  though  they  bear 
a  malignant  aspect  to  liberty  and  economy^havc, 
notwithstanding,  been  productive  of  the  singular 


ALEXANDER   HAMILTON. 


95 


advantage  of  rendering  sudden  conquests  imprac 
ticable,  and  of  preventing  that  rapid  desolation 
which  used  to  mark  the  progress  of  war  prior  to 
their  introduction.  The  art  of  fortification  has 
contributed  to  the  same  ends.  The  nations  of 
Europe  are  encircled  with  the  chains  of  fortified 
places,  which  mutually  obstruct  invasion.  Cam 
paigns  are  wasted  in  reducing  two  or  three  fortified 
garrisons,  to  gain  admittance  into  an  enemy's 
country.  Similar  impediments  occur  at  every 
step,  to  exhaust  the  strength  and  delay  the  pro 
gress  of  an  invader.  Formerly,  an  invading  army 
would  penetrate  into  the  heart  of  a  neighbouring 
country  almost  as  soon  as  intelligence  of  its  ap 
proach  could  be  received;  but  now,  a  compara 
tively  small  force  of  disciplined  troops,  acting  on 
the  defensive,  with  the  aid  of  posts,  is  able  to  im 
pede,  and  finally  to  frustrate,  the  purposes  of  one 
much  more  considerable.  The  history  of  war  in 
that  quarter  of  the  globe  is  no  longer  a  history  of 
nations  subdued,  and  empires  overturned ;  but  of 
towns  taken  and  retaken,  of  battles  that  decide 
nothing,  of  retreats  more  beneficial  than  victories, 
of  much  effort  and  little  acquisition. 

In  this  country  the  scene  would  be  altogether 
reversed.  The  jealousy  of  military  establishments 
would  postpone  them  as  long  as  possible.  The 
want  of  fortifications,  leaving  the  frontier  of  one 
state  open  to  another,  would  facilitate  inroads. 
The  populous  states  would  with  little  difficulty 
overrun  their  less  populous  neighbours.  Con 
quests  would  be  as  easy  to  be  made  as  difficult  to 
be  retained.  War,  therefore,  would  be  desultory 
and  predatory .  P  lu  nder  and  devastation  e  ver  march 
in  the  train  of  irregulars.  The  calamities  of  indi 
viduals  would  ever  make  the  principal  figure  in 
events,  and  would  characterize  our  exploits. 

This  picture  is  not  too  highly  wrought;  though 
I  confess  it  would  not  long  remain  a  just  one. 
Safety  from  external  danger  is  the  most  powerful 
director  of  national  conduct.  Even  the  ardent 
love  of  liberty  will,  after  a  time,  give  way  to  its 
dictates.  The  violent  destruction  of  life  and  pro 
perty  incident  to  war7  the  continual  effort  and 
alarm  attendant  on  a  state  of  continual  danger, 
will  compel  nations  the  most  attached  to  liberty  to 
resort  for  repose  and  security  to  institutions  which 
have  a  tendency  to  destroy  their  civil  and  political 
rights.  To  be  more  safe,  they  at  length  become 
willing  to  run  the  risk  of  being  less  free.  The 
institutions  chiefly  alluded  to  are  STANDING  AR 
MIES,  and  the  corresponding  appendages  of  military 
establishments.  Standing  armies,  it  is  said,  are 
not  provided  against  in  the  new  constitution ;  and 
it  is  thence  inferred  that  they  would  exist  under 
it.  This  inference,  from  the  very  form  of  the  pro 
position,  is,  at  best,  problematical  and  uncertain. 
But  standing  armies,  it  may  be  replied,  must  in 
evitably  result  from  a  dissolution  of  the  confede 
racy.  Frequent  war  and  constant  apprehension, 
which  require  a  state  of  as  constant  preparation, 
will  infallibly  produce  them.  The  weaker  states 
or  confederacies  would  first  have  recourse  to  them, 
to  put  themselves  on  an  equality  with  their  more 
potent  neighbours.  They  would  endeavour  to  sup 


ply  the  inferiority  of  population  and  resources  by  a 
more  regular  and  effective  system  of  defence — by  dis 
ciplined  troops,  and  by  fortifications.  They  would, 
at  the  same  time,  be  obliged  to  strengthen  the  exe 
cutive  arm  of  government ;  in  doing  which  their  con 
stitutions  would  acquire  a  progressive  direction  to 
wards  monarchy.  It  is  the  nature  of  war  to  increase 
,the  executive  at  theexpense  of  the  legislative  author 
ity.  The  expedients  which  have  been  mentioned 
would  soon  give  the  states,  or  confederacies,  that 
made  use  of  them,  a  superiority  over  their  neigh 
bours.  Small  states,  or  states  of  less  natural 
strength,  under  vigorous  governments,  and  with 
the  assistance  of  disciplined  armies,  have  often 
triumphed  over  large  states,  or  states  of  greater 
natural  strength,  which  have  been  destitute  of 
these  advantages.  Neither  the  pride  nor  the  safety 
of  the  important  states,  or  confederacies,  would 
permit  them  long  to  submit  to  this  mortifying  and 
adventitious  superiority.  They  would  quickly  re 
sort  to  means  similar  to  those  by  which  it  had 
been  effected,  to  reinstate  themselves  in  their  lost 
pre-eminence.  Thus  we  should,  in  a  little  time, 
see  established  in  every  part  of  this  country  the 
same  engines  of  despotism  which  have  been  the 
scourge  of  the  old  world.  This,  at  least,  would 
be  the  natural  course  of  things ;  and  our  reason 
ings  will  be  likely  to  be  just,  in  proportion  as  they 
are  accommodated  to  this  standard.  These  are 
not  vague  inferences,  deduced  from  speculative 
defects  in  a  constitution,  the  whole  power  of  which 
is  lodged  in  the  hands  of  the  people,  or  their  repre 
sentatives  and  delegates;  they  are  solid  conclu 
sions,  drawn  from  the  natural  and  necessary  pro 
gress  of  human  affairs 

If  we  are  wise  enough  to  preserve  the  union, 
we  may  for  ages  enjoy  an  advantage  similar  to 
that  of  an  insulated  situation.  Europe  is  at  a 
great  distance  from  us.  Her  colonies  in  our  vici 
nity  will  be  likely  to  continue  too  much  dispro- 
portioned  in  strength  to  be  able  to  give  us  any 
dangerous  annoyance.  Extensive  military  esta 
blishments  cannot,  in  this  position,  be  necessary 
to  our  security.  But,  if  we  should  be  disunited, 
and  the  integral  parts  should  either  remain  sepa 
rated,  or,  which  is  most  probable,  should  be  thrown 
together  into  two  or  three  confederacies,  we  should 
be,  in  a  short  course  of  time,  in  the  predicament  of 
the  continental  powers  of  Europe.  Our  liberties 
would  be  a  prey  to  the  means  of  defending  ourselves 
against  the  ambition  and  jealousy  of  each  other. 

This  is  an  idea  not  superficial  or  futile,  but  solid 
and  weighty.  It  deserves  the  most  serious  and  ma 
ture  consideration  of  every  prudent  and  honest  man 
of  whatever  party.  If  such  men  will  make  a  firm 
and  solemn  pause,  and  meditate  dispassionately  on 
its  importance  ;  if  they  will  contemplate  it  in  all  its 
attitudes,  and  trace  it  to  all  its  consequences,  they 
will  not  hesitate  to  part  with  trivial  objections  to  a 
constitution,  the  rejection  of  which  would,  in  all 
probability,  put  a  final  period  to  the  union.  The 
airy  phantoms  that  now  flit  before  the  distempered 
imaginations  of  some  of  its  adversaries,  would  then 
quickly  give  place  to  more  substantial  prospects  of 
dangers,  real,  certain,  and  extremely  formidable. 


FISHER  AMES. 


[Born  1758.    Died  1808.] 


FISHER  AMES  was  regarded  by  many  of 
his  contemporaries  as  one  of  the  greatest  men 
who  had  lived  in  this  country.  He  was  the 
leader  of  the  federal  party  in  the  House  of 
Representatives  during  the  administration  of 
Washington,  and  was  applauded  for  his  elo 
quence  and  learning,  the  solidity  of  his  judg 
ment,  and  the  unsullied  purity  of  his  public 
and  private  conduct. 

He  was  born  in  Dedham,  Massachusetts, 
on  the  ninth  of  April,  1758  ;  entered  Harvard 
College  when  twelve  years  of  age;  took  his 
degree  at  sixteen;  and  in  1781  commenced 
the  practice  of  the  law,  having  studied  his 
profession  in  the  office  of  William  Tudor. 

The  ability  he  had  manifested  in  occasional 
public  speeches,  and  in  various  political  con 
tributions  to  the  gazettes,  in  1788  procured 
him  an  election  to  the  Massachusetts  con 
vention  for  ratifying  the  federal  constitution ; 
he  was  soon  after  made  a  member  of  the  state 
legislature;  and  the  people  of  Boston  chose 
him  to  be  their  first  representative  in  the 
Congress  of  the  United  States. 

His  most  celebrated  speech  in  this  body 
was  delivered  on  the  twenty-ninth  of  April, 
1796,  in  support  of  the  Treaty  with  Great 
Britain,  which  a  considerable  party  was  anx 
ious  to  repudiate,  although  it  had  been  ap 
proved  by  the  executive.  He  was  so  feeble, 
from  a  severe  and  protracted  illness,  when  he 
arose,  that  it  seemed  doubtful  whether  he  would 
be  able  to  do  more  than  enter  a  protest  against 
the  proposed  violation  of  public  faith  ;  but  as 
he  proceeded  he  acquired  a  factitious  strength 
from  his  enthusiasm,  and  when  he  sat  down, 
with  an  allusion  to  his  "  slender  and  almost 
broken  hold  upon  life,"  the  effect  which  had 
been  produced  was  so  great  that  a  postpone 
ment  of  the  consideration  of  the  subject  was 
moved  on  the  part  of  the  opposition,  lest  the 
House  should  act  under  the  influence  of  feel 
ings  which  would  be  condemned  by  their 
judgment.  This  and  his  speech  on  Mr.  Ma 
dison's  resolutions,  are  the  only  ones  of  which 
we  have  reports,  though  he  was  not  an  unfre- 

quent  debater. 
96 


After  a  service  of  eight  years  in  Congress, 
on  the  retirement  of  Washington  he  also 
quitted  public  life.  He  resided  on  his  farm 
in  Dedham,  occasionally  appearing  in  th 
courts,  and  devoting  his  leisure  to  correspond 
ence,  and  the  composition  of  political  es 
says,  which,  though  published  anonymously, 
had  a  powerful  influence  upon  public  opinion. 
In  1804  he  was  elected  president  of  Harvard 
College,  but  on  account  of  ill  health  declined 
the  office.  His  debility  continued  gradually 
to  increase  until  the  fourth  of  July,  1808,  when 
he  died. 

A  selection  from  the  speeches,  essays  and 
letters  of  Mr.  Ames,  with  a  memoir  by  his 
friend  the  Rev.  Dr.  Kirkland,  was  published 
in  1809.  His  reputation  has  since  that  time 
very  much  decayed,  chiefly  because  the  sub 
jects  upon  which  he  wrote  were  of  temporary 
interest  or  are  seen  differently  in  the  light  o 
subsequent  experience.  He  regarded  the 
"  rabble  of  great  cities  as  the  standing  army 
of  ambition."  He  was  fearful  of  the  influ 
ence  of  popular  impulses  upon  public  affairs  ; 
"  the  turnpike  road  of  history,"  he  said,  "  is 
white  with  the  tombstones  of  republics" 
which  they  have  controlled.  In  France  he 
saw  liberty  "  stripped  of  its  bloody  garments 
to  disguise  its  robbers ;"  and  with  intense  at 
tention  and  alarm  watched  the  progress  in 
this  country  of  what  were  called  French 
opinions.  Foreseeing  the  downfall  of  the  Fe 
deral  party,  he  feared  that  the  nation  would 
be  engulfed  in  its  ruins.  A  more  hopeful 
spirit  would  have  made  him  a  happier  man, 
though  perhaps  not  a  more  useful  citizen. 

The  most  striking  quality  in  the  writing 
of  Ames  is  their  perfect  fearlessness.  He 
disdained  to  flatter  the  mob.  An  ultra-demo 
cracy  he  deemed  little  better  than  a  hell,  and 
dared  to  say  so.  Plain  speakers  are  the  salt 
of  a  republic.  His  speeches  were  deficient 
in  method.  They  were  desultory,  full  of  ex 
amples  drawn  from  history,  classical  allusion, 
and  learned  reflection,  and  every  thing  helped 
on  his  argument  and  deepened  his  impression. 
His  letters  and  essays  have  the  same  quali- 


FISHER   AMES. 


97 


ties.  His  works  are  perhaps  overloaded  with 
imagery,  but  it  is  so  chaste  as  to  be  always 
pleasing,  and  its  profusion  never  obscures  his 
meaning.  There  is  great  variety  in  his  pe 


riods,  and  his  language  is  always  remarkably 
pure.  All  his  writings  are  marked  in  an 
eminent  degree  with  his  individual  charac 
teristics. 


THE  OBLIGATION  OF  TREATIES. 

FROM   A   SPEECH    ON  THE   BRITISH  TREATY. 

WILL  any  man  affirm,  the  American  nation  is 
engaged  by  good  faith  to  the  British  nation ;  but 
that  engagement  is  nothing  to  this  house  ]  Such 
a  man  is  not  to  be  reasoned  with.  Such  a  doc 
trine  is  a  coat  of  mail,  that  would  turn  the  edge 
of  all  the  weapons  of  argument,  if  they  were 
sharper  than  a  sword.  Will  it  be  imagined  the 
king  of  Great  Britain  and  the  president  are  mu 
tually  bound  by  the  treaty ;  but  the  two  nations 
are  free  ]  . . . . 

This,  sir,  is  a  cause  that  would  be  disho 
noured  and  betrayed,  if  I  contented  myself  with 
appealing  only  to  the  understanding.  It  is  too 
cold,  and  its  processes  are  too  slow  for  the  oc 
casion.  I  desire  to  thank  God,  that,  since  he 
has  given  me  an  intellect  so  fallible,  he  has  im 
pressed  upon  me  an  instinct  that  is  sure.  On  a 
question  of  shame  and  honour,  reasoning  is  some 
times  useless,  and  worse.  I  feel  the  decision  in 
my  pulse :  if  it  throws  no  light  upon  the  brain,  it 
kindles  a  fire  at  the  heart. 

It  is  not  easy  to  deny,  it  is  impossible  to  doubt, 
that  a  treaty  imposes  an  obligation  on  the  Ame 
rican  nation.  It  would  be  childish  to  consider  the 
president  and  senate  obliged,  and  the  nation  and 
house  free.  What  is  the  obligation  ?  perfect  or 
imperfect  1  If  perfect,  the  debate  is  brought  to  a 
conclusion.  If  imperfect,  how  large  a  part  of  our 
faith  is  pawned  ?  Is  half  our  honour  put  at  risk, 
and  is  that  half  too  cheap  to  be  redeemed  1  How 
long  has  this  hair-splitting  subdivision  of  good  faith 
been  discovered,  and  wj^y  has  it  escaped  the  re 
searches  of  the  writers  on  the  law  of  nations  ? 
Shall  we  add  a  new  chapter  to  that  law ;  or  insert 
this  doctrine  as  a  supplement  to,  or  more  properly 
a  repeal  of  the  ten  commandments  1  . . . . 

On  every  hypothesis,  the  conclusion  is  not  to  be 
resisted :  we  are  either  to  execute  this  treaty,  or 
break  our  faith. 

To  expatiate  on  the  value  of  public  faith  may 
pass  with  some  men  for  declamation:  to  such 
men  I  have  nothing  to  say.  To  others  I  will  urge, 
can  any  circumstance  mark  upon  a  people  more 
turpitude  and  debasement  1  Can  any  thing  tend 
more  to  make  men  think  themselves  mean,  or  de 
grade  to  a  lower  point  their  estimation  of  virtue 
and  their  standard  of  action  1  It  would  not  mere 
ly  demoralize  mankind ;  it  tends  to  break  all  the 
ligaments  of  society,  to  dissolve  that  mysterious 
charm  which  attracts  individuals  to  the  nation, 
and  to  inspire  in  its  stead  a  repulsive  sense  of 
shame  and  disgust. 

What  is  patriotism  ?     Is  it  a  narrow  affection 
for  the  spot  where  a  man  was  born  1     Are  the 
13 


very  clods  where  we  tread  entitled  to  this  ardent 
preference,  because  they  are  greener?  No,  sir, 
this  is  not  the  character  of  the  virtue,  and  it  soars 
higher  for  its  object.  It  is  an  extended  self-love, 
mingling  with  all  the  enjoyments  of  life,  and 
twisting  itself  with  the  minutest  filaments  of  the 
heart.  It  is  thus  we  obey  the  laws  of  society, 
because  they  are  the  laws  of  virtue.  In  their 
authority  we  see,  not  the  array  of  force  and 
terror,  but  the  venerable  image  of  our  country's 
honour.  Every  good  citizen  makes  that  honour 
his  own,  and  cherishes  it  not  only  as  precious, 
but  as  sacred.  He  is  willing  to  risk  his  life  in  its 
defence ;  and  is  conscious  that  he  gains  protec 
tion,  while  he  gives  it.  For  what  rights  of  a  citi 
zen  will  be  deemed  inviolable,  when  a  state  re 
nounces  the  principles  that  constitute  their  secu 
rity  1  Or,  if  his  life  should  not  be  invaded,  what 
would  its  enjoyments  be  in  a  country  odious  in 
the  eyes  of  strangers,  and  dishonoured  in  his  own  I 
Could  he  look  with  affection  and  veneration  to 
such  a  country  as  his  parent?  The  sense  of  hav 
ing  one  would  die  within  him ;  he  would  blush 
for  his  patriotism,  if  he  retained  any,  and  justly, 
for  it  would  be  a  vice  :  he  would  be  a  banished 
man  in  his  native  land. 

I  see  no  exception  to  the  respect  that  is  paid 
among  nations  to  the  law  of  good  faith.  If  there 
are  cases  in  this  enlightened  period  when  it  is 
violated,  there  are  none  when  it  is  decried.  It 
is  the  philosophy  of  politics,  the  religion  of 
governments.  It  is  observed  by  barbarians :  a 
whiff  of  tobacco  smoke,  or  a  string  of  beads, 
gives  not  merely  binding  force,  but  sanctity  to 
treaties.  Even  in  Algiers,  a  truce  may  be  bought 
for  money  ;  but,  when  ratified,  even  Algiers  is  too 
wise  or  too  just  to  disown  and  annul  its  obliga 
tion.  Thus  we  see,  neither  the  ignorance  of  sa 
vages,  nor  the  principles  of  an  association  for 
privacy  and  rapine,  permit  a  nation  to  despise  its 
engagements.  If,  sir,  there  could  be  a  resurrec 
tion  from  the  foot  of  the  gallows,  if  the  victims  of 
justice  could  live  again,  collect  together  and  form  a 
society,  they  would,  however  loath,  soon  find  them 
selves  obliged  to  make  justice,  that  justice  under 
which  they  fell,  the  fundamental  law  of  their  state. 
They  would  perceive  it  was  their  interest  to  make 
others  respect,  and  they  would  therefore  soon  pay 
some  respect  themselves  to  the  obligations  of  good 
faith. 

It  is  painful,  I  hope  if  is  superfluous,  to  make 
even  the  supposition,  that  America  should  furnish 
the  occasion  of  this  opprobrium.  No,  let  me 
not  even  imagine,  that  a  republican  government, 
sprung,  as  our  own  is,  from  a  people  enlightened 
and  uncorrupted,  a  government  whose  jrigin  is 
right,  and  whose  daily  discipline  is  duty,  can,  upon 


98 


FISHER     AMES. 


solemn  debr  te,  make  its  option  to  be  faithless  ;  can 
dare  to  act  what  despots  dare  not  avow,  what  our 
own  example  evinces  the  states  of  Barbary  are 
unsuspected  of.  No,  let  me  rather  make  the  suppo 
sition,  that  Great  Britain  refuses  to  execute  the 
treaty,  after  we  have  done  everything  to  carry  it 
into  effect  Is  there  any  language  of  reproach 
pungent  enough  to  express  your  commentary  on 
the  fact  1  What  would  you  say,  or,  rather,  what 
would  you  not  say  ?  Would  you  not  tell  them, 
wherever  an  Englishman  might  travel,  shame 
would  stick  to  him :  he  would  disown  his  coun 
try.  You  would  exclaim,  England,  proud  of  your 
wealth,  and  arrogant  in  the  possession  of  power, 
blush  for  these  distinctions,  which  become  the  ve 
hicles  of  your  dishonour.  Such  a  nation  might 
truly  say  to  corruption,  thou  art  my  father,  and  to 
the  worm,  thou  art  my  mother  and  my  sister.  We 
should  say  of  Such  a  race  of  men,  their  name  is  a 
heavier  burden  than  their  debt. 

I  can  scarcely  persuade  myself  to  believe,  that 
the  consideration  I  have  suggested  requires  the 
aid  of  any  auxiliary  ;  but,  unfortunately,  auxiliary 
arguments  are  at  hand 

The  refusal  of  the  posts — inevitable  if  we  re 
ject  the  treaty* — is  a  measure  too  decisive  in  its 
nature  to  be  neutral  in  its  consequences.  From 

great  causes  we  are  to  look  for  great  effects 

Will  the  tendency  to  Indian  hostilities  be  contested 
by  any  one  1  Experience  gives  the  answer.  The 
frontiers  were  scourged  with  war,  until  the  nego 
tiation  with  Great  Britain  was  far  advanced ;  and 
then  the  state  of  hostility  ceased.  Perhaps  the 
public  agents  of  both  nations  are  innocent  of  fo 
menting  the  Indian  war,  and  perhaps  they  are  not. 
We  ought  not,  however,  to  expect  that  neighbour 
ing  nations,  highly  irritated  against  each  other, 
will  neglect  the  friendship  of  the  savages.  The 
traders  will  gain  an  influence,  and  will  abuse  it; 
Jid  who  is  ignorant  that  their  passions  are  easily 
aised  and  hardly  restrained  from  violence  1  Their 
situation  will  oblige  them  to  choose  between  this 
country  and  Great  Britain,  in  case  the  treaty 
should  be  rejected :  they  will  not  be  our  friends, 
and  at  the  same  time  the  friends  of  our  enemies 

If  any,  against  all  these  proofs,  should  main 
tain,  that  the  peace  with  the  Indians  will  be  stable 
without  the  posts,  to  them  I  will  urge  another  re 
ply.  From  arguments  calculated  to  procure  con 
viction,  I  will  appeal  directly  to  the  hearts  of  those 
who  hear  me,  and  ask  whether  it  is  not  already 
planted  there  1  I  resort  especially  to  the  convic 
tions  of  the  Western  gentlemen,  whether,  sup- 
poung  no  posts  and  no  treaty,  the  settlers  will  re 
main  in  security  1  Can  they  take  it  upon  them 
to  say,  that  an  Indian  peace,  under  these  circum 
stances,  will  prove  firm  1  No,  sir,  it  will  not  be 
peace,  but  a  sword ;  it  will  be  no  better  than  a  lure 
to  draw  victims  within  the  reach  of  the  tomahawk. 

On  this  theme,  my  emotions  are  unutterable. 
If  I  could  find  words  for  them,  if  my  powers  bore 


*  By  the  treaty,  certain  western  posts,  necessary  to 
•  he  protection  of  the  frontier,  were  to  be  surrendered 
IK  the  Rritish.— Editor. 


any  proportion  to  my  zeal,  I  would  swell  my  voice 
to  such  a  note  of  remonstrance,  it  should  reach 
every  log  house  beyond  the  mountains.  I  would 
say  to  the  inhabitants,  wake  from  your  false  secu 
rity  :  your  cruel  dangers,  your  more  cruel  appre 
hensions  are  soon  to  be  renewed:  the  wounds, 
yet  unhealed,  are  to  be  torn  open  again ;  in  the 
day  time,  your  path  through  the  woods  will  be 
ambushed  ;  the  darkness  of  midnight  will  glitter  with 
the  blaze  of  your  dwellings.  You  are  a  father — 
the  blood  of  your  sons  shall  fatten  your  corn-field  : 
you  are  a  mother — the  warhoop  shall  wake  the 
sleep  of  the  cradle. 

On  this  subject  you  need  not  suspect  any  de 
ception  on  your  feelings :  it  is  a  spectacle  of  hor 
ror,  which  cannot  be  overdrawn.  If  you  have  na 
ture  in  your  hearts,  they  will  speak  a  language, 
compared  with  which  all  I  have  said  or  can  say 
will  be  poor  and  frigid 

Will  any  one  deny,  that  we  are  bound,  and  I 
would  hope  to  good  purpose,  by  the  most  solemn 
sanctions  of  duty  for  the  vote  we  give  ?  Are  des 
pots  alone  to  be  reproached  for  unfeeling  indiffer 
ence  to  the  tears  and  blood  of  their  subjects  ]  Are 
republicans  unresponsible  1  Have  the  principles, 
on  which  you  ground  the  reproach  upon  cabinets 
and  kings,  no  practical  influence,  no  binding  force  ] 
Are  they  merely  themes  of  idle  declamation,  in 
troduced  to  decorate  the  morality  of  a  newspaper 
essay,  or  to  furnish  pretty  topics  of  harangue  from 
the  windows  of  that  state-house  1  I  trust  it  is 
neither  too  presumptuous  nor  too  late  to  ask :  Can 
you  put  the  dearest  interest  of  society  at  risk,  with 
out  guilt,  and  without  remorse  1 .... 

There  is  no  mistake  in  this  case :  there  can  be 
none :  experience  has  already  been  the  prophet  of 
events,  and  the  cries  of  our  future  victims  have  al 
ready  reached  us.  The  western  inhabitants  are 
not  a  silent  and  uncomplaining  secrifice.  The 
voice  of  humanity  issues  from  the  shade  of  the 
wilderness :  it  exclaims,  that,  while  one  hand  is 
held  up  to  reject  this  treaty,  the  other  grasps  a  to 
mahawk.  It  summons  our  imagination  to  the 
scenes  that  will  open.  It  is  no  great  effort  of  the 
imagination  to  conceive  that  events  so  near  are  al 
ready  begun.  I  can  fancy  that  I  listen  to  the  yells 
of  savage  vengeance  and  the  shrieks  of  torture: 
already  they  seem  to  sigh  in  the  western  wind  : 
already  they  mingle  with  every  echo  from  the 

mountains 

Let  me  cheer  the  mind,  weary  and  ready  to  de 
spond  on  this  prospect,  by  presenting  another 
which  it  is  yet  in  our  power  to  realize.  Is  it  pos 
sible  for  a  real  American  to  look  at  the  prosperity 
of  this  country,  without  some  desire  for  its  con 
tinuance,  without  some  respect  for  the  measures 
which  many  will  say  produced,  and  all  will  con 
fess  have  preserved  it  ]  Will  he  not  feel  some 
dread,  that  a  change  of  system  will  reverse  the 
scene  1  The  well  grounded  fears  of  our  citizens, 
in  1794,  were  removed  by  the  treaty,  but  are  not 
forgotten.  Then  they  deemed  war  nearly  in 
evitable,  and  would  not  this  adjustment  have  been 
considered  at  that  day  as  a  happy  escape  from  the 
calamity  ?  The  great  interest  and  the  general  de- 


FISHER   AMES. 


sire  of  our  people  was  to  enjoy  the  advantages  of 
neutrality.  This  instrument,  however  misrepre 
sented,  affords  America  that  inestimable  security. 
The  causes  of  our  disputes  are  either  cut  up  by 
the  roots,  or  referred  to  a  new  negotiation,  after 
the  end  of  the  European  war.  This  was  gaining 
every  thing,  because  it  confirmed  our  neutrality, 
by  which  our  citizens  are  gaining  every  thing. 
This  alone  would  justify  the  engagements  of  the 
government.  For,  when  the  fiery  vapours  of  the 
war  lowered  in  the  skirts  of  our  horizon,  all  our 
wishes  were  concentrated  in  this  one,  that  we 
might  escape  the  desolation  of  the  storm.  This 
treaty,  like  a  rainbow  on  the  edge  of  the  cloud, 
marked  to  our  eyes  the  space  where  it  was  raging, 
and  afforded  at  the  same  time  the  sure  prognostic 
of  fair  weather.  If  we  reject  it,  the  vivid  colours 
will  grow  pale,  it  will  be  a  baleful  meteor  portend 
ing  tempest  and  war 

I  rose  to  speak  under  impressions  that  I  would 
have  resisted  if  I  could.  Those  who  see  me  will 
believe,  that  the  reduced  state  of  my  health  has 
unfitted  me,  almost  equally,  for  much  exertion  of 
body  or  mind.  Unprepared  for  debate  by  careful 
reflection  in  rny  retirement,  or  by  long  attention 
here,  I  thought  the  resolution  I  had  taken,  to  sit 
silent,  was  imposed  by  necessity,  and  would  cost 
me  no  effort  to  maintain.  With  a  mind  thus  va 
cant  of  ideas,  and  sinking,  as  I  really  am,  under  a 
sense  of  weakness,  I  imagined  the  very  desire  of 
speaking  was  extinguished  by  the  persuasion  that 
I  had  nothing  to  say.  Yet  when  I  come  to  the 
moment  of  deciding  the  vote,  I  start  back  with 
dread  from  the  edge  of  the  pit  into  which  we  are 
plunging.  In  my  view,  even  the  minutes  I  have 
spent  in  expostulation  have  their  value,  because 
they  protract  the  crisis,  and  the  short  period  in 
which  alone  we  may  resolve  to  escape  it. 

I  have  thus  been  led  by  my  feelings  to  speak 
more  at  length  than  I  had  intended.  Yet  I  have 
perhaps  as  little  personal  interest  in  the  event  as 
any  one  here.  There  is,  I  believe,  no  member, 
who  will  not  think  his  fiance  to  be  a  witness  of 
the  consequences  greater  than  mine.  If,  however, 
the  vote  should  pass  to  reject,  and  a  spirit  should 
rise,  as  it  will,  with  the  public  disorders  to  make 
"  confusion  worse  confounded,"  even  I,  slender 
and  almost  broken  as  my  hold  upon  life  is,  may 
outlive  the  government  and  constitution  of  my 
country. 

INTELLECT  IN   A   DEMOCRACY. 

FROM.   AN  ESSAY  ON  AMERICAN  LITERATURE. 


INTELLECTUAL  superiority  is  so  far  from  con 
ciliating  confidence,  that  it  is  the  very  spirit  of  a 
democracy,  as  in  France,  to  proscribe  the  aristo 
cracy  of  talents.  To  be  the  favourite  of  an  igno 
rant  multitude,  a  man  must  descend  to  their  level ; 
he  must  desire  what  they  desire,  and  detest  all 
they  do  not  approve :  he  must  yield  to  their  pre 
judices,  and  substitute  them  for  principles.  In 
stead  of  enlightening  their  errors,  he  must  adopt 
them  ;  he  must  furnish  the  sophistry  that  will  pro 
pagate  and  defend  them. 


FREEDOM  OF  THE  PRESS  AND 
LIBERTY. 

FROM  REVIEW  OF    THE   PRESENT    STATE    OF  THE  BRITISH 
CONSTITUTION. 

WB  are,  heart  and  soul,  friends  to  the  freedom 
of  the  press.  It  is  however,  the  prostituted  com 
panion  of  liberty,  and  somehow  or  other,  we  know 
not  how,  its  efficient  auxiliary.  It  follows  the 
substance  like  its  shade  ;  but  while  a  man  walks 
erect,  he  may  observe,  that  his  shadow  is  almost 
always  in  the  dirt.  It  corrupts,  it  deceives,  it  in 
flames.  It  strips  virtue  of  her  honours,  and  lends 
to  faction  its  wildfire  and  its  poisoned  arms,  and 
in  the  end  is  its  own  enemy  and  the  usurper's  ally. 
It  would  be  easy  to  enlarge  on  its  evils.  They 
are  in  England,  they  are  here,  they  are  every 
where.  It  is  a  precious  pest  and  a  necessary  mis 
chief,  and  there  would  be  no  liberty  without  it. 


LIBERTY  NOT  SECURED  BY  THE 
DEATH  OF  TYRANTS. 

FROM   AN  ESSAY   ON  THE  CHARACTER  OF   BRUTUS. 


IT  is  not  by  destroying  tyrants,  that  we  are  t' 
extinguish  tyranny  :  nature  is  not  thus  to  be  ex 
hausted  of  her  power  to  produce  them.  The  soil 
of  a  republic  sprouts  with  the  rankest  fertility :  it 
has  been  sown  with  dragon's  teeth.  To  lessen 
the  hopes  of  usurping  demagogues,  we  must  en 
lighten,  animate,  and  combine  the  spirit  of  free 
men  ;  we  must  fortify  and  guard  the  constitutional 
ramparts  about  liberty.  When  its  friends  become 
indolent  or  disheartened,  it  is  no  longer  of  any 
importance  how  long-lived  are  its  enemies :  they 
will  prove  immortal. 


GREAT  MEN  THE  GLORY  OF  THEIR 
COUNTRY. 

FROM  A  SKETCH  OF  THE  CHARACTER  OF   ALEXANDER 
HAMILTON. 

THE  most  substantial  glory  of  a  country  is  in 
its  virtuous  great  men :  its  prosperity  will  depend 
on  its  docility  to  learn  from  their  example.  That 
nation  is  fated  to  ignominy  and  servitude,  for 
which  such  men  have  lived  in  vain.  Power  may 
be  seized  by  a  nation,  that  is  yet  barbarous ;  and 
wealth  may  be  enjoyed  by  one,  that  it  finds,  or 
renders  sordid :  the  one  is  the  gift  and  the  sport 
of  accident,  and  the  other  is  the  sport  of  power. 
Both  are  mutable,  and  have  passed  away  with 
out  leaving  behind  them  any  other  memorial 
than  ruins  that  offend  taste,  and  traditions  that 
baffle  conjecture.  But  the  glory  of  Greece  is 
imperishable,  or  will  last  as  long  as  learning 
itself,  which  is  its  monument:  it  strikes  an 
everlasting  root,  and  leaves  perennial  blossoms 
on  its  grave. 


JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS. 


[Born  1767.  Died  1848.] 


COLONEL  JOHN  QUINCY,  who  was  born  in 
1687,  and  in  his  long  life  had  shared  largely 
in  the  civil  and  military  distinctions  of  the 
colonies,  was  dying,  on  Saturday  evening,  the 
eleventh  of  July,  1767,  when  word  was 
brought  that  a  great-grandson  was  born  to 
him  in  the  house  of  John  Adams.  In  honour 
of  the  departed  veteran  that  part  of  the  town  of 
Braintree  in  which  he  resided  was  afterward 
called  Quincy,  and  the  boy  was  named  JOHN 
QUINCY  ADAMS.  These  two  lives  have  extend 
ed  over  nearly  one  hundred  and  sixty  years. 

A  large  portion  of  the  youth  of  Mr.  Adams 
was  spent  in  travel,  in  the  company  of  his 
eminent  father,  and  perhaps  no  statesman  was 
ever  in  all  respects  more  fortunate  in  the  cir 
cumstances  of  his  education.  In  1778  and 
the  following  year  he  was  at  school  in  Paris, 
and  in  this  period  he  received  the  paternal  care 
of  Franklin,  who  was  a  joint  commissioner 
with  his  father  to  the  court  of  Versailles.  In 
1780  he  was  placed  in  the  public  school  of 
Amsterdam,  and  subsequently  in  the  Univer 
sity  of  Leyden.  In  July,  1781,  Francis  Dana, 
— father  of  our  admirable  author  of  that  name, 
and  afterward  chief  justice  of  Massachusetts, — 
was  appointed  minister  to  Russia ;  and  hav 
ing  accompanied  John  Adams  to  Holland,  and 
observed  the  abilities  and  accomplishments  of 
his  son,  then  but  fourteen  years  of  age,  he 
selected  him  to  be  his  private  secretary.  He 
remained  in  St.  Petersburgh  with  Mr.  Dana 
until  October,  1782,  and  passed  the  following 
winter  in  travelling  through  Sweden,  Den 
mark,  Hamburg  and  Bremen,  to  the  Hague, 
where  he  rejoined  his  father,  whom  he  accom 
panied  to  Paris,  where  he  was  present  at  the 
signing  of  the  definitive  treaty  of  peace,  and 
to  London,  where  he  listened  to  the  eloquence 
of  Burke,  Pitt,  Fox,  Sheridan,  and  the  other 
great  orators  then  in  Parliament.  In  his 
eighteenth  year  he  returned  to  the  United 
States  to  complete  his  education ;  entered 
Harvard  University,  at  an  advanced  standing; 
and  in  1787  received  the  degree  of  Bachelor 

j)f  Arts. 

100 


When  Mr.  George  M.  Dallas,  soon  after 
returning  from  his  mission  to  Russia,  was 
looking  over  the  manuscript  papers  of  his 
father,  in  Philadelphia,  he  discovered  a  pack 
age  so  carefully  sealed  as  evidently  to  have 
been  deemed  of  some  consequence,  and  open 
ing  it  discovered  that  it  was  the  autograph 
copy  of  an  oration  on  banking  and  currency 
delivered  by  Mr.  Adams  on  the  day  of  his 
graduation.  It  had  been  listened  to  by  Dr. 
Belknap,  the  historian,  and  Mr.  Alexander  J. 
Dallas,  who  were  so  pleased  with  its  original 
and  profound  views  that  they  addressed  a  note 
to  the  young  author  requesting  a  copy  for  pub 
lication.  It  was  the  first  of  his  printed  writ 
ings. 

After  leaving  Cambridge  Mr.  Adams  en 
tered  on  the  study  of  the  law  with  the  cele 
brated  Theophilus  Parsons  at  Newburyport, 
and  on  being  admitted  to  the  bar  removed 
to  Boston,  where  he  was  four  years  engaged 
in  the  business  of  his  profession,  and  in  the 
discussion  of  various  questions  of  politics 
through  the  gazettes.  Under  the  signature  of 
Publicola  he  replied  to  the  first  part  of  Paine's 
Rights  of  Man,  and  under  that  of  Marcellus, 
anticipating  Washington's  proclamation  of 
neutrality,  urged  the  foreign  policy  which  was 
subsequently  adopted  by  the  first  administra 
tion.  In  the  same  period  he  also  published 
a  series  of  papers  vindicating  the  conduct  of 
the  president  in  regard  to  Genet,  the  French 
minister.  Thus  commended  by  his  writings, 
as  well  as  by  his  known  acquaintance  with 
international  law  and  with  our  foreign  rela 
tions,  he  was  selected  by  Washington  to  be 
the  American  minister  to  the  Netherlands; 
and  in  the  seven  years  from  1794  to  1801 
he  was  employed  in  diplomatic  services. 
One  of  the  last  official  acts  of  Washington 
was  to  appoint  him  minister  to  Portugal ;  but 
while  on  his  way  to  Lisbon  his  destination 
was  changed  to  Berlin,  by  his  father,  who 
had  just  succeeded  to  the  presidency,  and  to 
whom  Washington  wrote  on  the  subject  that 
it  was  his  "  decided  opinion  that  John  Quincy 


JOHN    QUINCY    ADAMS, 


Adams  was  the  most  valuable  public  character 
we  had  abroad,"  and  that  there  was  no  doubt 
in  his  mind  that  he  would  "  prove  himself  to 
be  the  ablest  of  all  our  diplomatic  corps." 

During-  the  four  years  which  Mr.  Adarns 
passed  in  Berlin  he  devoted  much  attention 
to  the  study  of  the  German  literature,  of  which 
he  became  an  enthusiastic  admirer.  "  At  this 
time,"  he  says,*  "  Wieland  was  there  the 
most  popular  of  the  German  poets,  and  al 
though  there  was  in  his  genius  neither  the 
originality  nor  the  deep  pathos  of  Goethe,  or 
Klopstock,  or  Schiller,  there  was  something 
in  the  playfulness  of  his  imagination,  in  the 
tenderness  of  his  sensibility,  in  the  sunny 
cheerfulness  of  his  philosophy,  and  in  the 
harmony  of  his  versification,"  which  delighted 
him ;  and  he  made  a  complete  translation  of 
his  Oberon,  which  he  would  have  published, 
but  that  Mr.  Sotheby  got  the  start  of  him. 
Wieland  read  the  first  canto  of  Mr.  Adams's 
version,  in  manuscript,  and  compared  it  with 
Sotheby's,  which  he  thought  more  poetical, 
though  less  accurate. 

In  the  same  period  he  made  an  excursion 
into  Silesia,  and  spent  several  weeks  in  col 
lecting  information  respecting  the  industrial 
and  social  state  of  the  country,  which  he  com 
municated  in  a  series  of  letters  to  a  younger 
brother  in  Philadelphia.  These  letters  were 
printed  in  the  Port  Folio,  a  weekly  miscellany 
edited  by  Mr.  Dennie,f  and  subsequently 
were  published  in  an  octavo  volume  in  Lon 
don.  They  contain  a  pleasing  view  of  a  peo 
ple  who  in  condition  and  character,  more  than 
any  others  in  Europe,  resemble  the  inhabitants 
of  New  England  ;  and  at  that  time  were  par 
ticularly  interesting  on  account  of  the  facts 
they  embraced  in  regard  to  manufacturing 
establishments  with  small  capitals. 


*  Letter  to  Dr.  Follen. 

t  Joseph  Dennie  was  born  in  Boston  in  1768,  and  gra 
duated  at  Harvard  University  in  1790.  After  being  ad 
mitted  to  the  bar  in  Charleston,  New  Hampshire,  he  re 
moved  to  Walpole  in  that  state,  where  he  afterward  pub 
lished  The  Farmer's  Museum,  a  weekly  paper,  which 
his  writings,  particularly  a  series  of  essays  entitled  the 
The  Lay  Preacher,  made  very  popular.  He  subsequent 
ly  came  to  Philadelphia  to  accept  a  clerkship  offered 
him  by  Mr.  Pickering,  then  Secretary  of  State,  and  on 
the  dismissal  of  his  patron  from  the  cabinet,  in  1801,  he 
established  The  Port  Folio,  which  he  conducted  until  his 
death,  in  1812.  Dennie  was  a  great  favourite  in  society, 
and  his  brilliant  social  qualities  gave  him  a  factitious 
reputation  as  a  man  of  letters.  There  is  nothing  in  his 
writings  deserving  of  preservation. 


At  the  close  of  his  father's  administration 
Mr.  Adams  returned  to  the  United  States,  and 
soon  after  became  a  member  of  the  Massachu 
setts  legislature,  by  which  he  was  elected  to 
the  national  senate,  and  he  took  his  seat  in 
that  body  on  the  fourth  of  March,  1803. 

In  June,  1805,  he  was  chosen  professor  of 
rhetoric  and  oratory  in  Harvard  University, 
and  he  accepted  the  office  on  condition  that 
he  should  be  allowed  to  attend  to  his  duties 
in  Congress.  He  delivered  his  inaugural  dis 
course  on  the  twelfth  of  June,  1806,  and  pro 
ceeded  with  his  public  lectures  weekly  in  term 
time,  except  when  his  presence  was  required 
in  the  senate,  for  two  years,  at  the  end  of 
which  period  he  resigned  to  accept  the  mis 
sion  to  Russia,  offered  him  by  President  Ma 
dison.  His  lectures  had  been  attended  by 
crowds,  from  the  adjacent  country  and  the 
neighbouring  city  of  Boston,  in  addition  to 
his  academical  hearers,  and  soon  after  his 
resignation  were  published,  in  two  octavo 
volumes.  They  appear  to  have  been  treated 
with  undeserved  neglect*  Certain  sins,  real 
or  supposed,  of  the  politician,  have  been 
visited  upon  the  professor.  They  are  copi 
ous  in  diction  and  illustration,  full  of  learned 
allusion  and  reflection,  and  point  out  "  the 
right  path  of  a  virtuous  and  noble  educa 
tion." 

From  Russia,  where  his  services  were  in 
many  ways  important,  Mr.  Adams  was  trans 
ferred  to  Ghent,  with  Mr.  Gallatin,  Mr.  Clay, 
and  Mr.  Bayard,  to  negotiate  a  peace  between 
the  United  States  and  Great  Britain,  and  upon 
the  conclusion  of  the  labours  of  the  commis 
sion,  was  appointed  minister  to  the  court  ot 
St.  James,  where  he  remained  until  Mr.  Mon 
roe's  accession  to  the  presidency,  when  he 
was  recalled  to  be  secretary  of  state.  In  his 
long,  varied  and  brilliant  career  as  a  diploma 
tist  he  had  perfectly  justified  the  favourable 
auguries  of  Washington. 

After  being  eight  years  at  the  head  of  the 
cabinet,  under  Mr.  Monroe,  Mr.  Adams  was 
elected  President  of  the  United  States  His 
administration  ended  on  the  third  of  March, 
1829,  and  he  retired  to  his  native  town  of 
Quincy,  where  for  a  brief  period  he  was  with 
out  the  cares  of  office.  In  1831  however,  by 
the  nearly  unanimous  suffrages  of  his  con 
gressional  district,  he  was  elected  to  the  House 
of  Representatives,  of  which  body  he  con 
tinued  to  be  a  member  until  his  death. 
12 


102 


JOHN    QUINCY   ADAMS. 


He  had  been  more  than  half  a  century  in 
pnhlic  offices  of  the  greatest  dignity  and  im 
portance,  which  he  filled  with  honour  to  him 
self  and  advantage  to  the  country.  For  six 
teen  years  the  "old  man  eloquent"  had  not 
been  absent  a  single  day  from  his  seat  in  the 
national  legislature,  where  his  extraordinary 
experience,  various  and  profound  knowledge, 
and  courageous  independence,  secured  for 
him  the  highest  consideration  and  influence. 
Never  modifying  principles  or  language  to 
please  a  man  or  a  party,  he  invariably  main 
tained  what  he  has  deemed  the  truth,  and  con 
tended  for  the  perfect  freedom  of  others  to  do 
so.  Though  denounced  as  a  madman  and  a 
factionist  by  every  section  in  its  turn,  it  is 
hardly  doubtful  that  he  was  for  many  years 
second  to  no  man  of  the  Union  in  the  confi 
dence  and  veneration  of  the  great  body  of  the 
people. 

The  state  papers  of  Mr.  Adams  are  of  course 
very  numerous.  They  are  generally  distin 
guished  for  minuteness,  accuracy  and  extent 
of  information,  and  comprehensive  and  states 
manlike  views;  and  some  of  them,  as  the  re 
port  on  the  history  and  philosophy  of  weights 
and  measures,  prepared  in  obedience  to  a  reso 
lution  of  the  senate,  in  1817,  are  exhibitions 
of  great  research  and  learning.  His  speeches, 
on  nearly  all  the  important  questions  that 
have  engaged  the  attention  of  the  government 
since  its  formation,  would  fill  many  volumes, 
and  are  repositories  of  the  richest  materials  of 
history  and  political  philosophy. 

The  largest  class  of  his  published  writings 
consists  of  orations  and  miscellaneous  dis 
courses  pronounced  before  various  societies 
and  on  anniversary  and  other  occasions,  many 
of  which  are  of  great  value  as  historical 
essays.  His  eulogy  on  the  life  and  services  of 
Lafayette  is  the  best  memoir  of  that  celebrated 
person  that  has  been  published  in  this  coun 
try,  and  his  sketches  of  Madison  and  Monroe, 
in  the  same  form,  are  the  only  ones  worthy  of 
the  subjects.  His  discourse  before  the  New 
York  Historical  Society,  on  the  fiftieth  anni 
versary  of  the  inauguration'of  Washington,  is 
full  of  important  information  and  reflection, 
hut  is  perhaps  in  some  degree  unjust  in  regard 
to  one  illustrious  person  against  whom  Mr. 
Adams  may  be  supposed  to  have  inherited 
preju  dices. 

He  had  been  all  his  life  a  student  of  Shaks- 
peare.  His  admiration  commenced  "  ere  the 


down  had  darkened  on  his  lip,  and  contin 
ued  through  five  of  the  seven  ages  of  the 
drama  of  life,  gaining  upon  the  judgment  as 
it  lost  to  the  imagination ;"  and  among  his 
writings  is  a  series  of  criticisms  upon  some 
of  his  principal  characters,  in  which  original 
and  striking  views  are  maintained  with  great 
ingenuity. 

I  have  already  alluded  to  his  translation  of 
the  Oberon  of  Wieland.  In  1832  he  pub 
lished  Dermot  Mac  Morrogh,  a  Tale  of  the 
Twelfth  Century,  in  four  cantos,  and  he  has 
given  to  the  public  many  .shorter  poems, 
chiefly  lyrical,  which  are  generally  marked 
by  fancy,  feeling,  and  harmonious  versifica 
tion.  His  hymns  have  the  simplicity,  unity 
and  completeness  which  belong  to  that  sort 
of  compositions,  and  his  satires  are  neat  and 
pointed.  His  poetical  writings  are  the  unpre 
tending  pastimes  of  a  statesman.  They  would 
have  been  much  more  read  and  praised  if 
written  by  a  less  eminent  person. 

For  more  than  sixty  years  Mr.  Adams  is 
understood  to  have  kept  a  diary  in  which  every 
thing  connected  with  his  eventful  life  is  pre 
sented  with  careful  minuteness.  Such  a  work 
will  have  something  of  the  interest  and  value 
of  the  finest  old  chronicles.  It  must  be  a  sort 
of  "  autobiography  of  the  country."  It  has 
been  stated  also  that  he  had  written  a  memoir 
of  his  father;  but  I  believe  he  found  time  to 
complete  only  a  single  volume,  of  four  or  five 
which  the  plan  embraced.  John  Adams  left 
abundant  materials  for  his  later  history,  but  it  is 
doubtful  whether  any  other  person  will  finish 
as  well  as  the  son,  the  work  thus  commenced. 
The  distinguishing  characteristics  of  the 
writings  and  speeches  of  Mr.  Adams  are  an 
universality  of  knowledge  which  they  dis 
play,  and  a  certain  undauntedness,  greater  as 
they  are  more  unpopular,  with  which  he  main 
tains  his  opinions.  His  taste  is  not  always 
correct  or  chaste,  and  his  style  and  argument 
are  frequently  diffuse ;  but  there  are  in  some 
of  his  speeches  passages  o^  close  reasoning 
and  great  eloquence,  and  of  fiery  denunciation 
which  has  carried  terror  to  the  hearts  of  his 
adversaries. 

— These  paragraphs  were  written  while  Mr. 
Adams  was  alive.  He  died  in  the  capitol, 
at  Washington — in  the  scene  of  his  chief 
triumphs — suddenly,  on  the  twenty-third  of 
February,  1848.  His  writings  are  soon  to  be 
published  by  his  son,  Charles  Francis  Adams. 


JOHN    Q  U  I  N  C  Y    ADAMS. 


103 


THE  CHARACTER  OF  DESDEMONA. 

FROM   ESSATS   ON  THE  CHARACTERS   OF   SHAKSPEARE. 

THERE  are  critics  who  cannot  bear  to  see  the 
virtue  and  delicacy  of  Shakspeare's  Desdemona 
called  in  question ;  who  defend  her  on  the  ground 
that  Othello  is  not  an  Ethiopian,  but  a  Moor ;  that 
he  is  not  black,  but  only  tawny ;  and  they  protest 
against  the  sable  mask  of  Othello  upon  the  stage, 
and  against  the  pictures  of  him  in  which  he  is  al 
ways  painted  black.  They  say  that  prejudices 
have  been  taken  against  Desdemona  from  the 
slanders  of  lago,  from  the  railings  of  Roderigo, 
from  the  disappointed  paternal  rancour  of  Braban 
tio,  and  from  the  desponding  concessions  of  Othel 
lo  himself. 

I  have  said,  that  since  I  entered  upon  the  third 
of  Shakspeare's  seven  ages,  the  first  and  chief  ca 
pacity  in  which  I  have  read  and  studied  him  is  as  a 
teacher  of  morals:  and  that  I  had  scarcely  ever 
seen  a  player  of  his  parts  who  regarded  him  as  a 
moralist  at  all.  I  further  said,  that  in  my  judg 
ment  no  man  could  understand  him  who  did  study 
him  pre-eminently  as  a  teacher  of  morals.  These 
critics  say  they  do  not  incline  to  put  Shakspeare 
on  a  level  with  JEsop !  Sure  enough  they  do  not 
study  Shakspeare  as  a  teacher  of  morals.  To 
them,  therefore,  Desdemona  is  a  perfect  character ; 
and  her  love  for  Othello  is  not  unnatural,  because 
he  is  not  a  Congo  negro  but  only  a  sooty  Moor, 
and  has  royal  blood  in  his  veins. 

My  objections  to  the  character  of  Desdemona 
arise  not  from  what  lago,  or  Roderigo,  or  Brabafi- 
tio,  or  Othello  says  of  her;  but  from  what  she 
herself  does.  She  absconds  from  her  father's 
house,  in  the  dead  of  night,  to  marry  a  blacka 
moor.  She  breaks  a  father's  heart,  and  covers 
his  noble  house  with  shame,  to  gratify — what  1 
Pure  love,  like  that  of  Juliet  or  Miranda]  No  !  un 
natural  passion  ;  it  cannot  be  named  with  delicacy. 
Her  admirers  now  say  this  is  criticism  of  1835; 
that  the  colour  of  Othello  has  nothing  to  do  with 
the  passion  of  Desdemona.  No  1  Why,  if  Othello 
had  been  white,  what  ne£d  would  there  have  been 
for  her  running  away  with  him  1  She  could  have 
made  no  better  match.  Her  father  could  have 
made  no  reasonable  objection  to  it;  and  there 
could  have  been  no  tragedy.  If  the  colour  of 
Othello  is  not  as  vital  to  the  whole  tragedy  as  the 
age  of  Juliet  is  to  her  character  and  destiny,  then 
have  I  read  Shakspeare  in  vain.  The  father  of 
Desdemona  charges  Othello  with  magic  arts  in 
obtaining  the  affections  of  his  daughter.  Why, 
but  because  her  passion  for  him  is  unnatural  •  and 
why  is  it  unnatural,  but  because  of  his  colour  ] 
In  the  very  first  s-vsne,  in  the  dialogue  between 
Roderigo  and  lago,  before  they  rouse  Brabantio  to 
inlbrm  him  of  his  daughter's  elopement,  Roderigo 
contemptuously  calls  Othello  «  the  thick  lips."  I 
cannot  in  decency  quote  here — but  turn  to  the 
book,  and  see  in  what  language  lago  announces 
to  her  father  his  daughter's  shameful  misconduct. 
The  language  of  Roderigo  is  more  supportable. 
lie  is  a  Venetian  gentleman,  himself  a  rejected 
suitor  of  Desdemona ;  and  who  has  been  forbid 


den  by  her  father  access  to  his  house.  Roused 
from  his  repose  at  the  dead  of  night  by  the  loud 
cries  of  these  two  men,  Brabantio  spurns,  with  in 
dignation  and  scorn,  the  insulting  and  beastly 
language  of  lago ;  and  sharply  chides  Roderigo, 
whom  he  supposes  to  be  hovering  about  his  house 
in  defiance  of  his  prohibitions  and  in  a  state  of  in 
toxication.  He  threatens  him  with  punishment. 
Roderigo  replies — 

"Rod.   Sir.  I  will  answer  any  thing.   But  I  beseech  you, 
If't  be  your  pleasure,  and  most  wise  consent, 
(As  partly,  I  find,  it  is,)  that  your  fair  daughter 
At  this  odd-even  and  dull  watch  o'  the  night, 
Transported — with  no  worse  nor  belter  guard. 
But  with  a  knave  of  common  hire,  a  gondolier.— 
To  the  gross  clasps  of  a  lascivious  Moor, — 
If  this  be  known  to  you,  and  your  allowance, 
We  then  have  done  you  bold  and  saucy  wrongs; 
But  if  you  know  not  this,  my  manners  tell  me, 
We  have  your  wrong  rebuke.    Do  not  believe, 
That,  from  the  sense  of  all  civility, 
I  thus  would  play  and  trifle  with  your  reverence: 
Your  daughter — if  you  have  not  given  her  leave, — 
I  say  again,  hath  made  a  gross  revolt; 
Tying  her  duty,  beauty,  wit.  and  fortunes, 
In  an  extravagant  and  wheeling  stranger, 
Of  here  and  everywhere;   Straight  satisfy  yourself: 
If  she  be  in  your  chamber,  or  your  house, 
Let  loose  on  me  the  justice  of  the  slate 
For  thus  deluding  you." 

Struck  by  this  speech  as  by  a  clap  of  thunder,  Bra 
bantio  calls  up  his  people,  remembers  a  portentous 
dream,  calls  for  light,  goes  and  searches  with  his 
servants,  and  comes  back  saying — 

"  It  is  too  true  an  evil :  gone  she  is : 
And  what's  to  come  of  my  despised  time, 
Is  nought  but  bitterness." 

The  father's  heart  is  broken ;  life  is  no  longer 
of  any  value  to  him ;  he  repeats  this  sentiment 
time  after  time  whenever  he  appears  in  the  scene  : 
and  in  the  last  scene  of  the  play,  where  Desdemo 
na  lies  dead,  her  uncle  Gratiano  says — 

"  Poor  Desdemona !  I  am  glad  thy  father's  dead, 
Thy  match  was  mortal  to  him,  and  pure  grief 
Shore  his  old  thread  in  twain." 

Indeed  !  indeed !  I  must  look  at  Shakspeare  in 
this  as  in  all  his  pictures  of  human  life,  in  the  ca 
pacity  of  a  teacher  of  morals.  I  must  believe 
that  in  exhibiting  a  daughter  of  a  Venetian  noble 
man  of  the  highest  rank  eloping  in  the  dead  of  the 
night  to  marry  a  thick-lipped,  wool-headed  Moor, 
opening  a  train  of  consequences  which  lead  to 
her  own  destruction  by  her  husband's  hands,  and 
to  that  of  her  father  by  a  broken  heart,  he  did  not 
intend  to  present  her  as  an  example  of  the  perfection 
of  female  virtue.  I  must  look  first  at  the  action, 
then  at  the  motive,  then  at  the  consequences,  be 
fore  I  inquire  in  what  light  it  is  received  and  re 
presented  by  the  other  persons  of  the  drama.  The 
first  action  of  Desdemona  discards  all  female  deli 
cacy,  all  filial  duty,  all  sense  of  ingenuous  shame. 
So  I  consider  it — and  so,  it  is  considered  by  her 
own  father.  Her  offence  is  not  a  mere  elopement 
from  her  father's  house  for  a  clandestine  marriage. 
I  hope  it  requires  no  unreasonable  rigoui  of  mo 
rality  to  consider  even  that  as  suited  to  raise  a 
prepossession  rather  unfavourable  to  the  character 
of  a  young  woman  of  refined  sensibility  and  ele 
vated  education.  But  an  elopement  for  a  clan 
destine  marriage  with  a  blackamoor  ! — That  is  the 


104 


JOHN    QUINCY    ADAMS. 


measure  of  my  estimation  of  the  character  of  Des- 
demona  from  the  beginning;  and  when  I  have 
passed  my  judgment  upon  it,  and  find  in  the  play 
that  from  the  first  moment  of  her  father's  know 
ledge  of  the  act  it  made  him  loathe  his  life,  and 
that  it  finally  broke  his  heart,  I  am  then  in  time 
to  inquire,  what  was  the  deadly  venom  which  in 
flicted  the  immedicable  wound : — and  what  is  it, 
but  the  colour  of  Othello  1 

"Now,  Roderigo, 

Where  did'st  thou  see  her?— Oh,  unhappy  girl!— 
With  the  Moor,  say'st  thou  ?— Who  would  be  a  father?" 

These  are  the  disjointed  lamentations  of  the 
wretched  parent  when  the  first  disclosure  of  his 
daughter's  shame  is  made  known  to  him.  This 
scene  is  one  of  the  inimitable  pictures  of  human 
passion  in  the  hands  of  Shakspeare,  and  that  half 
line, 

"With  the  Moor  say'st  thoa?" 

comes  from  the  deepest  recesses  of  the  soul. 

Again,  when  Brabantio  first  meets  Othello,  he 
breaks  out : 

"O,  thou  foul  thief,  where  hast  thou  stow'd  my  daughter? 
Damn'd  as  thou  art,  thou  hast  enchanted  her : 
For  I'll  refer  me  to  all  things  of  sense. 
If  she,  in  chains  of  magic  were  not  bound, 
Whether  a  maid  so  tender,  fair,  and  happy, 
So  opposite  to  marriage  that  she  shunn'd 
The  wealthy  curled  darlings  of  our  nation, 
Would  ever  have  to  incur  our  general  mock, 
Run  from  her  guardage  to  the  sooty  bosom 
Of  such  a  thing  as  thou;  to  fear,  not  to  delight." 

Several  of  the  English  commentators  have  puz 
zled  themselves  with  the  inquiry  why  the  epithet 
"  curled"  is  here  applied  to  the  wealthy  darlings 
of  the  nation ;  and  Dr.  Johnson  thinks  it  has  no 
reference  to  the  hair ;  but  it  evidently  has.  The 
curled  hair  is  in  antithetic  contrast  to  the  sooty 
bosom,  the  thick  lips,  and  the  woolly  head.  The 
contrast  of  colo  is  the  very  hinge  upon  which 
Brabantio  founds  his  charge  of  magic,  counteract 
ing  the  impulse  of  nature. 

At  the  close  of  the  same  scene  (the  second  of 
the  first  act)  Brabantio,  hearing  that  the  duke  is 
in  council  upon  public  business  of  the  State,  deter 
mines  to  carry  Othello  before  him  for  trial  upon 
the  charge  of  magic.  «  Mine,"  says  he, 

"  Mine's  not  a  middle  course  ;  the  duke  himself 
Or  any  of  mv  brothers  of  the  state 
Cannot  but  feel  the  wrong,  as  'twere  their  own: 
For  if  such  actions  may  have  passage  free, 
Bond  slaves  and  Pagans  shall  our  statesmen  be." 

And  Stevens,  in  his  note  on  this  passage,  says, 
"  He  alludes  to  the  common  condition  of  all  blacks 
who  come  from  their  own  country,  both  slaves 
and  pagans:  and  uses  the  word  in  contempt  of 
Othello  and  his  complexion.  If  this  Moor  is  now 
suffered  to  escape  with  impunity,  it  will  be  such 
an  encouragement  to  his  black  countrymen,  that 
we  may  expect  to  sec  all  the  first  offices  of  our 
state  filled  up  by  the  Pagans  and  bond-slaves  of 
Africa."  Othello  himself  in  his  narrative  says 
that  he  had  been  taken  by  the  insolent  foe  and 
sold  to  slavery.  He  had  been  a  slave. 

Once  more — When  Desdemona  pleads  to  the 
Duke  and  the  council  for  permission  to  go  with 
Othello  to  Cyprus,  she  says, 


"That  I  did  love  the  Moor,  to  live  with  him, 
My  downright  violence  and  storrn  of  fortune 
May  trumpet  to  the  world;  my  heart's  subdued, 
Even  to  the  very  quality  of  my  lord  ; 
I  saw  Othello's  visage  in  his  mind; 
And  to  his  honours  and  his  valiant  parts 
Did  I  my  soul  and  fortunes  consecrate." 

In  commenting  upon  this  passage,  William  Hen 
ley  says,  «  That  quality  here  signifies  the  Moorish 
complexion  of  Othello,  and  not  his  military  profes 
sion,  (as  Malone  had  supposed,)  is  obvious  from 
what  immediately  follows :  '  I  saw  Othello's  vis 
age  in  his  .mind ;'  and  also  from  what  the  Duke 
says  to  Brabantio — 

'If  virtue  no  delighted  beauty  lack 
Your  son-in-law  is  far  more  fair  Inan  black.'" 

The  characters  of  Othello  and  lago  in  this  play 
are  evidently  intended  as  contrasted  pictures  of 
human  nature,  each  setting  off  the  other.  They 
are  national  portraits  of  man — the  ITALIAN  and 
the  MOOR.  The  Italian  is  white,  crafty  and  cruel ; 
a  consummate  villain ;  yet,  as  often  happens  in 
the  realities  of  that  description  whom  we  occa 
sionally  meet  in  the  intercourse  of  life,  so  vain  of 
his  own  artifices  that  he  betrays  himself  by  boast 
ing  of  them  and  their  success.  Accordingly,  in 
the  very  first  scene  he  reveals  to  Roderigo  the 
treachery  of  his  own  character : — 

"  For  when  my  outward  action  doth  demonstrate 
The  native  act  and  figure  of  my  heart 
In  compliment  extern,  'tis  not  long  after 
But  I  will  wear  my  heart  upon  my  sleeve 
For  daws  to  peck  at ;  I  am  not  what  I  am." 

There  is  a  seeming  inconsistency  in  the  fact  that 
a  double  dealer  should  disclose  his  own  secret, 
which  must  necessarily  put  others  upon  their  guard 
against  him ;  but  the  inconsistency  is  in  human 
nature,  and  not  in  the  poet. 

The  double  dealing  Italian  is  a  very  intelligent 
man,  a  keen  and  penetrating  observer,  and  full  of 
ingenuity  to  devise  and  contrive  base  expedients. 
His  language  is  coarse,  rude,  and  obscene  :  his  hu 
mour  is  caustic  and  bitter.  Conscious  of  no  hon 
est  principle  in  himself,  he  believes  not  in  the  ex 
istence  of  honesty  in  others.  He  is  jealous  and 
suspicious ;  quick  to  note  every  trifle  light  as  air, 
and  to  draw  from  it  inferences  of  evil  as  confirmed 
circumstances.  In  his  dealings  with  the  Moor, 
while  he  is  even  harping  upon  his  honesty,  he  of 
fers  to  commit  any  murder  from  extreme  attach 
ment  to  his  person  and  interests.  In  all  that  lago 
says  of  others,  and  especially  of  Desdemona,  there 
is  a  mixture  of  truth  and  falsehood,  blended  to 
gether,  in  which  the  truth  itself  serves  to  accredit 
the  lie ;  and  such  is  the  ordinary  character  of  ma 
licious  slanders.  Doctor  Johnson  speaks  of  "  the 
soft  simplicity,"  the  "  innocence,"  the  "  artlessness" 
of  Desdemona.  lago  speaks  of  her  as  a  sitper- 
subile  Venetian ;  and  when  kindling  the  sparks  of 
jealousy  in  the  soul  of  Othello,  he  says, 

-'•  She  did  deceive  her  father,  marrying  you  : 
And  when  she  seemed  to  shake  and  fear  your  looks. 
She  loved  them  most." 
"  And  so    she  did,"    answers   Othello.      This 

charge,  then,  was  true;  and  lago  replies  : 

"  \Vhy,  go  to.  then  ; 

She  that  so  young  could  give  out  such  a  seeming 
To  seal  her  father's  eyes  up,  close  as  oak. — 
He  thought  'twas  witchcraft." 


JOHN    QUINCY    ADAMS. 


105 


It  was  not  witchcraft ;  but  surely  as  little  was 
it  simplicity,  innocence,  artlessness-  The  effect 
of  this  suggestion  upon  Othello  is  terrible  only 
because  he  knows  it  is  true.  Brabantio,  on  part 
ing  from  him,  had  just  given  him  the  same  warn 
ing,  to  which  he  had  not  then  paid  the  slightest 
heed.  But  soon  his  suspicions  are  roused — he 
tries  to  repel  them;  they  are  fermenting  in  his 
brain :  he  appears  vehemently  moved  and  yet  un 
willing  to  acknowledge  it.  lago,  with  fiend-like 
sagacity,  seizes  upon  the  paroxysm  of  emotion,  arid 
then  comes  the  following  dialogue  : — 

"  lago.    "My  lord,  I  see  you  are  moved. 

Othello.  No,  not  much  moved  : — 

I  do  not  think  but  Desdemona's  honest. 

lago.  Long  live  she  so .'  and  long  live  you  to  think  so  ! 

Oth.     And  yet,  how  nature  erring  from  itself. — 

lago.  Ay,  there  's  the  point :  As — to  be  bold  with  you. — 
Not  to  affect  many  proposed  matches, 
Of  her  own  clime",  complexion,  and  degree; 
Whereto,  we  see,  in  all  tilings  nature  tends: 
Foh  !  one  may  smell,  in  such,  a  will  most  rank, 
Foul  disproportion,  thoughts  unnatural." — 

The  deadly  venom  of  these  imputations,  work 
ing  up  to  phrensy  the  suspicions  of  the  Moor,  con 
sist  not  in  their  falsehood  but  in  their  truth. 

I  have  said  the  character  of  Desdemona  was 
deficient  in  delicacy.  Besides  the  instances  to 
which  I  referred  in  proof  of  this  charge,  observe 
what  she  says  in  pleading  for  the  restoration  of 
Cassio  to  his  ofhce,  from  which  he  had  been 
cashiered  by  Othello  for  beastly  drunkenness  and 
a  consequent  night-brawl,  in  which  he  had  stabbed 
Montano — the  predecessor  of  Othello  as  Governor 
of  Cypress — and  nearly  killed  him :  yet  in  urging  | 
Othello  to  restore  Cassio  to  his  office  and  to  favour,  j 
Desdemona  says — 

"in  faith,  he's  penitent; 
And  yet  his  trespass,  in  our  common  reason, 
(Save  that,  they  say.  the  wars  must  make  examples 
Out  of  their  best.)  is  not  almost  a  fault 
To  incur  a  private  check." 

Now,  to  palliate  the  two  crimes  of  Cassio — his 
drunken  fit  and  his  stabbing  of  Montano — the 
reader  knows  that  he  has  been  inveigled  to  the 
commission  of  them  by  the  accursed  artifices  of 
lago  ;  but  Desdemona  knows  nothing  of  this ;  she 
has  no  excuse  for  Cassio — nothing  to  plead  for 
him  but  his  penitence.  And  is  this  the  character  for 
a  woman  of  delicate  sentiment  to  give  of  such  a 
complicated  and  heinous  offence  as  that  of  which 
Cassio  had  been  guilty,  even  when  pleading  for 
his  pardon  1  No  !  it  is  not  for  female  delicacy  to 
extenuate  the  crimes  of  drunkenness  and  blood 
shed,  even  when  performing  the  appropriate  office 
>f  raising  the  soul-subduing  voice  of  mercy. 

Afterwards  in  the  same  speech,  she  says — 

"  What !    Michael  Cassio, 

That  came  a- wooing  with  you ;  and  many  a  time, 
When  I  have  spoke  of  you  dispraisingly, 
l-laih  ta'en  your  part;  to  have  so  much  to  do 
To  bring  him  in!" 

I  will  not  inquire  how  far  this  avowal  that  she 
had  been  in  the  frequent  habit  of  speaking  dis-, 
praisingly  of  Othello  at  the  very  time  when  she 
was  so  deeply  enamoured  with  his  honours  and  his 
valiant  parts,  was  consistent  with  sincerity.  Young 
ladies  must  be  allowed  a  little  concealment  and  a 
14 


little  disguise,  even  for  passions  which  they  have 
no  need  to  be  ashamed.  It  is  the  rosy  pudency — 
the  irresistible  charm  of  the  sex ;  but  the  exercise 
of  it  in  satirical  censure  upon  the  very  object  of 
their  most  ardent  affections  is  certainly  no  indica 
tion  of  innocence,  simplicity,  or  artlessness. 

I  still  retain,  then,  the  opinion — 

First.  That  the  passion  of  Desdemona  for 
Othello  is  unnatural,  solely  and  exclusively  because 
of  his  colour. 

Second.  That  her  elopement  to  him,  and  se 
cret  marriage  with  him,  indicate  a  personal  cha 
racter  not  only  very  deficient  in  delicacy,  but  to 
tally  regardless  of  filial  duty,  of  female  modesty 
and  of  ingenuous  shame. 

Third.  That  her  deficiency  in  delicacy  is  dis 
cernible  in  her  conduct  and  discourse  throughou 
the  play. 

I  perceive  arid  acknowledge,  indeed,  the  admi 
rable  address  with  which  the  part  has  been  con 
trived  to  inspire  and  to  warm  the  breast  of  the 
spectator  with  a  deep  interest  in  her  fate ;  and  I 
am  well  aware  that  my  own  comparative  insensi 
bility  to  it  is  not  in  unison  with  the  general  im 
pression  which  it  produces  upon  the  stage.  I 
shrink  from  the  thou  ght  of  slandering  even  a  crea 
ture  of  the  imagination.  When  the  spectator  or 
reader  follows,  on  the  stage  or  in  the  closet,  the 
infernal  thread  of  duplicity  and  of  execrable  de 
vices  with  which  lago  entangles  his  victims,  it  is 
the  purpose  of  the  dramatist  to  merge  all  the  faults 
and  vices  of  the  sufferers  in  the  overwhelming 
flood  of  their  calamities,  and  in  the  unmingled  de 
testation  of  the  inhuman  devil,  their  betrayer  and 
destroyer.  And  in  all  this,  I  see  not  only  the  skill 
of  the  artist,  but  the  power  of  the  moral  operator, 
the  purifier  of  the  spectator's  heart  by  the  agency 
of  terror  and  pity, 

The  characters  of  Othello  and  Desdemona,  like 
all  the  characters  of  men  and  women  in  real  life, 
are  of  «  mingled  yarn,"  with  qualities  of  good  and 
bad — of  virtue  and  vices  in  proportion  differently 
composed.  lago,  with  a  high  order  of  intellect, 
is,  in  moral  principle,  the  very  spirit  of  evil.  I 
have  said  the  moral  of  the  tragedy  is,  that  the  in 
termarriage  of  black  and  white  blood  is  a  violation 
of  the  law  of  nature.  That  is  the  lesson  to  be 
learned  from  the  play.  To  exhibit  all  the  natural 
consequences  of  their  act,  the  poet  is  compelled  to 
make  the  marriage  secret.  It  must  commence  by 
an  elopement,  and  by  an  outrage  upon  the  deco 
rum  of  social  intercourse.  He  must  therefore  as 
sume,  for  the  performance  of  this  act,  persons  of 
moral  character  sufficiently  frail  and  imperfect  to 
be  capable  of  performing  it,  but  in  other  respects 
endowed  with  pleasing  and  estimable  qualities. 
Thus,  the  Moor  is  represented  as  of  free,  and  open 
and  generous  nature ;  as  a  Christian  ;  as  a  distin 
guished  military  commander  in  the  service  of  the 
Republic  of  Venice;  as  having  rendered  impor 
tant  service  to  the  state,  and  as  being  in  the  en 
joyment  of  a  splendid  reputation  as  a  warrior. 
The  other  party  to  the  marriage  is  a  maiden,  fair, 
gentle,  and  accomplished ;  born  and  educated  in 
the  proudest  rank  of  Venetian  nobility. 


1C6 


JOHN    QUINCY   ADAMS. 


Othello,  setting  aside  his  colour,  has  every 
quality  to  fascinate  and  charm  the  female  heart. 
Desdcmona,  apart  from  the  grossness  of  her  fault 
in  being  accessible  to  such  a  passion  of  such  an 
object,  is  amiable  and  lovely ;  among  the  most  at 
tractive  of  her  sex  and  condition.  The  faults  of 
their  characters  are  never  brought  into  action  ex 
cepting  as  they  illustrate  the  moral  principle  of  the 
whole  story.  Othello  is  not  jealous  by  nature. 
On  the  contrary,  with  a  strong  natural  understand 
ing,  and  all  the  vigilance  essential  to  an  experi 
enced  commander,  he  is  of  a  disposition  so  unsus 
picious  and  confiding,  that  he  believes  in  the  ex 
ceeding  honesty  of  lago  long  after  he  has  ample 
cause  to  suspect  and  distrust  him.  Desdeinona, 
supersubtle  as  she  is  in  the  management  of  her 
amour  with  Othello ;  deeply  as  she  dissembles  to 
deceive  her  father ;  and,  forward  as  she  is  in  in 
viting  the  courtship  of  the  Moor ;  discovers  neither 
artifice  nor  duplicity  from  the  moment  that  she  is 
Othello's  wife.  Her  innocence,  in  all  her  rela 
tions  with  him,  is  pure  and  spotless ;  her  kindness 
for  Cassio  is  mere  untainted  benevolence;  and, 
though  unguarded  in  her  personal  deportment  to 
ward  him,  it  is  far  from  the  slightest  soil  of  culpa 
ble  impropriety.  Guiltless  of  all  conscious  re 
proach  in  this  part  of  her  conduct,  she  never  uses 
any  of  the  artifices  to  which  she  had  resorted  to 
accomplish  her  marriage  with  Othello.  Always 
feeling  that  she  has  given  him  no  cause  of  suspi 
cion,  her  endurance  of  his  cruel  treatment  and 
brutal  abuse  of  her  through  all  the  stages  of  vio 
lence,  till  he  murders  her  in  bed,  is  always  marked 
with  the  most  affecting  sweetness  of  temper,  the 
most  perfect  artlessness,  and  the  most  endearing 
resignation.  The  defects  of  her  character  have 
here  no  room  for  development,  and  the  poet  care 
fully  keeps  them  out  of  sight.  Hence  it  is  that 
the  general  reader  and  spectator,  with  Dr.  John 
son,  give  her  unqualified  credit  for  soft  simpli 
city,  artlessness,  and  innocence — forgetful  of  the 
qualities  of  a  different  and  opposite  character, 
stamped  upon  the  transactions  by  which  she 
effected  her  marriage  with  the  Moor.  The  mar 
riage,  however,  is  the  source  of  all  her  calamities ; 
it  is  the  primitive  cause  of  all  the  tragic  incidents 
of  the  play,  and  of  its  terrible  catastrophe.  That 
the  moral  lesson  to  be  learned  from  it  is  of  no 
practical  utility  in  England,  where  there  are  no 
valiant  Moors  to  steal  the  affections  of  fair  and 
high-born  dames,  may  be  true ;  the  lesson,  how 
ever,  is  not  the  less,  couched  under  the  form  of 
an  admirable  drama;  nor  needs  it  any  laborious 
effort  of  the  imagination  to  extend  the  moral  pre 
cept  resulting  from  the  story  to  a  salutary  admo 
nition  against  all  ill-assorted,  clandestine,  and  un 
natural  marriages. 


ANCIENT  AND  MODERN  ELOQUENCE. 

FROM   LECTURES   ON  RHETORIC    AND    ORATORY. 

WITH  the  dissolution  of  Roman  liberty,  and 
the  decline  of  Roman  taste,  the  reputation  and 
the  excellency  of  the  oratorical  art  fell  alike  into 


decay.  Under  the  despotism  of  the  Csesars,  the 
end  of  eloquence  was  perverted  from  persuasion 
to  panegyric,  and  all  her  faculties  were  soon  pal 
sied  by  the  touch  of  corruption,  or  enervated  by 
the  impotence  of  servitude.  Then  succeeded 
the  midnight  of  the  monkish  ages,  when  with  the 
other  liberal  arts  she  slumbered  in  the  profound 
darkness  of  the  cloister. 

At  the  revival  of  letters  in  modern  Europe,  elo 
quence,  together  with  her  sister  muses,  awoke, 
and  shook  the  poppies  from  her  brow.  But  their 
torpors  still  tingled  in  her  veins.  In  the  interval 
her  voice  was  gone ;  her  favourite  languages  were 
extinct;  her  organs  were  no  longer  attuned  to 
harmony,  and  her  hearers  could  no  longer  under 
stand  her  speech.  The  discordant  jargon  of  feu 
dal  anarchy  had  banished  the  musical  dialects,  in 
which  she  had  always  delighted.  The  theatres 
of  her  former  triumphs  were  either  deserted,  or 
they  were  filled  with  the  babblers  of  sophistry 
and  chicane.  She  shrunk  intuitively  from  the 
forum,  for  the  last  object  she  remembered  to  have 
seen  there  was  the  head  of  her  darling  Cicero, 
planted  upon  the  rostrum.  She  ascended  the  tri 
bunals  of  justice ;  there  she  found  her  child,  Per 
suasion,  manacled  and  pinioned  by  the  letter  ot 
the  law ;  there  she  beheld  an  image  of  herself, 
stammering  in  barbarous  Latin,  and  staggering 
under  the  lumber  of  a  thousand  volumes.  Her 
heart  fainted  within  her.  She  lost  all  confidence 
in  herself.  Together  with  her  irresistible  powers, 
she  lost  proportionably  the  consideration  of  the 
world,  until,  instead  of  comprising  the  whole  sys 
tem  of  public  education,  she  found  herself  excluded 
from  the  circle  of  science,  and  declared  an  out 
law  from  the  realms  of  learning.  She  was  not 
however  doomed  to  eternal  silence.  With  the 
progress  of  freedom  and  of  liberal  science,  in  va 
rious  parts  of  modern  Europe,  she  obtained  access 
to  mingle  in  the  deliberations  of  their  parliaments. 
With  labour  and  difficulty  she  learned  their  lan 
guages,  and  lent  her  aid  in  giving  them  form  am 
polish.  But  she  has  never  recovered  the  grace 
of  her  former  beauty,  nor  the  energies  of  her  an 
cient  vigour. 


THE  FATHERS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

FROM   AN  ORATION  AT  PLYMOUTH. 

WORLDLY  Fame  has  been  parsimonious  of  her 
favour  to  the  memory  of  those  generous  cham 
pions.  Their  numbers  were  small ;  their  stations  in 
life  obscure  ;  the  object  of  their  enterprise  unosten 
tatious  ;  the  theatre  of  their  exploits  remote : 
how  could  they  possibly  be  favourites  of  worldly 
Fame  1 — That  common  crier,  whose  existence  is 
only  known  by  the  assemblage  of  multitudes  :  that 
pander  of  wealth  and  greatness,  so  eager  to  haunt 
the  palaces  of  fortune,  and  so  fastidious  to  the 
houseless  dignity  of  virtue  :  that  parasite  of  pride, 
ever  scornful  to  meekness,  and  ever  obsequious  to 
insolent  power :  that  heedless  trumpeter,  whose 
ears  are  deaf  to  modest  merit,  and  whose  eyes  are 
blind  to  bloodless,  distant  excellence. 


CHARLES  BROCKDEN  BROWN. 


[Born  1771.    Died  1810.] 


CHARLES  BROCKDEN  BROWN  was  the  first 
American  who  chose  literature  as  a  profession, 
and  the  first  to  leave  enduring  monuments  of 
genius  in  the  fields  of  the  imagination.  His 
family  were  of  the  Society  of  Friends.  He 
was  born  in  Philadelphia  on  the  seventeenth 
of  January,  1771.  In  his  youth  he  was  dimi 
nutive  and  feeble,  modest  and  studious.  At 
ten  years  of  age,  when  some  one  petulantly 
called  him  boy,  he  exclaimed,  "  What  does 
he  mean  1  does  he  not  know  that  it  is  neither 
age  nor  size,  but  sense,  that  makes  the  man  1 
I  could  ask  him  a  hundred  questions  of  which 
he  could  not  answer  one."  He  studied  the 
humanities  with  Robert  Proud,  the  historian 
of  Pennsylvania.  He  was  a  favourite  with 
his  teacher,  by  whose  advice,  when  close  ap 
plication  impaired  his  health,  he  went  into 
the  country,  and  in  solitary  walks  received 
impressions  of  some  of  those  grand  scenes 
which  are  described  in  his  works,  and  habits 
of  abstraction  for  which  he  was  subsequently 
distinguished.  He  quitted  school  before  he 
was  sixteen,  and  soon  after  entered  upon  the 
study  of  the  law.  He  joined  a  society  of  stu 
dents,  one  of  whom  was  the  late  Dr.  Milnor, 
and  in  arguments  at  its  meetings  exhibited  an 
ability  that  was  deemed  the  earnest  of  future 
triumphs.  But  the  profession  became  to  him 
every  day  less  attractive,  and  was  finally 
abandoned.  His  family  remonstrated,  but  in 
vain.  His  dislike  to  the  scenes  presented  in 
the  courts,  and  to  the  tautologies,  circuities,  arti 
fices,  and  falsehoods  of  the  law,  were  invinci 
ble.  He  regarded  it  as  a  "  tissue  of  shreds  and 
remnants  of  a  barbarous  antiquity,  patched  by 
the  stupidity  of  modern  workmen  into  new 
deformity,"*  and  would  have  nothing  to  do 
with  it. 

He  was  now  without  any  definite  aims. 
He  became  a  prey  to  melancholy.  He  sought 
relief  in  change  of  scene,  and  made  excursions 
through  Pennsylvania  and  the  neighbouring 
states ;  but  his  diary  and  correspondence  show 
that  he  found  no  relief.  To  one  of  his  friends 

*  "  Orraoud,"  chapter  ii. 


he  wrote,  "  Forget  that  any  latent  anguish  or 
corroding  sorrow  is  concealed  under  that 
aspect  of  indifference  which  has  become  ha 
bitual."  He  saw  an  obstacle  to  the  schemes 
of  despair  in  the  sorrow  they  would  occasion 
to  the  few  who  loved  him,  and  for  their  sakes 
determined  to  bear  every  thing  with  a  heroic 
calmness. 

In  1793  he  went  to  New  York.  He  was 
warmly  attached  to  Dr.  Elihu  H.  Smith  of 
that  city,  who  had  been  a  student  in  the  Me 
dical  College  at  Philadelphia;  and  with  him 
and  William  Johnson,  afterward  an  eminent 
lawyer,  he  entered  into  a  domestic  partner 
ship,  and  took  a  house.  His  associates  intro 
duced  him  to  a  literary  society  called  the 
Friendly  Club,  among  whose  members  were 
Dr.  Samuel  L.  Mitchell,  Anthony  Bleecker, 
William  Dunlap,  James  Kent,  since  known 
as  the  great  chancellor,  and  others  who  were 
afterward  distinguished.  It  was  like  a  new 
and  invigorating  atmosphere.  The  French 
revolution  was  then  at  its  heat,  and  was  shak 
ing  the  institutions  of  Christendom.  Theorists 
in  all  countries  were  busy  with  schemes  for 
the  melioration  of  the  condition  of  mankind. 
Brown  was  affected  with  the  general  contagion. 
He  had  already  been  an  occasional  writer  for 
the  periodicals,  and  had  projected  epics  and 
romances.  He  now  became  a  political  phi 
losopher,  and  wrote  about  Utopias.  Near  the 
close  of  1797  he  published  his  first  work, 
Alcuin,  a  Dialogue  on  the  Rights  of  Women. 
It  is  not  without  ingenuity.  In  the  last  few 
years  many  women  in  this  country  and  in 
Europe,  vexed  that  they  cannot  unsex  them 
selves,  have  written  in  the  same  way.  The 
book  was  unsuccessful,  and  the  author  di 
rected  his  attention  into  another  department 
of  letters. 

I  do  not  know  at  what  time  it  was  written, 
but  it  is  proper  to  mention  here  an  unfinished 
novel,  entitled  Memoirs  of  Carwin,  the  Bi- 
loquist,  because  it  contains  the  early  hisv>ry 
of  one  of  his  most  striking  characters,  the  real 
hero  of  Wieland,  and  must  be  read  before 
1  that  work  can  be  properly  appreciated.  It 

107 


08 


CHARLES  BROCKDEN  BROWN. 


should  always  be  printed  as  an  introduction 
to  it.* 

Wieland,  or  the  Transformation,  the  first 
of  the  series  of  brilliant  novels  by  which 
Brown  gained  his  enduring  reputation,  was 
published  in  1798.  Its  appearance  marked 
an  era  in  American  literature.  It  is  in  all  re 
spects  a  remarkable  book.  Its  plot,  charac 
ters,  and  style  are  original  and  peculiar.  The 
family  of  Wieland  are  of  German  descent, 
well-educated,  and  move  in  the  best  society. 
A  tendency  to  religious  fanaticism  is  heredi 
tary,  and  the  death  of  the  father  is  mysterious 
and  terrible.  The  son,  an  amiable  enthusiast, 
lives  with  his  wife  and  children  in  seclusion, 
near  the  Schuj^lkill ;  near  him  his  sister,  to 
whom  he  is  tenderly  attached,  and  in  the 
neighbourhood  Pleyel,  his  wife's  brother. 
Six  years  of  uninterrupted  happiness  precede 
the  opening  of  the  drama.  A  man  of  middle 
age,  ungainly  person,  and  rustic  dress,  is  now 
seen  frequently  wandering  in  the  vicinity. 
He  is  accosted  by  Pleyel,  who  remembers  that 
they  have  met  in  Spain,  where  he  appeared 
in  a  different  character.  His  name  is  Carwin. 
His  knowledge  and  wit  are  unbounded,  his 
voice  variably  musical,  and  his  conversation 
so  attractive  that  he  is  with  little  hesitation 
received  into  the  society  at  Mettingen.  Soon 
the  nights  are  made  fearful  by  strange  voices, 
and  warnings  of  danger,  or  startling  by  un 
looked-for  revelations.  By  Wieland  they  are 
referred  to  a  supernatural  agency ;  the  others 
are  perplexed  ;  and  all  seem  to  be  approach 
ing  a  catastrophe.  At  length  Wieland  is  sum 
moned  in  a  mysterious  manner  to  testify  his 
submission  to  the  divine  will  by  the  sacrifice  of 
his  warmest  affections,  his  dearest  pleasures ; 
and  in  obedience  to  the  heavenly  messenger 
destroys  his  wife  and  children,  and  seeks  the 
life  of  his  sister,  who  escapes  by  an  accident. 
He  is  arrested  and  convicted  of  murder,  but 
regards  the  proceedings  with  heroic  calmness, 
confident  that  he  has  but  fulfilled  the  will  of 
God.  The  key  to  all  this  is  ventriloquism. 
It  is  objected  by  Mr.  Prescott  and  other  very 
able  critics,  that  the  explanation  is  unsatis 
factory,  and  that  the  character  of  Carwin  is 
contradictory,  unnatural,  and  devilish. 

With  deference,  I  think  all  who  have  writ 
ten  upon  this  point — for  no  critic  has  hitherto 
taken  a  different  view  of  it — have  done  so 

*  It  is  printed  in  Dunlap's  Life  and  Selections  from  the 
works  of  Brown,  vol.  ii.  p.  200 — 261. 


upon  a  superficial  examination  of  the  history, 
and  without  a  consideration  of  Wieland's  pecu 
liar  mind  and  life.  The  optical  illusions  may 
have  been  the  exaggerations  of  a  heated  ima 
gination.  Ventriloquism  at  that  time  was  a 
faculty  not  generally  known  to  exist,  and  it  is 
reasonable  to  suppose  that  the  actors  in  this 
drama  had  never  heard  of  it.  By  less  power 
ful  means  the  impostor  Matthias  produced 
similar  effects.*  Alexander  Vattemare  and 
others  have  acquired  as  perfect  a  control  as  is 
here  described  over  their  voices.  But  not 
withstanding  the  author's  opinion,  and  his 
own  surprise  and  horror  at  the  catastrophe, 
Carwin  is  called  a  «'  demon."  Driven  by  a 
father's  brutal  severity  at  an  earty  age  from 
amid  the  forests  into  the  city,  he  struggled 
with  "  low  wants  and  lofty  will"  until  he  at 
tracted  the  attention  of  an  adventurer,  who 
perceived  his  genius  and  trusted  by  a  suitable 
education  to  make  him  an  efficient  promoter 
of  his  plans.  After  a  few  years,  passed  in 
Europe,  he  quarrelled  with  his  patron,  and  re 
turned,  poor,  friendless,  and  dispirited.  Soli 
tary  walks  in  the  vicinity  of  Philadelphia  led 
to  an  acquaintance  with  the  Wielands.  His 
principles  justified  an  intrigue  with  one  of 
their  inmates,  and  though  he  had  forsworn 
his  dangerous  art,  in  an  emergency  he  resorted 
to  it  to  prevent  a  discovery  which  would  have 
been  more  dangerous  to  another  than  himself. 
Ignorant  perhaps  of  Wieland's  superstition, 
and  to  test  the  vaunted  courage  of  his  sister, 
as  well  as  to  preserve  the  secrecy  of  his 
amour,  he  made  frequent  experiments  and 
found  amusement  in  the  wonder  and  in  the 
discussions  they  excited.  To  screen  himself 
from  punishment  his  former  patron  had  ac 
cused  him  before  the  magistrates  of  Dublin, 
and  a  reward  for  his  apprehension  was  now 
offered  in  the  gazettes.  He  suddenly  quitted 
Mettingen,  and  on  his  return  learned  with 
undissembled  horror  the  last  scenes  in  the 
family  of  Wieland.  He  was  unwise,  unfor 
tunate,  wicked,  but  not  a  "  fiend,"  nor  ac 
tuated  by  "  diabolical  malice."  The  careful 
reader  of  the  narrative  will  perceive  that  the 
credulous  Wieland  already  supposed  himself 
in  communication  with  the  invisible  world, 
and  that  on  the  night  when  he  thought  the 
sacrifice  of  his  family  was  demanded,  the 
author  represents  his  imagination  as  heated  to 

*Vide  Matthias  and  his  Impostures,  by  William  L. 
Stone. 


CHARLES  BROCKDEN  BROWN. 


109 


phrensy  by  fears  respecting  his  sister.  He 
was  in  a  state  to  hear  voices  when  no  voices 
sounded,  and  to  see  sights  invisible  to  other 
eyes ;  Carwin  had  no  direct  connection  with 
these  last  events.  It  was  a  terrible  but  not 
unparalleled  instance  of  self-delusion.  This 
was  evidently  the  author's  meaning.  Mr. 
Prescott  curses  with  Dryden  the  inventors  of 
fifth  acts,  by  which  a  tragedy's  "  pleasing  hor 
rors"  are  unravelled.  But  Brown  had  higher 
objects  than  to  entrance  the  fancy.  He  was 
a  careful  anatomist  of  the  mind,  and,  familiar 
with  its  wonderful  phenomena,  had  no  need  of 
gorgorteand  chimeras.  He  would  ha^e  failed 
of  the  end  he  had  in  view  if  he  had  not  shown 
the  causes  of  his  effects ;  and  in  considering 
whether  his  explanations  are  sufficient  we  are 
not  to  inquire  if  we  ourselves  should  have 
been  deceived  as  Wieland  was,  but  if  such 
an  intellect,  with  such  an 'education  and  ex 
perience,  and  under  such  circumstances,  could 
have  been  thus  wrecked.  I  confess  that,  re 
membering  some  of  the  best  authenticated 
facts  in  the  more  recent  history  of  fanaticism 
and  superstition,  I  can  perceive  nothing  un 
natural  or  improbable  in  this  work,  nor  do  I 
think  that  a  key  to  its  mysteries  renders  it  in 
any  degree  uninteresting. 

Brown's  second  novel  is  entitled  Ormond. 
The  scenes  are  New  York  and  Philadelphia, 
and  the  time  near  the  close  of  the  last  century, 
embracing  the  period  of  the  yellow  fever. 
The  first  part  of  the  story  is  very  interesting. 
The  incidents  are  dramatic  and  natural,  and 
the  characters  are  drawn  with  great  distinct 
ness.  An  artist,  of  taste  and  cultivation,  but 
moderate  powers,  finding  his  professional  in 
come  insufficient  to  meet  the  increasing  wants 
of  his  family,  upon  the  death  of  his  father 
embraces  the  hereditary  occupation  of  phar 
macy,  and  grows  rich.  A  partner,  bound  to 
him  by  every  tie  of  gratitude,  robs  him  and 
quits  the  country,  leaving  him  in  his  old  age 
in  blindness  and  beggary.  His  daughter, 
Constantia  Dudley,  is  the  heroine,  and  there 
are  few  heroines  in  American  fiction  more  na 
tural  and  beautiful.  The  formal  introduction 
of  Ormond  is  unsuccessful.  His  character 
however  is  soon  boldly  and  clearly  exhibited 
in  his  action.  It  is  one  to  be  judged  differ 
ently  by  different  sorts  of  people.  Common 
morality  is  very  shallow.  Common  senti 
ment  is  sickly.  He  would  be  a  monster  to 
the  vulgar  apprehension.  Yet  he  is  not  without 


nobility,  nor  is  his  conduct,  as  presented  in 
the  earlier  part  of  the  narrative,  unnatural 
or  unparalleled  in  real  life.  His  notions  in 
regard  to  marriage  are  peculiar ;  he  keeps  a 
mistress,  a  woman  of  education,  with  whom, 
as  with  others,  he  deals  with  sincerity  and 
frankness.  In  the  last  half  of  the  book  the 
characters  are  not  sustained.  Tedious  epi 
sodes,  having  no  connection  with  the  main 
story,  and  new  and  useless  actors  are  ob 
truded.  In  the  first  part  the  style  is  better 
than  in  his  other  works,  but  in  the  last  part 
it  is  feeble.  A  suspicion  arises  that,  growing 
weary  of  his  task,  he  hastily  filled  out  his 
volumes  with  fragments  of  other  tales,  aban 
doning  any  plan  he  may  have  entertained  for 
the  denouement. 

Brown  had  withdrawn  from  Philadelphia 
when  the  yellow  fever  approached  that  city 
in  1793,  but  when  in  1798  the  epidemic  threat 
ened  to  desolate  New  York,  he  and  his  friends 
determined  to  continue  in  their  house,  which 
was  in  a  healthy  part  of  the  town.  Dr.  Smith 
was  detained  by  professional  duties ;  Brown 
would  not  go  lest  his  friend  should  need  his 
personal  attention  ;  Smith  died,  Brown  nearly 
lost  his  life  by  his  benevolence,  and  on  his 
partial  recovery  from  a  severe  illness,  accepted 
an  invitation  to  reside  with  William  Dunlap 
at  Perth  Amboy,  in  New  Jersey.  Here, 
while  all  the  horrors  of  the  plague  were  fresh 
in  his  memory,  he  wrote  his  third  novel, 
Arthur  Mervyn.  The  hero  is  the  son  of  an 
ignorant  farmer,  whose  second  marriage  with 
a  youthful  and  vulgar  woman  drove  his 
only  child  into  the  world.  His  mother  had 
possessed  education  and  refinement  above  her 
condition,  and  Mervyn  had  received  from  her 
and  from  a  stranger  who  had  wandered  into 
the  country  and  died  at  his  father's  house,  a 
degree  of  knowledge  unusual  among  boys  of 
his  class  in  Pennsylvania.  On  his  arrival  in 
the  city  his  services  are  engaged  by  Waldeck, 
an  accomplished  villain,  who  keeps  a  splen 
did  establishment,  and  transforms  the  rustic 
into  an  elegant  young  man  of  the  town. 
Waldeck's  character,  as  a  work  of  art,  is  the 
best  in  the  novel,  the  interest  of  which  arises 
chiefly  from  his  profligate  career,  and  the  ra 
vages  of  the  pestilence,  which  are  described 
with  wonderful  fidelity  and  distinctness.  The 
incidents  have  little  cohesion,  the  characters 
are  needlessly  multiplied,  and  the  careless 
prolixity  of  the  last  volume  is  redeemed  by 


110 


CHARLES    BROCKDEN    BROWN. 


few  such  graphic  and  powerful  sketches  as 
in  the  first  enchain  the  reader's  attention. 

Arthur  Mervyn  was  followed  by  Edgar 
Huntley,  the  Memoirs  of  a  Somnambulist. 
The  scene  is  near  the  forks  of  the  Delaware, 
in  Pennsylvania.  A  friend  of  the  hero  has 
suddenly  disappeared.  It  is  supposed  that 
he  is  murdered.  Huntley,  meditating  upon 
his  fate,  wanders  at  night  by  an  unfrequented 
path  toward  the  residence  of  a  friend,  and  by 
the  moonlight  discovers  a  person  digging  the 
ground  under  a  tree ;  he  perceives  that  he  oc 
casionally  stops  and  exhibits  intense  emotion; 
his  suspicions  are  aroused,  and  when  the  earth 
is  closed  up  he  follows  the  man  through  tan 
gled  mazes  of  a  forest  to  a  cavern,  where 
he  loses  sight  of  him.  This  man  is  Clithero, 
a  foreigner  employed  in  the  vicinity,  who  in 
his  sleep  has  been  burying  some  memorials 
of  an  eventful  life,  which  is  subsequently  de 
tailed  to  Huntley  to  avert  the  impression  that 
Clithero  was  concerned  in  his  friend's  death. 
In  following  the  sleep-walker  on  various  oc 
casions  Huntley  is  led  into  extraordinary 
adventures,  and  among  scenes  of  gloomy 
wildness  and  sublimity,  which  are  described 
with  a  freedom,  boldness,  and  occasional  mi 
nuteness,  which  are  extremely  effective.  This 
is  the  only  work  in  which  Brown  has  intro 
duced  Indian  characters,  and  the  pictures  he 
has  given  of  savage  life  are  eminently  strik 
ing.  The  work  exhibits  the  intensity,  and 
the  anatomical  knowledge  of  human  passions, 
for  which  his  previous  writings  are  distin 
guished,  and  it  has  their  numerous  and  various 
faults,  the  worst  of  which  perhaps  is  a  want 
of  proportion. 

Brown  subsequently  published  Clara  How 
ard,  Memoirs  of  Stephen  Calvert,  and  Jane 
Talbot.  The  last  is  the  shortest  and  least  at 
tractive  of  his  fictions.  . 

When  he  left  the  retreat  of  Mr.  Dunlap,  at 
Perth  Amboy,  he  returned  to  Philadelphia, 
where  in  1799  he  commenced  The  Monthly 
Magazine  and  American  Review.  It  was 
discontinued  in  the  following  year.  In  1804 
he  married  Miss  Linn,  with  whom  he  had  be 
come  acquainted  in  New  York.  She  was  the 
sister  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  John  Blair  Linn,*  of 
whom  he  afterward  wrote  a  memoir.  In  1805 
he  began  The  Literary  Magazine  and  Ameri 
can  Register,  which  was  continued  five  years, 

*  Author  of ''Valerian,"  "The  Powers  of  Genius,"  etc. 


during  which  time  it  was  chiefly  supported 
by  his  own  contributions.  In  1806  he  esta 
blished  The  American  Register,  which  ap 
peared  in  semi-annual  volumes  until  its  pub 
lication  was  interrupted  by  his  death.  He 
translated  the  work  on  the  United  States  by 
Volney,  with  whom  he  had  contracted  a 
friendship  during  his  residence  in  this  coun 
try;  and  he  wrote  several  elaborate  political 
pamphlets,  the  principal  of  which  were,  An 
Address  to  the  Government  of  the  United 
States  on  the  Cession  of  Louisiana  to  the 
French,  and  on  the  late  Breach  of  Treaty  by 
the  Spaniards ;  The  British  Treaty ;  and  An 
Address  to  the  Congress  of  the  United  States 
on  the  Utility  and  Justice  of  Restrictions 
upon  Foreign  Commerce,  with  Reflections 
upon  Foreign  Trade  in  General,  and  the  Fu 
ture  Prospects  of  America. 

The  year  after  his  marriage  he  wrote  to 
Dunlap,  "  You  judge  rightly  when  you  think 
I  am  situated  happily ;  my  present  way  of 
life  is  in  every  respect  to  my  mind.  There  is 
nothing  to  disturb  my  felicity  but  the  sense  of 
the  uncertainty  and  instability  that  clings  to 
every  thing  human.  I  cannot  be  happier  than 
I  am.  Every  change  therefore  must  be  for 
the  worse.  My  business,  if  I  may  so  call  it, 
is  altogether  pleasurable.  My  companion  is 
all  that  a  husband  can  wish  for,  and  in  short, 
as  to  my  personal  situation,  I  have  nothing  to 
wish  but  that  it  may  /as/."  But  it  did  not  last. 
His  constitution,  as  I  have  before  mentioned," 
was  delicate.  His  lungs  were  now  affected, 
and  he  was  compelled  to  give  up  active  exer 
cise.  Confined  to  his  house  he  pursued  with 
unremitting  ardour  his  favourite  studies.  His 
only  descendant,  my  friend  William  Linn 
Brown,  Esquire,  of  Philadelphia,  has  shown 
me  numerous  large  architectural  drawings, 
executed  in  his  last  years  with  such  skill  and 
care,  that  they  seem  like  engravings ;  and  an 
elaborate  Geography,  of  which  all  is  written 
but  the  book  relating  to  this  country.  It  is 
in  a  beautiful  round  hand,  as  legible  as  a 
printed  page.  The  late  John  Murray,  of  Lon 
don,  who  once  had  the  MS.  in  his  possession, 
was  of  opinion  that  if  it  had  been  finished 
and  published,  the  great  work  of  Malte-Brun 
would  never  have  been  translated.  In  1809 
Brown  consented  to  travel,  in  the  hope  of 
benefit  from  change  of  scene.  By  easy  stages 
he  visited  the  states  of  New  Jersey  and  New 
York ;  in  November  he  was  confined  to  his 


CHARLES  BROCKDEN  BROWN. 


Ill 


chamber ;  and  on  the  twenty-second  of  Febru 
ary,  1810,  he  died,  having  just  finished  the 
thirty-ninth  year  of  his  age. 

The  distinguishing  characteristics  of  his 
works  I  have  already  noticed.  The  faults  of 
their  construction  doubtless  were  in  some  de 
gree  owing  to  the  great  rapidity  with  which 
they  were  written.  The  author  and  the  printer 
were  engaged  at  the  same  time  upon  nearly 
every  one  of  them  ;  and  he  sometimes  had  three 
or  four  under  way  at  once.  In  all  of  them 
are  indications  that  he  grew  weary  before  they 
were  finished.  His  style  is  not  good  ;  in  a 
majority  of  his  works  at  least  it  lacks  simpli 
city  and  directness,  and  has  numerous  verbal 
faults.  "  Thee,"  "  thou,"  "  thine,"  are  rarely 
admissible  except  in  addresses  to  the  Deity. 
Brown  was  educated  a  Quaker,  and  it  was  no 
affectation  in  him  therefore  to  use  what  this 
sect  calls  the  "  plain  language  ;"  but  there  is 


no  excuse  for  "  thee"  and  "  thine"  in  the  same 
sentence  with  "  you"  and  "  yours."  He  makes 
"adore"  a  synonym  for  " love"  or  "  respect ;" 
"  somewhat"  for  "  something,"  and  "  rumi 
nate"  for  "  meditate,"  occur  constantly ;  and 
the  ear  is  offended  by  "museful,"  "deliquiern," 
or  other  unusual  or  pedantic  words  in  almost 
every  page. 

If  his  works  were  pruned  of  their  redun 
dancies,  if  their  needless  episodes  were  erased, 
and  a  judicious  proof-reader  should  make  the 
requisite  occasional  changes  of  words,  extra 
ordinary  merits,  which  are  independent  of  these 
blemishes,  would  secure  them  a  popularity 
they  have  never  yet  possessed. 

Brown  was  a  man  of  unquestionable  genius 
and  a  true  scholar.  His  works  are  original, 
powerful,  and  peculiar,  and  with  all  their 
faults  will  continue  to  be-  read  by  educated 
and  thoughtful  men. 


THE  DEFENCE  OF  WIELAND. 

FROM  WIELAND. 

THEODORE  WIET.AND,  the  prisoner  at  the  bar, 
was  now  called  upon  for  his  defence.  He  looked 
around  him  for  some  time  in  silence,  and  with  a 
mild  countenance.  At  length  he  spoke  : 

It  is  strange ;  I  am  known  to  my  judges  and 
my  auditors.  Who  is  there  present  a  stranger  to 
the  character  of  Wieland  ]  who  knows  him  not 
as  a  husband — as  a  father — as  a  friend  ]  yet  here 
am  I  arraigned  as  a  criminal.  I  am  charged  with 
diabolical  malice ;  I  am  accused  of  the  murder  of 
my  wife  and  my  children  ! 

It  is  true,  they  were  slain  by  me;  they  all  pe 
rished  by  my  hand.  The  task  of  vindication  is 
ignoble.  What  is  it  that  I  am  called  to  vindicate  1 
and  before  whom  1 

You  know  that  they  are  dead,  and  that  they 
were  killed  by  me.  What  more  wrould  you  have  ] 
Would  you  extort  from  me  a  statement  of  my 
motives  ]  Have  you  failed  to  discover  them  al 
ready  ?  You  charge  me  with  malice ;  but  your 
eyes  are  not  shut ;  your  reason  is  still  vigorous ; 
your  memory  has  not  forsaken  you.  You  know 
whom  it  is  that  you  thus  charge.  The  habits  of 
his  life  are  known  to  you ;  his  treatment  of  his 
wife  and  his  offspring  is  known  to  you  ;  the  sound 
ness  of  his  integrity  and  the  unchangeableness  of 
his  principles  are  familiar  to  your  apprehension  ; 
yet  you  persist  in  this  charge!  you  lead  me 
hither  manacled  as  a  felon  !  you  deem  me  worthy 
of  a  vile  and  tormenting  death  ! 

Who  are  they  whom  I  have  devoted  to  death  1 
My  wife — the  little  ones  that  drew  their  being 
from  me — that  creature  who,  as  she  surpassed 
them  in  excellence,  claimed  a  larger  affection  than 
those  whom  natural  affinities  bound  to  my  heart. 


Think  ye  that  malice  could  have  urged  me  to  this 
deed  1  Hide  your  audacious  fronts  from  the  scru 
tiny  of  Heaven.  Take  refuge  in  some  cavern  un- 
visited  by  human  eyes.  Ye  may  deplore  your 
wickedness  or  folly,  but  ye  cannot  expiate  it. 

Think  not  that  I  speak  for  your  sakes.  Hug 
to  your  hearts  this  detestable  infatuation.  Deem 
me  still  a  murderer,  and  drag  me  to  untimely 
death.  I  make  not  an  effort  to  dispel  your  illu 
sion  ;  I  utter  not  a  word  to  cure  you  of  your  san 
guinary  folly ;  but  there  are  probably  some  in  this 
assembly  who  have  come  from  far.  For  their  sakes, 
whose  distance  has  disabled  them  from  knowing 
me,  I  will  tell  what  I  have  done,  and  why.  It  is 
needless  to  say  that  God  is  the  object  of  my  su 
preme  passion.  I  have  cherished,  in  his  presence, 
a  single  and  upright  heart.  I  have  thirsted  for 
the  knowledge  of  his  will.  I  have  burnt  with 
ardour  to  approve  my  faith  and  my  obedience. 
My  days  have  been  spent  in  searching  for  the 
revelation  of  that  will;  but  my  days  have  been 
mournful,  because  my  search  failed.  I  solicited 
direction;  I  turned  on  every  side  where  glimmer 
ings  of  light  could  be  discovered.  I  have  not  been 
wholly  uninformed ;  but  my  knowledge  has  always 
stopped  short  of  certainty.  Dissatisfaction  has 
insinuated  itself  into  all  my  thoughts.  My  pur- 
poses  have  been  pure ;  my  wishes  indefatigable ; 
but  not  till  lately  were  these  purposes  thoroughly 
accomplished,  and  these  wishes  fully  gratified. 

I  thank  thee,  my  Father,  for  thy  bounty !  that 
thou  didst  not  ask  a  less  sacrifice  than  this !  that 
thou  placedst  me  in  a  condition  to  testify  my  sub 
mission  to  thy  will !  What  have  I  withheld 
which  it  was  thy  pleasure  to  exact  ?  Now  may 
I,  with  dauntless  and  erect  eye,  claim  my  reward, 
since  I  have  given  thee  the  treasure  of  my  soul ! 

I  was  at  my  own  house;  it  was  late  in  the 


112 


CHARLES  BROCKDEN  BROWN. 


evening ;  my  sister  had  gone  to  the  city,  but  pro 
posed  to  return.  .  .  .  My  mind  was  contemplative 
and  calm ;  not  wholly  devoid  of  apprehension  on 
account  of  my  sister's  safety.  Recent  events,  not 
easily  explained,  had  suggested  the  existence  of 
some  danger ;  but  this  danger  was  without  a  dis 
tinct  form  in  our  imagination,  and  scarcely  ruffled 
our  tranquillity. 

Time  passed,  and  my  sister  did  not  arrive ;  her 
house  is  at  some  distance  from  mine,  and  though 
her  arrangements  had  been  made  with  a  view  to 
residing  with  us,  it  was  possible  that,  through  for- 
getfulness,  or  the  occurrence  of  unforeseen  emer 
gencies,  she  had  returned  to  her  own  dwelling. 

Hence  it  was  conceived  proper  that  I  should 
ascertain  the  truth  by  going  thither.  I  went.  On 
my  way  my  mind  was  full  of  those  ideas  which 
related  to  my  intellectual  condition.  In  the  torrent 
of  fervid  conceptions,  I  lost  sight  of  my  purpose. 
Sometimes  I  stood  still;  sometimes  I  wandered 
from  my  path,  and  experienced  some  difficulty,  on 
recovering  from  my  fit  of  musing,  to  regain  it. 

The  series  of  my  thoughts  is  easily  traced.  At 
first  every  vein  beat  with  rapture  known  only  to 
the  man  whose  parental  and  conjugal  love  is  with 
out  limits,  and  the  cup  of  whose  desires,  immense 

as  it  is,  overflows  with  gratification The 

Author  of  my  being  was  likewise  the  dispenser  of 
every  gift  with  which  that  being  was  embellished. 
The  service  to  which  a  benefactor  like  this  was 
entitled,  could  not  be  circumscribed.  My  social 
sentiments  were  indebted  to  their  alliance  with 
devotion  for  all  their  value 

For  a  time,  my  contemplations  soared  above 
earth  and  its  inhabitants.  I  stretched  forth  my 
hands;  I  lifted  my  eyes, and  exclaimed,  Oh!  that 
I  might  be  admitted  to  thy  presence!  that  mine 
were  the  supreme  delight  of  knowing  thy  will, 
and  of  performing  it !  The  blissful  privilege  of 
direct  communication  with  thee,  and  of  listening  to 
the  audible  enunciation  of  thy  pleasure !  What 
task  would  I  not  undertake,  what  privation  would 
I  not  cheerfully  endure,  to  testify  my  love  of  thee  1 
Alas  !  thou  hidest  thyself  from  my  view  ;  glimpses 
only  of  thy  excellence  and  beauty  are  afforded  me. 
Wrould  that  a  momentary  emanation  from  thy 
glory  would  visit  me  !  that  some  unambiguous 
token  of  thy  presence  would  salute  my  senses ! 

In  this  mood  I  entered  the  house  of  my  sister. 
It  was  vacant.  Scarcely  had  I  regained  recollec 
tion  of  the  purpose  that  brought  me  hither. 
Thoughts  of  a  different  tendency  had  such  abso 
lute  possession  of  my  mind,  that  the  relations  of 
time  and  space  were  almost  obliterated  from  my 
understanding.  These  wanderings,  however,  were 
restrained,  and  I  ascended  to  her  chamber.  I  had 
no  light,  and  might  have  known,  by  external  ob 
servation,  that  the  house  was  without  any  inhabit 
ant.  With  this,  however,  I  was  not  satisfied.  I 
entered  the  room,  and  the  object  of  my  search  not 
appearing,  I  prepared  to  return.  The  darkness 
required  some  cation  in  descending  the  stair.  I 
stret^Vd  my  hand  to  seize  the  balustrade  by  which 
I  might  regulate  my  steps. 

How  shall  I  describe  the  lustre  which,  at  that 


moment,  burst  upon  my  vision!  I  was  dazzled. 
My  organs  were  bereaved  of  their  activity.  My 
eyelids  were  half-closed,  and  my  hands  withdrawn 
from  the  balustrade.  A  nameless  fear  chilled  my 
veins,  and  I  stood  motionless.  This  irradiation 
did  not  retire  or  lessen.  It  seemed  as  if  some 
powerful  effulgence  covered  me  like  a  mantle.  I 
opened  my  eyes  and  found  all  about  me  luminous 
and  glowing.  It  was  the  element  of  heaven  that 
flowed  around.  Nothing  but  a  fiery  stream  was 
at  first  visible ;  but,  anon,  a  shrill  voice  from  be 
hind  called  upon  me  to  attend.  I  turned.  It  is 
forbidden  to  describe  what  I  saw ;  words  would  be 
wanting  to  the  task.  The  lineaments  of  that  be 
ing,  whose  veil  was  now  lifted,  and  whose  visage 
beamed  upon  my  sight,  no  hues  of  pencil  or  of 
language  can  portray.  As  it  spoke,  the  accents 
thrilled  to  my  heart. 

"  Thy  prayers  are  heard.  In  proof  of  thy  faith, 
render  me  thy  wife.  This  is  the  victim  I  choose. 
Call  her  hither,  and  here  let  her  fall" 

The  sound,  and  visage,  and  light  vanished  at 
once.  What  demand  was  this?  The  blood  of 
Catharine  was  to  be  shed.  My  wife  was  to  perish 
by  my  hand.  I  sought  opportunity  to  attest  my  vir 
tue  :  little  did  I  expect  that  a  proof  like  this  would 
have  been  demanded.  "  My  wife !"  I  exclaimed  ; 
"  O  God !  substitute  some  other  victim.  Make  me 
not  the  butcher  of  my  wife.  My  own  blood  is 
cheap.  This  will  I  pour  out  before  thee  with  a 
willing  heart ;  but  spare,  I  beseech  thee,  this  pre 
cious  life,or  commission  some  other  than  her  husband 
to  perform  the  bloody  deed  !"  In  vain.  The  con 
ditions  were  prescribed ;  the  decree  had  gone  forth, 
and  nothing  remained  but  to  execute  it.  I  rushed 
out  of  the  house  and  across  the  intermediate  fields, 
and  stopped  not  till  I  entered  my  own  parlour. 

My  wife  had  remained  here  during  my  absence, 
in  anxious  expectation  of  my  return  with  tidings 
of  her  sister.  I  had  none  to  communicate.  For 
a  time,  I  was  breathless  with  my  speed.  This, 
and  the  tremors  that  shook  my  frame,  and  the 
wildness  of  my  looks,  alarmed  her.  She  imme 
diately  suspected  some  disaster  to  her  friend,  and 
her  own  speech  was  as  much  overpowered  by 
emotion  as  mine.  She  was  silent,  but  her  looks 
manifested  impatience  to  hear  what  I  had  to  com 
municate.  I  spoke,  but  with  so  much  precipita 
tion  as  scarcely  to  be  understood ;  catching  her  at 
the  same  time  by  the  arm,  and  forcibly  pulling  her 
from  her  seat.  "  Come  along  with  me ;  fly ;  waste 
not  a  moment;  time  will  be  lost,  and  the  deed 
will  be  omitted.  Tarry  not ;  question  not ;  but 
fly  with  me !" 

This  deportment  added  afresh  to  her  alarms. 
Her  eyes  pursued  mine,  and  she  said,  «<  What  is 
the  matter  ]  For  God's  sake,  what  is  the  matter  1 
Where  would  you  have  me  go?" 

My  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  countenance  while 
she  spoke.  I  thought  upon  her  virtues ;  I  viewed 
her  as  the  mother  of  my  babes ;  as  my  wife ;  I 
recalled  the  purpose  for  which  I  thus  urged  her 
attendance  ;  my  heart  faltered,  and  I  saw  that  I 
must  rouse  to  this  work  all  my  faculties :  the  dan 
ger  of  the  least  delay  was  imminent. 


CHARLES  BROCKDEN  BROWN. 


113 


T  looked  away  from  her,  and  again  exerting  my 
force,  drew  her  toward  the  door — "  You  must  go 
with  me — indeed  you  must." 

In  her  fright  she  half-resisted  my  efforts,  and 
again  exclaimed,  "  Good  heavens !  what  is  it  you 
mean  ?  Where  go  1  what  has  happened  1  have 
you  found  Clara?" 

"  Follow  me  and  you  will  see,"  I  answered,  still 
urging  her  reluctant  steps  forward. 

"  What  phrensy  has  seized  you  1  Something 
must  needs  have  happened.  Is  she  sick?  Have 
you  found  her?" 

"  Come  and  see.  Follow  me,  and  know  for 
yourself." 

Still  she  expostulated,  and  besought  me  to  explain. 
I  could  not  trust  myself  to  answer  her ;  to  look  at 
her ;  but  grasping  her  arm,  I  drew  her  after  me. 
She  hesitated,  rather  through  confusion  of  mind 
than  from  unwillingness  to  accompany  me.  This 
confusion  gradually  abated,  and  she  moved  for 
ward,  but  with  irresolute  footsteps,  and  continual 
exclamations  of  wonder  and  terror.  Her  interro 
gations  of  "what  is  the  matter?"  and  "whither 
are  you  going  ?"  were  ceaseless  and  vehement.  It 
was  the  scope  of  my  efforts  not  to  think ;  to  keep 
up  a  conflict  and  uproar  in  my  mind  in  which  all 
order  and  distinctness  should  be  lost;  to  escape 
from  the  sensations  produced  by  her  voice.  I  was 
therefore  silent.  I  strove  to  abridge  this  interval 
by  my  haste,  and  to  waste  all  my  attention  in  furi 
ous  gesticulations.  In  this  state  of  mind  we 
reached  my  sister's  door.  She  looked  at  the  win 
dows  and  saw  that  all  was  desolate — «  Why  come 
we  here  ?  There  is  nobody  here :  I  will  not  go  in." 

Still  I  was  dumb ;  but  opening  the  door,  I  drew 
her  in  the  entry.  This  was  the  allotted  scene ; 
here  she  was  to  fall.  I  let  go  her  hand,  and  press 
ing  my  palms  against  my  forehead,  made  one 
mighty  effort  to  work  up  my  soul  to  the  deed !  In 
vain ;  it  would  not  be  ;  my  courage  was  appalled  ; 
my  arms  nerveless.  I  muttered  prayers  that  my 
strength  might  be  aided.  They  availed  nothing. 
Horror  diffused  itself  over  me.  This  conviction 
of  my  cowardice,  my  rebellion,  fastened  upon  me, 
and  I  stood  rigid  and  cold.  Frpm  this  state  I  was 
relieved  by  my  wife's  voice,  who  renewed  her  sup 
plications  to  be  told  why  we  came  hither,  and  what 
was  the  fate  of  my  sister. 

What  could  I  answer  ?  My  words  were  broken 
and  inarticulate.  Her  fears  naturally  acquired 
force  from  the  observation  of  these  symptoms ;  but 
these  fears  were  misplaced.  The  only  inference 
she  deduced  from  my  conduct  was,  that  some  ter 
rible  misfortune  had  befallen  Clara.  She  wrung 
her  hands,  and  exclaimed  in  an  agony,  "  O,  tell 
me,  where  is  she  ?  what  has  become  of  her  ?  is 
she  sick  ?  dead  ?  is  she  in  her  chamber  ?  O  let 
me  go  thither  and  know  the  worst !" 

This  proposal  set  my  thoughts  once  more  in  mo 
tion.  Perhaps,  what  my  rebellious  heart  refused 
to  perform  here,  I  might  obtain  strength  enough 
to  execute  elsewhere.  «  Come,  then,"  said  I,  "  let 
us  go." 

« I  will,  but  not  in  the  dark.  We  must  first 
procure  a  light." 

15 


"Fly  then  and  procure  it;  but  I  charge  you, 
linger  not.  I  will  await  for  your  return." 

While  she  was  gone,  I  strode  along  the  entry. 
The  fellness  of  a  gloomy  hurricane  but  faintly  re 
sembled  the  discord  that  reigned  in  my  mind.  To 
omit  this  sacrifice  must  not  be;  yet  my  sinews 
had  refused  to  perform  it.  No  alternative  was 
offered.  To  rebel  against  the  mandate  was  im 
possible  ;  but  obedience  would  render  me  the  exe 
cutioner  of  my  wife.  My  will  was  strong,  but  my 
limbs  refused  their  office.  She  returned  with  a 
light ;  I  led  the  way  to  the  chamber ;  she  looked 
round  her ;  she  lifted  the  curtain  of  the  bed ;  she 
saw  nothing.  At  length,  she  fixed  inquiring  eyes 
upon  me.  The  light  now  enabled  her  to  discover 
in  my  visage  what  darkness  had  hitherto  concealed. 
Her  cares  were  transferred  from  my  sister  to  my 
self,  and  she  said  in  a  tremulous  voice,  "  Wieland ! 
you  are  not  well ;  what  ails  you  ?  Can  I  do  no 
thing  for  you  ?" 

That  accents  and  looks  so  winning  should  dis 
arm  me  of  my  resolution,  was  to  be  expected.  My 
thoughts  were  thrown  anew  into  anarchy.  I 
spread  my  hand  before  my  eyes  that  I  might  not 
see  her,  and  answered  only  by  groans.  She  took 
my  other  hand  between  hers,  and  pressing  it  to 
her  heart,  spoke  with  that  voice  which  had  ever 
swayed  my  will,  and  wafted  away  sorrow.  "  My 
friend!  my  soul's  friend!  tell  me  thy  cause  of 
grief.  Do  I  not  merit  to  partake  with  thee  in  thy 
cares  ?  Am  I  not  thy  wife  ?" 

This  was  too  much.  I  broke  from  her  embrace 
and  retired  to  a  corner  of  the  room.  In  this  pause, 
courage  was  once  more  infused  into  me.  I  re 
solved  to  execute  my  duty.  She  followed  me,  and 
renewed  her  passionate  entreaties  to  know  the 
cause  of  my  distress.  I  raised  my  head  and  re 
garded  her  with  steadfast  looks.  I  muttered  some 
thing  about  death,  and  the  injunctions  of  my  duty. 
At  my  words  she  shrunk  back,  and  looked  at  me 
with  a  new  expression  of  anguish.  After  a  pause, 
she  clasped  her  hands,  and  exclaimed — "  O  Wie 
land  !  Wieland !  God  grant  that  I  am  mistaken ; 
but  surely  something  is  wrong.  I  see  it — it  is  too 
plain — thou  art  undone — lost  to  me  and  to  thyself." 
At  the  same  time  she  gazed  on  my  features  with 
intensest  anxiety,  in  hope  that  different  symptoms 
would  take  place.  I  replied  to  her  with  vehe 
mence — "  Undone  !  no  ;  my  duty  is  known,  and 
I  thank  my  God  that  my  cowardice  is  now  van 
quished,  and  I  have  power  to  fulfil  it.  Catharine ! 
I  pity  the  weakness  of  thy  nature  ;  I  pity  thee,  but 
must  not  spare.  Thy  life  is  claimed  from  my 
hands ;  thou  must  die  !" 

Fear  was  now  added  to  her  grief.  "  What 
mean  you  ?  Why  talk  you  of  death  ?  Bethink 
yourself,  Wieland ;  bethink  yourself,  and  this  fit 
will  pass.  O,  why  came  I  hither  ?  Why  did  you 
drag  me  hither  ?" 

"  I  brought  thee  hither  to  fulfil  a  divine  com 
mand.  I  am  appointed  thy  destroyer,  and  destroy 
thee  I  must."  Saying  this  I  seized  her  wrists. 
She  shrieked  aloud,  and  endeavoured  to  free  her 
self  from  my  grasp ;  but  her  efforts  were  vain. 

"  Surely,  surely,  Wieland,  thou  dost  not  mean 
K9 


114 


CHARLES  BROCKDEN  BROWN. 


it.  Am  I  not  thy  wife  ?  and  wouldst  thou  kill 
me  1  Thou  wilt  not ;  and  yet — I  see — thou  art 
Wieland  no  longer  !  A  fury — resistless  and  hor 
rible — possesses  thee — spare  me — spare — help — 
help—" 

Till  her  breath  was  stopped  she  shrieked  for 
mercy.  When  she  could  speak  no  longer,  her 
gestures,  her  looks  appealed  to  my  compassion. 
My  accursed  hand  was  irresolute  and  tremulous. 
I  meant  thy  death  to  be  sudden,  thy  struggles  to 
be  brief!  Alas!  my  heart  was  infirm;  my  re 
solves  mutable.  Thrice  I  slackened  my  grasp, 
and  life  kept  its  hold,  though  in  the  midst  of  pangs. 
Her  eyeballs  started  from  their  sockets.  Grimness, 
distortion,  took  place  of  all  that  used  to  bewitch 
me  into  transport,  and  subdue  me  into  reverence. 
I  was  commissioned  to  kill  thee,  bat  not  to  tor 
ment  thee  with  the  foresight  of  thy  death ;  not  to 
multiply  thy  fears,  and  prolong  thy  agonies ! 
Haggard,  and  pale,  and  lifeless,  at  length  thou 
ceasedst  to  contend  with  thy  destiny  ! 

This  was  a  moment  of  triumph.  Thus  had  I 
successfully  subdued  the  stubbornness  of  human 
passions;  the  victim  which  had  been  demanded 
was  given :  the  deed  was  done.  I  lifted  the  corpse 
in  my  arms  and  laid  it  on  the  bed.  I  gazed  upon 
it  with  delight.  Such  was  the  elation  of  my 
thoughts,  that  I  even  broke  into  laughter.  I 
c'apped  my  hands  and  exclaimed,  "  It  is  done ! 
My  sacred  duty  is  fulfilled  !  To  that  I  have  sacri 
ficed,  O  my  God !  thy  last  and  best  gift,  rny  wife !" 
For  a  while  I  thus  soared  above  frailty.  I  ima 
gined  I  had  set  myself  for  ever  beyond  the  reach 
of  selfishness;  but  my  imaginations  were  false. 
This  rapture  quickly  subsided.  I  looked  again  at 
my  wife.  My  joyous  ebullitions  vanished,  and  I 
asked  myself  who  it  was  whom  I  saw  1  Methought 
it  could  not  be  Catharine.  It  could  not  be  the 
woman  who  had  lodged  for  years  in  my  heart; 
who  had  slept,  nightly,  in  my  bosom ;  who  had 
borne  in  her  womb,  who  had  fostered  at  her  breast 
the  beings  who  called  me  Father !  whom  I  had 
watched  with  delight,  and  cherished  with  a  fond 
ness  ever  new  and  perpetually  growing ;  it  could 
not  be  the  same 

I  will  not  dwell  upon  my  lapse  into  desperate 
and  outrageous  sorrow.  The  breath  of  Heaven 
that  sustained  me  was  withdrawn,  and  I  sunk  into 
mere  m  in.  I  leaped  from  the  floor ;  I  dashed  my 
head  against  the  wall ;  I  uttered  screams  of  hor 
ror  ;  I  panted  after  torment  and  pain.  The  bick 
erings  of  hell,  and  eternal  fire,  compared  with  what 
I  felt,  were  music  and  a  bed  of  roses. 

I  thank  my  God  that  this  degeneracy  was  tran 
sient,  that  he  deigned  once  more  to  raise  me  aloft. 
I  thought  upon  what  I  had  done  as  a  sacrifice  to 
duty,  and  was  calm.  My  wife  was  dead  ;  but  I 
reflected,  that  though  this  source  of  human  conso 
lation  was  closed,  yet  others  were  still  open.  If 
the  transports  of  a  husband  were  no  more,  the 
feelings  of  a  father  had  still  scope  for  exercise. 
When  remembrance  of  their  mother  should  excite 
too  keen  a  pang,  I  would  look  upon  them  and  be 
comforted.  While  I  revolved  these  ideas,  new 
warmth  flowed  in  upon  my  heart — I  was  wrong. 


These  feelings  were  the  growth  of  selfishness. 
Of  this  I  was  not  aware,  and  to  dispel  the  mist 
that  obscured  my  perceptions,  a  new  effulgence 
and  a  new  mandate  were  necessary. 

From  these  thoughts  I  was  recalled  by  a  ray 
that  was  shot  into  the  room.  A  voice  spake  like 
that  which  I  had  before  heard — "  Thou  hast  done 
well ;  but  all  is  not  done — the  sacrifice  is  incom 
plete — thy  children  must  be  offered — they  must 
perish  with  their  mother !" 


YELLOW  FEVER  IN  PHILADELPHIA. 

FROM  ARTHUR    MERVTN. 

As  I  drew  near  the  city,  the  tokens  of  its  cala 
mitous  condition  became  more  apparent.  Every 
farm-house  was  filled  with  supernumerary  tenants ; 
fugitives  from  home :  and  haunting  the  skirts  of 
the  road,  eager  to  detain  every  passenger  with  in 
quiries  after  news.  The  passengers  were  nume 
rous  ;  for  the  tide  of  emigration  was  by  no  means 
exhausted.  Some  were  on  foot,  bearing  in  their 
countenances  tokens  of  their  recent  terror,  and 
filled  with  mournful  reflections  on  the  forlornness 
of  their  state.  Few  had  secured  to  themselves  an 
asylum ;  some  were  without  the  means  of  paying 
for  food  or  lodging  in  the  coming  night ;  others, 
who  were  not  thus  destitute,  knew  not  where  to 
apply  for  entertainment,  every  house  being  already 
overstocked  with  inhabitants,  or  barring  its  inhos 
pitable  doors  at  their  approach. 

Families  of  weeping  mothers  and  dismayed 
children,  attended  with  a  few  pieces  of  indispen 
sable  furniture,  were  carried  in  vehicles  of  every 
form.  The  parent  or  husband  had  perished ;  and 
the  price  of  some  movable,  or  the  pittance  handed 
forth  by  public  charity,  had  been  expended  to  pur 
chase  the  means  of  retiring  from  this  theatre  of 
disasters ;  though  uncertain  and  hopeless  of  accom 
modation  in  the  neighbouring  districts. 

Between  these  and  the  fugitives  whom  curiosity 
had  led  to  the  road,  dialogues  frequently  took 
place,  to  which  I  was  suffered  to  listen.  From 
every  mouth  the  tale  of  sorrow  was  repeated  with 
new  aggravations.  Pictures  of  their  own  distress, 
or  of  that  of  their  neighbours,  were  exhibited  in 
all  the  hues  which  imagination  can  annex  to  pes 
tilence  and  poverty 

The  sun  had  nearly  set  before  I  reached  the 
precincts  of  the  city.  I  entered  High  street  after 
night-fall.  Instead  of  equipages  and  a  throng  of 
passengers,  the  voice  of  levity  which  I  had  for 
merly  observed,  and  which  the  mildness  of  the 
season  would  at  other  times  have  produced,  I 
found  nothing  but  a  dreary  solitude. 

The  market-place,  and  each  side  of  this  magnifi 
cent  avenue  were  illuminated,  as  before,  by  lamps ; 
but  between  the  Schuylkill  and  the  heart  of  the 
city,  I  met  not  more  than  a  dozen  figures ;  and 
these  were  ghost-like,  wrapt  in  cloaks,  from  be 
hind  which  they  cast  upon  me  glances  of  wonder 
and  suspicion;  and,  as  I  approached,  changed 
their  course  to  avoid  me.  Their  clothes  were 


CHARLES  BROCKDEN  BROWN. 


115 


sprinkled  with  vinegar ;  and  their  nostrils  defended 
from  contagion  by  some  powerful  perfume. 

I  cast  a  look  upon  the  houses,  which  I  recollected 
to  have  seen  brilliant  with  lights,  resounding  with 
lively  voices,  and  thronged  with  busy  faces.  Now 
they  were  closed,  above  and  below ;  dark,  and 
without  tokens  of  being  inhabited I  ap 
proached  a  house,  the  door  of  which  was  opened, 
and  before  which  stood  a  vehicle,  which  I  pre 
sently  recognised  to  be  a  hearse.  The  driver  was 
seated  on  it.  I  stood  still  to  mark  his  visage,  and 
to  observe  the  course  which  he  proposed  to  take. 
Presently  a  coffin,  borne  by  two  men,  issued. 
The  driver  was  a  negro,  but  his  companions  were 
white.  Their  features  were  marked  by  indiffer 
ence  to  danger  or  pity.  One  of  them,  as  he  assisted 
in  thrusting  the  coffin  into  the  cavity  provided  for 
it,  said,  "  I'll  be  damned  if  I  think  the  poor  dog 
was  quite  dead.  It  wasn't  the  fever  that  ailed  him, 
but  the  sight  of  the  girl  and  her  mother  on  the 
floor.  I  wonder  how  they  all  got  into  that  room. 
What  carried  them  there1?" 

The  other  surlily  muttered,  "  Their  legs,  to  be 
sure." 

"But  what  should  they  hug  together  in  one 
room  for  1" 

«  To  save  us  trouble,  to  be  sure." 

"  And  I  thank  them  with  all  my  heart ;  but 
damn  it,  it  wasn't  right  to  put  him  in  his  coffin 
before  the  breath  was  fairly  gone.  I  thought  the 
last  look  he  gave  me  told  me  to  stay  a  few 
minutes." 

«  Pshaw  !  he  could  not  live.  The  sooner  dead 
the  better  for  him,  as  well  as  for  us.  Did  you 
mark  how  he  eyed  us,  when  we  carried  away  his 
wife  and  daughter1?  I  never  cried  in  my  life, 
since  I  was  knee-high,  but  curse  me  if  I  ever  felt  in 
better  tune  for  the  business  than  just  then.  Hey !" 
continued  he,  looking  up  and  observing  me,  stand 
ing  a  few  paces  distant,  and  listening  to  their  dis 
course,  "  What's  wanted  1  Anybody  dead  1" 

I  stayed  not  to  answer  or  parley,  but  hurried 
forward.  My  joints  trembled,  and  cold  drops 
stood  on  my  forehead.  I  was  ashamed  of  my 
own  infirmity ;  and  by  vigorous  efforts  of  my  rea 
son,  regained  some  degree  of  composure. 


INTERVIEW  BETWEEN  MERVYN  AND 
WELBECK. 

FKOM  ARTHUK  MEHVYN. 

[WELBECK,  to  avoid  his  creditors  and  an  arrest  for 
murder,  has  secretly  quitted  Philadelphia.  Subsequently 
Mervyn,  sick  with  the  yellow  fever  and  fearful  of  being 
carried  to  the  hospital,  finds  his  way  to  the  house  he  had 
inhabited,  in  the  hope  of  dying  there  alone.  He  is  dis 
turbed  by  the  reappearance  of  Welbeck,  whose  return 
had  been  caused  by  a  suspicion  that  twenty  one-thousand 
dollar  notes  are  concealed  between  the  leaves  of  a  MS. 
volume  which  had  belonged  to  a  young  foreigner  whom 
he  had  attended  in  his  last  moments,  whose  property  he 
had  seized,  and  whose  sister  he  had  ruined.  Mervyn 
has  already  discovered  this  money,  and,  in  the  hope  of 
being  able  to  return  it  to  the  unfortunate  girl,  taken  pos 


session  of  it.  In  the  chapter  which  precedes  the  follow 
ing  extract,  Welbeck  relates  to  Mervyn  his  adventures 
since  their  separation.] 

THIS  narrative  threw  new  light  on  the  charac 
ter  of  Welbeck.  If  accident  had  given  him  pos 
session  of  this  treasure,  it  was  easy  to  predict  on 
what  schemes  of  luxury  and  selfishness  it  would 
have  been  expended.  The  same  dependence  on 
the  world's  erroneous  estimation,  the  same  devo 
tion  to  imposture  and  thoughtlessness  of  futurity 
would  have  constituted  the  picture  of  his  future 
life,  as  had  distinguished  the  past.  This  money 
was  another's.  To  retain  it  for  his  own  use  was 
criminal.  Of  this  crime  he  appeared  to  be  as  in 
sensible  as  ever.  His  own  gratification  was  the 
supreme  law  of  his  actions.  To  be  subjected  to  the 
necessity  of  honest  labour,  was  the  heaviest  of  all 
evils,  and  one  from  which  he  was  willing  to  escape 
by  the  commission  of  suicide.  The  volume  which 
he  sought  was  in  my  possession.  It  was  my  duty 
to  restore  it  to  the  rightful  owner,  or,  if  the  legal 
claimant  could  not  be  found,  to  employ  its  con 
tents  in  the  promotion  of  virtue  and  happiness. 
To  give  it  to  Welbeck  was  to  consecrate  it  to  pur 
poses  of  selfishness  and  misery.  My  right,  legally 
considered,  was  as  valid  as  his. 

But  if  I  intended  not  to  resign  it  to  him,  was  it 
proper  to  disclose  the  truth1?  ....  My  under 
standing  had  been  taught,  by  recent  occurrences, 
to  question  the  justice,  and  deny  the  usefulness  of 
secrecy  in  any  case.  My  principles  were  true ; 
my  motives  were  pure ;  why  should  I  scruple  to 
avow  my  principles,  and  vindicate  my  actions  1 
Welbeck  had  ceased  to  be  dreaded  or  revered. 
That  awe  which  was  once  created  by  his  superior 
ity  of  age,  refinement  of  manners,  and  dignity  of 
garb,  had  vanished.  I  was  a  boy  in  years,  an  in 
digent  and  uneducated  rustic,  but  I  was  able  to 
discern  the  illusions  of  power  and  riches,  and  ab 
jured  every  claim  to  esteem  that  was  not  founded 
on  integrity.  There  was  no  tribunal  before  which 
I  should  falter  in  asserting  the  truth,  and  no  spe 
cies  of  martyrdom  which  I  would  not  cheerfully 
embrace  in  its  cause. 

After  some  pause,  I  said,  "  Cannot  you  conjec 
ture  in  what  way  this  volume  has  disappeared "?" 

"  No ;"  he  answered  with  a  sigh.  "  Why,  of 
all  his  volumes,  this  only  should  have  vanished, 
was  an  inexplicable  enigma." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  I,  "  it  is  less  important  to  know 
how  it  was  removed,  than  by  whom  it  is  now 


Unquestionably;  and  yet  unless  that  know 
ledge  enables  me  to  regain  the  possession  it  will 
be  useless." 

« Useless  then  it  will  be,  for  the  present  pos 
sessor  will  never  return  it  to  you." 

"  Indeed,"  replied  he,  in  a  tone  of  dejection, 
"  your  conjecture  is  most  probable.  Such  a  prize 
is  of  too  much  value  to  be  given  up." 

«  What  I  have  said  flows  not  from  conjecture, 
but  from  knowledge.  I  know  that  it  will  nevei 
be  restored  to  you." 

At  these  words,  Welbeck  looked  at  me  with 
anxiety  and  doubt. — "  You  know  that  it  will  not ! 


116 


CHARLES  BROCKDEN  BROWN. 


Have  you  any  knowledge  of  the  book  1  Can  you 
fell  me  what  has  become  of  it?" 

"  Yes,  after  our  separation  on  the  river,  I  re 
turned  to  this  house.  I  found  this  volume  and 
secured  it.  You  rightly  suspected  its  contents. 
The  money  was  there." 

Welbeck  started  as  if  he  had  trodden  on  a  mine 
of  gold.  His  first  emotion  was  rapturous,  but  was 
immediately  chastised  by  some  degree  of  doubt. 
"  What  has  become  of  it  1  Have  you  got  it  ?  Is  it 
entire  1  Have  you  it  with  you  1" 

"  It  is  unimpaired.  I  have  got  it,  and  shall  hold 
it  as  a  sacred  trust  for  the  rightful  proprietor." 

The  tone  with  which  this  declaration  was  ac 
companied,  shook  the  new-born  confidence  of 
Welbeck.  "  The  rightful  proprietor  !  true,  but  I 
am  he.  To  mo  only  it  belongs,  and  to  me  you 
are,  doubtless,  willing  to  restore  it." 

"  Mr.  Welbeck,  it  is  not  my  desire  to  give  you 
perplexity  or  anguish  :  to  sport  with  your  passions. 
On  the  supposition  of  your  death,  I  deemed  it  no 
infraction  of  justice  to  take  this  manuscript.  Ac 
cident  unfolded  its  contents.  I  could  not  hesitate 
to  choose  my  path.  The  natural  and  legal  suc 
cessor  of  Vincentio  Lodi  is  his  sister.  To  her, 
therefore,  this  property  belongs,  and  to  her  only 
will  I  give  it." 

"  Presumptuous  boy !  And  this  is  your  sage 
decision.  I  tell  you  that  I  am  the  owner,  and  to 
me  you  shall  render  it.  Who  is  this  girl  1  child 
ish  and  ignorant !  unable  to  consult  and  to  act  for 
herself  on  the  most  trivial  occasion !  Am  I  not, 
by  the  appointment  of  her  dying  brother,  her  pro 
tector  and  guardian?  Her  age  produces  a  legal 
incapacity  of  property.  Do  you  imagine  that  so 
obvious  an  expedient,  as  that  of  procuring  my 
legal  appointment  as  her  guardian,  was  overlooked 
by  me  1  If  it  were  neglected,  still  my  title  to  pro 
vide  her  subsistence  and  enjoyment  is  unquestion 
able.  Did  I  not  rescue  her  from  poverty,  and 
prostitution,  and  infamy?  Have  I  not  supplied 
all  her  wants  with  incessant  solicitude  ?  What 
ever  her  condition  required  has  been  plenteously 
bestowed.  This  dwelling  and  its  furniture  were 
hers,  as  far  as  a  rigid  jurisprudence  would  permit. 
To  prescribe  her  expenses  and  govern  her  family 
was  the  province  of  her  guardian.  You  have  heard 
the  tale  of  my  anguish  and  despair.  Whence  did 
they  flow,  but  from  the  frustration  of  schemes 
projected  for  her  benefit,  as  they  were  executed 
with  her  money  and  by  means  which  the  authority 
of  her  guardian  fully  justified  ?  Why  have  I  en 
countered  this  contagious  atmosphere,  and  explored 
my  way,  like  a  thief,  to  this  recess,  but  with  a 
view  to  rescue  her  from  poverty  and  restore  to  her 
her  own  ?  Your  scruples  are  ridiculous  and  cri 
minal.  I  treat  them  with  less  severity,  because 
your  youth  is  raw  and  your  conceptions  crude. 
But  if,  after  this  proof  of  the  justice  of  my  claim, 
you  hesitate  to  restore  the  money,  I  shall  treat 
you  as  a.  robber,  who  has  plundered  my  cabinet 
and  refused  to  refund  his  spoil." 

I  was  ncquainted  with  the  rights  of  guardian 
ship.  Welbeck  had,  in  some  respects,  acted  as 
the  friend  of  this  lady.  To  vest  himself  with  this 


office  was  the  conduct  which  her  youth  and  help 
lessness  prescribed  to  her  friend.  His  title  to  this 
money,  as  her  guardian,  could  not  be  denied.  But 
how  was  this  statement  compatible  with  former 
representations  ?  No  mention  had  then  been 
made  of  guardianship.  By  thus  acting,  he  would 
have  thwarted  all  his  schemes  for  winning  the 
esteem  of  mankind,  and  fostering  the  belief  which 
the  world  entertained  of  his  opulence  and  inde 
pendence.  I  was  thrown,  by  these  thoughts,  into 
considerable  perplexity.  If  his  statement  were 
true,  his  claim  to  this  money  was  established,  but 
I  questioned  its  truth.  To  intimate  my  doubts  of 
his  veracity  would  be  to  provoke  outrage.  His 
last  insinuation  was  peculiarly  momentous.  Sup 
pose  him  the  fraudulent  possessor  of  this  money, 
shall  I  be  justified  in  taking  it  away  by  violence 
under  pretence  of  restoring  it  to  the  genuine  pro 
prietor,  who,  for  aught  I  know,  may  be  dead,  or 
with  whom,  at  least,  I  may  never  procure  a  meet 
ing?  But  will  not  my  behaviour,  on  this  occa 
sion,  be  deemed  illicit?  I  entered  Welbeck's 
habitation  at  midnight,  proceeded  to  his  closet, 
possessed  myself  of  portable  property,  and  retired 
unobserved.  Is  not  guilt  imputable  to  an  action 
like  this  ?  Welbeck  waited  with  impatience  for 
a  conclusion  to  my  pause.  My  perplexity  and 
indecision  did  not  abate,  and  my  silence  continued. 
At  length,  'he  repeated  his  demands  with  new 
vehemence.  I  was  compelled  to  answer.  I  told 
him,  in  few  words,  that  his  reasonings  had  not 
convinced  me  of  the  equity  of  his  claim,  and  that 
my  determination  was  unaltered.  He  had  not 
expected  this  inflexibility  from  one  in  my  situation. 
The  folly  of  opposition,  when  my  feebleness  and 
loneliness  were  contrasted  with  his  activity  and 
resources,  appeared  to  him  monstrous,  but  his  con 
tempt  was  converted  into  rage  and  fear  when  he 
reflected  that  this  folly  might  finally  defeat  his  hopes. 
He  had  probably  determined  to  obtain  the  money, 
let  the  purchase  cost  what  it  would,  but  was  will 
ing  to  exhaust  pacific  expedients  before  he  should 
resort  to  force.  He  might  likewise  question  whe 
ther  the  money  was  within  his  reach.  I  had  told 
him  that  I  had  it,  but  whether  it  was  now  about 
me,  was  somewhat  dubious.  Yet,  though  he  used 
no  direct  inquiries,  he  chose  to  proceed  on  the 
supposition  of  its  being  at  hand.  His  angry  tones 
were  now  changed  into  those  of  remonstrance  and 
persuasion. 

"  Your  present  behaviour,  Mervyn,  does  not 
justify  the  expectation  I  had  formed  of  you.  You 
have  been  guilty  of  a  base  theft.  To  this  you 
have  added  the  deeper  crime  of  ingratitude.  But 
your  infatuation  and  folly  are  at  least  as  glaring 
as  your  guilt.  Do  you  think  I  can  credit  your 
assertions  that  you  keep  this  money  for  another, 
when  I  recollect  that  srx  weeks  have  passed  since 
you  carried  it  off?  Why  have  you  not  sought 
the  owner  and  restored  it  to  her  ?  If  your  inten 
tions  had  been  honest,  would  you  have  suffered 
so  long  a  time  to  elapse  without  doing  this  ?  It 
is  plain  that  you  designed  to  keep  it  for  your  own 
use.  But  whether  this  were  your  purpose  or  not, 
you  have  no  longer  power  to  restore  it  or  retain 


CHARLES  BROCKDEN  BROWN. 


117 


it  You  say  that  you  came  hither  to  die.  If  so, 
what  is  to  be  the  fate  of  the  money  1  In  your 
present  situation  you  cannot  gain  access  to  the 
lady.  Some  other  must  inherit  this  wealth.  Next 
to  Signora  Lodi,  whose  right  can  be  put  in  com 
petition  with  mine  1  But  if  you  will  not  give  it 
to  me,  on  my  own  account,  let  it  be  given  in  trust 
for  her.  Let  me  be  the  bearer  of  it  to  her  own 
hands.  I  have  already  shown  you  that  my  claim 
to  it,  as  her  guardian,  is  legal  and  incontrovertible ; 
but  this  claim  I  waive.  I  will  merely  be  the  ex 
ecutor  of  your  will.  I  will  bind  myself  to  com 
ply  with  your  directions  by  arTy  oath,  however 
solemn  and  tremendous,  which  you  shall  pre 
scribe." 

As  long  as  my  own  heart  acquitted  me,  these 
imputations  of  dishonesty  affected  me  but  little. 
They  excited  no  anger,  because  they  originated 
in  ignorance,  and  were  rendered  plausible  to  Wei- 
beck  by  such  facts  as  were  known  to  him.  It  was 
needless  to  confute  the  charge  by  elaborate  and 
circumstantial  details.  It  was  true  that  my  reco 
very  was,  in  the  highest  degree,  improbable,  and 
that  my  death  would  put  an  end  to  my  power 
over  this  money ;  but  had  I  not  determined  to 
secure  its  useful  application  in  case  of  my  death  1 
This  project  was  obstructed  by  the  presence  of 
Welbeck,  but  I  hoped  that  his  love  of  life  would 
induce  him  to  fly.  He  might  wrest  this  volume 
from  me  by  violence,  or  he  might  wait  till  my 
death  should  give  him  peaceful  possession.  But 
these,  though  probable  events,  were  not  certain, 
and  would  by  no  means  justify  the  voluntary  sur 
render.  His  strength,  if  employed  for  this  end, 
could  not  be  resisted ;  but  then  it  would  be  a  sacri 
fice,  not  to  choice,  but  necessity.  Promises  were 
easily  given,  but  were  surely  not  to  be  confided 
in.  Welbeck's  own  tale,  in  which  it  could  not  be 
imagined  that  he  had  aggravated  his  defects,  at 
tested  the  frailty  of  his  virtue.  To  put  into  his 
hands  a  sum  like  this,  in  expectation  of  his  deliver 
ing  it  to  another,  when  my  death  would  cover  the 
transaction  with  impenetrable  secrecy,  would  be 
indeed  a  proof  of  that  infatuation  which  he  thought 
proper  to  impute  to  me.  These  thoughts  influ 
enced  my  resolutions,  but  they  were  revolved  in  si 
lence.  To  state  them  was  useless.  They  would  not 
justify  my  conduct  in  his  eyes.  They  would  only 
exasperate  dispute,  and  impel  him  to  those  acts  of 
violence  which  I  was  desirous  of  preventing.  The 
sooner  this  controversy  should  end,  and  I  in  any 
measure  be  freed  from  the  obstruction  of  his  com 
pany,  the  better. 

"  Mr.  Welbeck,"  said  I,  "  my  regard  to  your 
safety  compels  me  to  wish  that  this  interview 
should  terminate.  At  a  different  time,  I  should 
not  be  unwilling  to  discuss  this  matter.  Now  it 
will  be  fruitless.  My  conscience  points  out  to  me 
too  clearly  the  path  I  should  pursue  for  me  to  mis 
take  it.  As  long  as  I  have  power  over  this  money 
I  shall  keep  it  for  the  use  of  the  unfortunate  lady 
whom  I  have  seen  in  this  house.  I  shall  exert 
myself  to  find  her,  but  if  that  be  impossible,  I  shall 
appropriate  it  in  a  way  in  which  you  shall  have 
no  participation." 


I  will  not  repeat  the  scene  that  succeeded  be 
tween  my  forbearance  and  his  passions.  I  list 
ened  to  the  dictates  of  his  rage  and  his  avarice  in 
silence.  Astonishment  at  my  inflexibility  was 
blended  with  his  anger.  By  turns  he  commented 
on  the  guilt  and  on  the  folly  of  my  resolutions. 
Sometimes  his  emotions  would  mount  into  fury, 
and  he  would  approach  me  in  a  menacing  atti 
tude,  and  lift  his  hand,  as  if  he  would  extermi 
nate  me  at  a  blow.  My  languid  eyes,  my  cheeks 
glowing  and  my  temples  throbbing  with  fever,  and 
my  total  passiveness  attracted  his  attention  and 
arrested  his  stroke.  Compassion  would  take  place 
of  rage,  and  the  belief  be  revived  that  remon 
strances  and  arguments  would  answer  his  purpose. 

This  scene  lasted  I  know  not  how  long.  In 
sensibly  the  passions  and  reasonings  of  Welbeck 
assumed  a  new  form.  A  grief,  mingled  with  per 
plexity,  overspread  his  countenance.  He  ceased 
to  contend  or  to  speak.  His  regards  were  with 
drawn  from  me,  on  whom  they  had  hitherto  been 
fixed ;  and  wandering  or  vacant,  testified  a  conflict 
of  mind  terrible  beyond  any  that  my  young  ima 
gination  had  ever  conceived.  For  a  time,  he  ap 
peared  to  be  unconscious  of  my  presence.  He 
moved  to  and  fro  with  unequal  steps  and  with 
gesticulations  that  possessed  a  horrible  but  indis 
tinct  significance.  Occasionally  he  struggled  for 
breath,  and  his  efforts  were  directed  to  remove 
some  choking  impediment.  No  test  of  my  forti 
tude  had  hitherto  occurred  equal  to  this.  The 
suspicion  which  this  deportment  suggested  was 
vague  and  formless.  The  tempest  which  I  wit- 
nessqd  was  the  prelude  of  horror.  These  were 
throes  which  would  terminate  in  the  birth  of  some 
sanguinary  purpose.  Did  he  meditate  a  bloody 
sacrifice]  Was  his  own  death  or  was  mine  to 
attest  the  magnitude  of  his  despair,  or  the  impetu 
osity  of  his  vengeance  ?  Suicide  was  familiar 
to  his  thoughts.  He  had  consented  to  live  but 
on  one  condition ;  that  of  regaining  possession 
of  this  money.  Should  I  be  justified  in  driving 
him,  by  my  obstinate  refusal,  to  this  consum 
mation  of  his  crimes  1  My  fear  of  this  catas 
trophe  was  groundless.  Hitherto  he  had  argued 
and  persuaded,  but  this  method  was  pursued  be 
cause  it  was  more  eligible  than  the  employment 
of  force,  or  than  procrastination.  No.  These 
were  tokens  that  pointed  to  me.  Some  unknown 
instigation  was  at  work  within  him  to  tear  away 
his  remnant  of  humanity,  and  fit  him  for  the  office 
of  my  murderer.  I  knew  not  how  the  accumula 
tion  of  guilt  could  contribute  to  his  gratification 
or  security.  His  actions  had  been  partially  exhi 
bited  and  vaguely  seen.  What  extenuations  or 
omissions  had  vitiated  his  former  or  recent  narra 
tive  ;  how  far  his  actual  performances  were  con 
genial  with  the  deed  which  was  now  to  be  per 
petrated,  I  knew  not.  These  thoughts  lent  new 
rapidity  to  my  blood.  I  raised  my  head  from  the 
pillow,  and  watched  his  deportment  with  deepei 
attention.  The  paroxysm  which  controlled  him 
at  length  in  some  degree  subsided.  He  muttered, 
"  Yes :  it  must  come  !  My  last  humiliation  must 
cover  me !  My  last  confession  must  be  made ' 


118 


CHARLES  BROCKDEN  BROWN. 


To  die,  and  leave  behind  me  this  train  of  enormous 
perils,  must  not  be.  O  Clemenza !  O  Mervyn  ! 
you  have  not  merited  that  I  should  leave  you  a 
legacy  of  persecution  and  death.  Your  safety 
must  be  purchased  at  what  price  my  malignant 
destiny  will  set  upon  it.  The  cord  of  the  execu 
tioner,  the  note  of  everlasting  infamy,  is  better 
than  to  leave  you  beset  by  the  consequences  of 
my  guilt.  It  must  not  be !" 

Saying  this,  Welbeck  cast  fearful  glances  at  the 
windows  and  door.  He  examined  every  avenue 
and  listened.  Thrice  he  repeated  this  scrutiny. 
Having,  as  it  seemed,  ascertained  that  no  one 
lurked  within  audience,  he  approached  the  bed. 
He  put  his  mouth  close  to  my  face.  He  attempted 
to  speak,  but  once  more  examined  the  apartment 
with  suspicious  glances.  He  drew  closer,  and  at 
length,  in  a  tone  scarcely  articulate  and  suffocated 
with  emotion,  he  spoke :  "  Excellent,  but  fatally  ob 
stinate  youth !  know  at  least  the  cause  of  my  im 
portunity  ;  know  at  least  the  depth  of  my  infatua 
tion  and  the  enormity  of  my  guilt.  The  bills — 
surrender  them  to  me,  and  save  yourself  from  per 
secution  and  disgrace  !  Save  the  woman  whom 
you  wish  to  benefit  from  the  blackest  imputations ; 
from  hazard  to  her  life  and  her  fame ;  from  lan 
guishing  in  dungeons;  from  expiring  on  the 
gallows  !  The  bills — O  save  me  from  the  bitter 
ness  of  death  !  Let  the  evils  to  which  my  mise- 
able  life  has  given  birth  terminate  here  and  in 
myself.  Surrender  them  to  me,  for" — 

There  he  stopped.  His  utterance  was  choked 
oy  terror.  Rapid  glances  were  again  darted  at 
the  windows  and  door.  The  silence  was  uninter 
rupted  except  by  far-off  sounds,  produced  by  some 
moving  carriage.  Once  more  he  summoned  reso 
lution  and  spoke :  "  Surrender  them  to  me — for — 
they  are  forged.  Formerly  I  told  you  that  a  scheme 
of  forgery  had  been  conceived.  Shame  would  not 
suffer  me  to  add,  that  my  scheme  was  carried  into 
execution.  The  bills  were  fashioned,  but  my  fears 
contended  against  my  necessities,  and  forbade  me 
to  attempt  to  exchange  them.  The  interview 
with  Lodi  saved  me  from  the  dangerous  experi 
ment.  I  enclosed  them  in  that  volume  to  be  used 
when  all  other  and  less  hazardous  resources 
should  fail.  In  the  agonies  of  my  remorse  at  the 
death  of  Watson,  they  were  forgotten.  They 
afterward  recurred  to  recollection.  My  wishes 
pointed  to  the  grave ;  but  the  stroke  that  should 
deliver  me  from  life  was  suspended  only  till  I 
could  hasten  hither,  get  possession  of  these  papers 
and  destroy  them.  When  I  thought  upon  the 
chances  that  should  give  them  an  owner;  bring 
them  into  circulation ;  load  the  innocent  with  sus 
picion  ;  and  lead  them  "to  trial  and  perhaps  to 
death,  my  sensations  were  agony ;  earnestly  as  I 
panted  for  death,  it  was  necessarily  deferred  till  I 
had  gained  possession  of  and  destroyed  these  pa 
pers.  What  now  remains'?  You  have  found 
them.  Happily  they  have  not  been  used.  Give 
them  therefore  to  me,  thit  I  may  crush  at  once 
the  brood  of  mischiefs  which  they  could  not  but 
generate." 

This  disclosure   was  strange.     It  was  accom 


panied  with  every  token  of  sincerity.  How  had  I 
tottered  on  the  brink  of  destruction !  If  I  had 
made  use  of  this  money,  in  what  a  labyrinth  of 
misery  might  I  not  have  been  involved !  My  in 
nocence  could  never  have  been  proved.  An  alli 
ance  with  Welbeck  could  not  have  failed  to  be 
inferred.  My  career  would  have  found  an  igno 
minious  close ;  or,  if  my  punishment  had  been 
commuted  into  slavery,  would  the  testimony  of 
my  conscience  have  supported  me  1  I  shuddered 
at  the  view  of  the  disasters  from  which  I  was  res 
cued  by  the  miraculous  chance  which  led  me  to 
this  house.  Welbeck's  request  was  salutary  to 
me  and  honourable  to  himself.  I  could  not  hesi 
tate  a  moment  in  compliance.  The  notes  were 
enclosed  in  paper,  and  deposited  in  a  fold  of  my 
clothes.  I  put  my  hand  upon  them.  My  motion 
and  attention  was  arrested  at  the  instant,  by  a 
noise  which  arose  in  the  street.  Footsteps  were 
heard  upon  the  pavement  before  the  door,  and 
voices,  as  if  busy  in  discourse.  This  incident  was 
adapted  to  infuse  the  deepest  alarm  into  myself 
and  my  companion.  The  motives  of  our  trepida 
tion  were  indeed  different,  and  were  infinitely  more 
powerful  in  my  case  than  in  his.  It  portended 
to  me  nothing  less  than  the  loss  of  my  asylum 
and  condemnation  to  an  hospital.  Welbeck  hur 
ried  to  the  door  to  listen  to  the  conversation  be 
low.  This  interval  was  pregnant  with  thought. 
That  impulse  which  led  my  reflections  from  Wel 
beck  to  my  own  state,  passed  away  in  a  moment, 
and  suffered  me  to  meditate  anew  upon  the  terms 
of  that  confession  which  had  just  been  made. 
Horror  at  the  fate  which  this  interview  had  en 
abled  me  to  shun,  was  •  uppermost  in  my  concep 
tions.  I  was  eager  to  surrender  these  fatal  bills. 
I  held  them  for  that  purpose  in  my  hand,  and  was 
impatient  for  Welbeck's  return.  He  continued  at 
the  door;  stooping,  with  his  face  averted,  and 
eagerly  attentive  to  the  conversation  in  the  stree^ 
All  the  circumstances  of  my  present  situation 
tended  to  arrest  the  progress  of  thought  and  chain 
my  contemplations  to  one  image ;  but  even  now 
there  was  room  for  foresight  and  deliberation. 
Welbeck  intended  to  destroy  these  bills.  Perhaps 
he  had  not  been  sincere ;  or,  if  his  purpose  had 
been  honestly  disclosed,  this  purpose  might  change 
when  the  bills  were  in  his  possession.  His  po 
verty  and  sanguineness  of  temper  might  prompt 
him  to  use  them.  That  this  conduct  was  evil  and 
would  only  multiply  his  miseries,  could  not  be 
questioned.  Why  should  I  subject  his  frailty  to 
this  temptation]  The  destruction  of  these  bills 
was  the  loudest  injunction  of  duty ;  was  demanded 
by  every  sanction  which  bound  me  to  promote  the 
welfare  of  mankind.  The  means  of  destruction 
were  easy.  A  lighted  candle  stood  on  a  table,  at 
the  distance  of  a  few  yards.  Why  should  I  hesi 
tate  a  moment  to  annihilate  so  powerful  a  cause 
of  error  and  guilt.  A  passing  instant  was  suffi 
cient.  A  momentary  lingering  might  change  the 
circumstances  that  surrounded  me  and  frustrate 
my  project.  My  languors  were  suspended  by  the 
urgencies  of  the  occasion.  I  started  from  my  bed 
and  glided  to  the  table.  Seizing  the  notes  with 


CHARLES  BROCKDEN  BROWN. 


119 


my  right  hand,  I  held  them  in  the  flame  of  the 
candle,  and  then  threw  them  blazing  on  the  floor. 
The  sudden  illumination  was  perceived  by  Wei- 
beck.  The  cause  of  it  appeared  to  suggest  itself 
as  soon.  He  turned,  and  marking  the  paper  where 
it  lay,  leaped  to  the  spot  and  extinguished  the  fire 
with  his  foot.  His  interposition  was  too  late. 
Only  enough  of  them  remained  to  inform  Mm  of 
the  nature  of  the  sacrifice.  He  now  stood  with 
limbs  trembling,  features  aghast,  and  eyes  glaring 
upon  me.  For  a  time  he  was  without  speech. 
The  storm  was  gathering  in  silence,  and  at  length 
burst  upon  me.  In  a  tone  menacing  and  loud, 
he  exclaimed :  "  Wretch  !  What  have  you  done  1" 

"  I  have  done  justly.  These  notes  were  false. 
You  desired  to  destroy  them  that  they  might  not 
betray  the  innocent.  I  applauded  your  purpose, 
and  have  saved  you  from  the  danger  of  temptation 
by  destroying  them  myself." 

«  Maniac !  mis  neant !  to  be  fooled  by  so  gross 
an  artifice  !  The  notes  were  genuine.  The  tale 
of  their  forgery  was  false,  and  meant  only  to  wrest 
them  from  you.  Execrable  and  perverse  idiot ! 
Your  deed  has  sealed  my  perdition.  It  has  sealed 
your  own.  You  shall  pay  for  it  with  your  blood. 
I  will  slay  you  by  inches.  I  will  stretch  you,  as 
you  have  stretched  me,  on  the  rack!" 

During  this  speech,  all  was  phrensy  and  storm 
in  the  features  of  Welbeck.  Nothing  less  could 
ba  expected  than  that  the  scene  would  terminate 
in  some  bloody  catastrophe.  I  bitterly  regretted 
the  facility  with  which  I  had  been  deceived,  and 
the  precipitation  of  my  sacrifice.  The  act,  how 
ever,  could  not  be  revoked.  What  remained  but 
to  encounter  or  endure  its  consequences  with  un 
shrinking  firmness "? 

The  contest  was  too  unequal.  It  is  possible 
that  the  phrensy  which  actuated  Welbeck  might 
have  speedily  subsided.  It  is  more  likely  that  his 
passions  would  have  been  satiated  with  nothing 
but  my  death.  This  event  was  precluded  by  loud 
knocks  at  the  street  door,  and  calls  by  some  one 
on  the  pavement  without,  of — Who  is  within] 
Is  any  one  within  1 

"  They  are  coming,"  said  he.  "  They  will  treat 
you  as  a  sick  man  and  a  thief.  I  cannot  desire 
you  to  suffer  worse  evil  than  they  will  inflict.  I 
leave  you  to  your  fate."  So  saying,  he  rushed 
out  of  the  room. 


SCENE  WITH  A  PANTHER. 

FROM  EDGAR   HUNTLY. 

[CLITHEKO,  the  sleep-walker,  has  become  insane,  and 
has  fled  into  one  of  the  wild  mountain  fastnesses  of  Nor- 
walk.  Edgar  Huntly  endeavours  to  discover  his  retreat.] 

I  PASSKB  through  the  cave. .  .  .  At  that  moment, 
toirents  of  rain  poured  from  above,  and  stronger 
blasts  thundered  amidst  these  desolate  recesses  and 
profound  chasms.  Instead  of  lamenting  the  pre 
valence  of  the  tempest,  I  now  began  to  regard  it 
with  pleasure.  It  conferred  new  forms  of  sub 
limity  and  grandeur  on  the  scene.  As  I  crept 
with  hands  and  feet  along  my  imperfect  bridge,  a 


sudden  gust  had  nearly  whirled  me  into  the  fright 
ful  abyss.  To  preserve  myself,  I  was  obliged  to 
loose  my  hold  of  my  burden  and  it  fell  into  the 
gulf.  This  incident  disconcerted  and  distressed 
me.  As  soon  as  I  had  effected  my  dangerous 
passage,  I  screened  myself  behind  a  cliff,  and  gave 
myself  up  to  reflection 

While  thus  occupied,  my  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
the  opposite  steeps.  The  tops  of  the  trees,  wav 
ing  to  and  fro,  in  the  wildest  commotion,  and  their 
trunks,  occasionally  bending  to  the  blast,  which, 
in  these  lofty  regions,  blew  with  a  violence  un 
known  in  the  tracts  below,  exhibited  an  awful 
spectacle.  At  length,  my  attention  was  attracted 
by  the  trunk  which  lay  across  the  gulf,  and  which 
I  had  converted  into  a  bridge.  I  perceived  that  it 
had  already  somewhat  swerved  from  its  original 
position,  that  every  blast  broke  or  loosened  some 
of  the  fibres  by  which  its  roots  was  connected  with 
the  opposite  bank,  and  that,  if  the  storm  did  not 
speedily  abate,  there  was  imminent  danger  of  its 
being  torn  from  the  rock  and  precipitated  into  the 
chasm.  Thus  my  retreat  would  be  cut  off,  and 
the  evils,  from  which  I  was  endeavouring  to  res 
cue  another,  would  be  experienced  by  myself.  .  .  . 

I  believed  my  destiny  to  hang  upon  the  expe 
dition  with  which  I  should  recross  this  gulf. 
The  moments  that  were  spent  in  these  delibera 
tions  were  critical,  and  I  shuddered  to  observe  that 
the  trunk  was  held  in  its  place  by  one  or  two 
fibres  which  were  already  stretched  almost  to 
breaking. 

To  pass  along  the  trunk,  rendered  slippery  by 
the  wet  and  unsteadfast  by  the  wind,  was  emi 
nently  dangerous.  To  maintain  my  hold  in  pass 
ing,  in  defiance  of  the  whirlwind,  required  the 
most  vigorous  exertions.  For  this  end  it  was 
necessary  to  discommode  myself  of  my  cloak  and 
of  the  volume 

Just  as  I  had  disposed  of  these  encumbrances, 
and  had  risen  from  my  seat,  my  attention  was 
again  called  to  the  opposite  steep,  by  the  most  un 
welcome  object  that  at  this  time  could  possibly 
present  itself.  Something  was  perceived  moving 
among  the  bushes  and  rocks,  which,  for  a  time,  I 
hoped  was  no  more  than  a  raccoon  or  opossum, 
but  which  presently  appeared  to  be  a  panther. 
His  gray  coat,  extended  claws,  fiery  eyes,  and  a 
cry  which  he  at  that  moment  uttered,  and  which, 
by  its  resemblance  to  the  human  voice,  is  pecu 
liarly  terrific,  denoted  him  to  be  the  most  ferocious 
and  untameable  of  that  detested  race.  The  indus 
try  of  our  hunters  has  nearly  banished  animals  of 
prey  from  these  precincts.  The  fastnesses  of  Nor- 
walk,  however,  could  not  but  afford  refuge  to  some 
of  them.  Of  late  I  had  met  them  so  rarely,  that 
my  fears  were  seldom  alive,  and  I  trod,  without 
caution,  the  ruggedest  and  most  solitary  haunts. 
Still,  however,  I  had  seldom  been  unfurnished  in 
my  rambles  with  the  means  of  defence 

The  unfrequency  with  which  I  had  lately  en 
countered  this  foe,  and  the  encumbrance  of  provi 
sion  made  me  neglect  on  this  occasion  to  bring 
with  me  my  usual  arms.  The  beast  that  was* 
now  before  me,  when  stimulated  by  hunger,  was 


120 


CHARLES  BROCKDEN  BROWN. 


accustomed  to  assail  whatever  could  provide  him 
with  a  banquet  of  blood.  He  would  set  upon  the 
man  and  the  deer  with  equal  and  irresistible  fero 
city.  His  sagacity  was  equal  to  his  strength,  and 
he  seemed  able  to  discover  when  his  antagonist 
was  armed.  .  .  . 

My  past  experience  enabled  me  to  estimate  the 
full  extent  of  my  danger.  He  sat  on  the  brow  of 
the  steep,  eyeing  the  bridge,  and  apparently  deli 
berating  whether  he  should  cross  it.  It  was  pro 
bable  that  he  had  scented  my  footsteps  thus  far, 
and  should  he  pass  over,  his  vigilance  could 
scarcely  fail  of  detecting  my  asylum.  .  .  . 

Should  he  retain  his  present  station,  my  danger 
was  scarcely  lessened.  To  pass  over  in  the  face 
of  a  famished  tiger  was  only  to  rush  upon  my  fate. 
The  falling  of  the  trunk,  which  had  lately  been  so 
anxiously  deprecated,  was  now,  with  no  less  solici 
tude,  desired.  Every  new  gust  I  hoped  would  tear 
asunder  its  remaining  bands,  and,  by  cutting  off 
all  communication  between  the  opposite  steeps, 
place  me  in  security.  My  hopes,  however,  were 
destined  to  be  frustrated.  The  fibres  of  the  pros 
trate  tree  were  obstinately  tenacious  of  their  hold, 
and  presently  the  animal  scrambled  down  the  rock 
and  proceeded  to  cross  it. 

Of  all  kinds  of  death,  that  which  now  menaced 
me  was  the  most  abhorred.  To  die  by  disease,  or 
ty  the  hand  of  a  fellow-creature,  was  lenient  in 
comparison  with  being  rent  to  pieces  by  the  fangs 
of  this  savage.  To  perish  in  this  obscure  retreat, 
by  means  so  impervious  to  the  anxious  curiosity 
of  my  friends,  to  lose  my  portion  of  existence  by 
so  untoward  and  ignoble  a  destiny,  was  insup 
portable.  I  bitterly  deplored  my  rashness  in  com 
ing  hither  unprovided  for  an  encounter  like  this. 

The  evil  of  my  present  circumstances  consisted 
chiefly  in  suspense.  My  death  was  unavoidable, 
but  my  imagination  had  leisure  to  torment  itself 
by  anticipations.  One  foot  of  the  savage  was 
slowly  and  cautiously  moved  after  the  other.  He 
struck  his  claws  so  deeply  into  the  bark  that  they 
were  with  difficulty  withdrawn.  At  length  he 
leaped  upon  the  ground.  We  were  now  separated 
by  an  interval  of  scarcely  eight  feet.  To  leave 
the  spot  where  I  crouched  was  impossible.  Be 
hind  and  beside  me  the  cliff  rose  perpendicularly, 
and  before  me  was  this  grim  and  terrific  visage. 
I  shrunk  still  closer  to  the  ground  and  closed  my 
eyes. 

From  this  pause  of  horror  I  was  aroused  by  the 
noise  occasioned  by  a  second  spring  of  the  animal. 
He  leaped  into  the  pit  in  which  I  had  so  deeply 
regretted  that  I  had  not  taken  refuge,  and  disap 
peared.  My  rescue  was  so  sudden,  and  so  much 
beyond  my  belief  or  my  hope,  that  I  doubted  for 
a  moment  whether  my  senses  did  not  deceive  me. 
This  opportunity  of  escape  was  not  to  be  neglected. 
I  left  my  place  and  scrambled  over  the  trunk  with 
a  precipitation  which  had  liked  to  have  proved 
fatal.  The  tree  groaned  and  shook  under  me, 
the  wind  blew  with  unexampled  violence,  and 


I  had  scarcely  reached  the  opposite  steep  when 
the  roots  were  severed  from  the  rock,  and  the 
whole  fell  thundering  to  the  bottom  of  the  chasm. 

My  trepidations  were  no».  speedily  quieted.  I 
looked  back  with  wonder  on  my  hair-breadth 
escape,  and  on  that  singular  concurrence  of  events 
which  had  placed  me  in  so  short  a  period  in  abso 
lute  security.  Had  the  trunk  fallen  a  moment 
earlier,  I  should  have  been  imprisoned  on  the  hill 
or  thrown  headlong.  Had  its  fall  been  delayed 
another  moment  I  should  have  been  pursued ;  for 
the  beast  now  issued  from  his  den,  and  testified 
his  surprise  and  disappointment  by  tokens,  the 
sight  of  which  made  my  blood  run  cold. 

He  saw  me  and  hastened  to  the  verge  of  the 
chasm.  He  squatted  on  his  hind-legs  and  assumed 
the  attitude  of  one  preparing  to  leap.  My  con 
sternation  was  excited  afresh  by  these  appear 
ances.  It  seemed  at  first  as  if  the  rift  was  too 
wide  for  any  power  of  muscles  to  carry  him  in 
safety  over;  but  I  knew  the  unparalleled  agility 
of  this  animal,  and  that  his  experience  had  made 
him  a  better  judge  of  the  practicability  of  this  ex 
ploit  than  I  was. 

Still  there  was  hope  that  he  would  relinquish 
this  design  as  desperate.  This  hope  was  quickly 
at  an  end.  He  sprung,  and  his  fore-legs  touched 
the  verge  of  the  rock  on  which  I  stood.  In  spite 
of  vehement  exertions,  however,  the  surface  was 
too  smooth  and  too  hard  to  allow  him  to  make 
good  his  hold.  He  fell,  and  a  piercing  cry,  uttered 
below,  showed  that  nothing  had  obstructed  his  de 
scent  to  the  bottom. 


INFLUENCE  OF  FOREIGN 
LITERATURE. 

FROM    CLARA     HOWARD. 

THE  ideas  annexed  to  the  term  peasant  are 
wholly  inapplicable  to  the  tillers  of  ground  in 
America ;  but  our  notions  are  the  offspring  of  the 
books  we  read.  Our  books  are  almost  wholly  the 
productions  of  Europe,  and  the  prejudices  which 
infect  us  are  derived  chiefly  from  this  source. 
These  prejudices  may  be  somewhat  rectified  by 
age  and  by  converse  with  the  world,  but  they 
flourish  in  full  vigour  in  youthful  minds,  reared  in 
seclusion  and  privacy,  and  undisciplined  by  inter 
course  with  various  classes  of  mankind.  In  me 
they  possessed  an  unusual  degree  of  strength.  My 
words  were  selected  and  defined  according  to 
foreign  usages,  and  my  notions  of  dignity  were 
modelled  on  a  scale  which  the  revolution  has  com 
pletely  taken  away.  I  could  never  forget  that  my 
condition  was  that  of  a  peasant,  and  in  spite  of 
reflection,  I  was  the  slave  of  those  sentiments  of 
self-contempt  and  humiliation,  which  pertain  to 
that  condition  elsewhere,  though  chimerical  and 
visionary  on  the  western  side  of  the  Atlantic. 


WILLIAM  WIRT. 


[Born  1772.    Died  1834.] 


WILLIAM  WIRT  was  the  youngest  son  of 
an  emigrant  from  Switzerland,  and  was  born 
in  Bladensburg,  Maryland,  on  the  eighth  of 
November,  1772.  His  father  died  while  he 
was  an  infant,  and  his  mother  before  he  was 
eight  years  old.  He  then  became  the  ward 
of  an  uncle,  who  placed  him  at  a  grammar 
school  kept  by  a  Mr.  Hunt,  in  the  county  of 
Montgomery,  where  he  remained  from  1781 
to  1785,  in  which  period  he  studied  the  Greek 
and  Latin  languages,  and  indulged  in  much 
desultory  reading,  chiefly  of  classical  authors, 
of  which  his  teacher  had  a  good  collection. 
During  the  next  year  and  a  half  he  was  a 
private  teacher  in  the  family  of  Mr.  Benjamin 
Edwards,  whose  son  Ninian,  afterward  Go 
vernor  of  Illinois,  had  been  his  school-mate  ; 
and  in  1789,  on  account  of  impaired  health, 
he  went  to  Augusta,  Georgia,  where  he  spent 
the  following  winter.  On  his  return  to  Mary 
land  he  commenced  the  study  of  the  law,  and 
in  1792  he  was  licensed  to  practice,  and  com 
menced  his  professional  career  at  Culpepper 
Court  House  in  Virginia. 

He  was  now  twenty-one  years  of  age,  with 
good  health,  a  handsome  person,  pleasing  ad 
dress,  and  great  fluency  in  conversation  and 
in  debate.  From  the  first  he  was  eminently 
successful  in  the  courts ;  and  marrying,  in 
1795,  a  daughter  of  Dr.  Gilmer,  of  Charlottes- 
ville,  and  about  the  same  time  becoming  ac 
quainted  and  contracting  friendships  with  Mr. 
Jefferson.  Mr.  Madison,  and  other  celebrated 
men,  he  had  before  him  the  promise  of  a  pros 
perous  and  happy  life. 

The  death  of  his  wife,  however,  in  1799, 
interrupted  his  pursuits,  and  for  a  change  of 
scene  he  went  to  Richmond,  where  he  was 
chosen  clerk  of  the  House  of  Delegates.  The 
respect  which  he  acquired  during  three  terms 
of  service  in  this  body  was  so  great,  that  upon 
a  new  organization  of  the  judiciary,  in  1802, 
when  he  was  but  twenty-nine  years  of  age,  he 
was  chosen  chancellor  of  the  eastern  district 
of  the  state.  He  removed  to  Williamsburgh, 
but  finding  the  profits  of  his  office  less  than 

10 


his  probable  income  as  an  advocate,  andy  con 
fident  of  his  ability  to  acquire  a  higher  distinc 
tion  in  a  different  position,  he  resigned  it  at 
the  end  of  a  few  months  ;  and  having  married 
a  daughter  of  Colonel  Gamble,  of  Richmond, 
and  passed  in  that  city  another  winter,  during 
which  he  wrote  The  British  Spy,  he  selected 
Norfolk  as  his  place  of  residence,  and  there 
resumed  the  practice  of  his  profession. 

The  British  Spy  was  hastily  composed, 
without  a  thought  of  its  ever  attracting  atten 
tion  beyond  the  circle  which  was  most  familiar 
with  the  characters  described  in  it,  and  was 
published  in  numbers  in  the  Virginia  Argus, 
in  1803.  It  purports  to  be  a  selection  from 
letters  addressed  by  a  young  English  noble 
man,  travelling  under  an  assumed  name  in 
the  United  States,  to  his  former  guardian,  a 
distinguished  member  of  the  House  of  Com 
mons. 

At  the  end  of  three  years  Mr.  Wirt  re 
turned  again  to  Richmond,  where  in  the  win 
ter  of  1807  he  was  retained  under  the  direction 
of  President  Jefferson  to  assist  the  Attorney- 
General  of  the  United  States  in  the  celebrated 
prosecution  of  Aaron  Burr  for  treason.  The 
great  Marshall  presided,  and  the  first  lawyers 
of  the  country  were  engaged  for  or  against 
the  prisoner.  The  question  was  argued  in  a 
manner  worthy  of  its  importance.  "  A  degree 
of  eloquence  seldom  displayed  on  any  occa 
sion,"  said  the  chief  justice,  "  has  embellished 
solidity  of  argument  and  depth  of  research." 
It  is  generally  admitted  that  the  speech  of 
Mr.  Wirt  was  altogether  the  most  brilliant 
and  effective  made  during  the  trial.  He  was 
master  of  all  the  arts  by  which  the  attention 
is  secured  and  retained.  Oratory  was  his 
forte  as  well  as  his  favourite  art.  Every  pe 
riod,  every  gesture,  every  look,  was  carefully 
studied.  His  principal  speech  occupied  four 
hours,  and  was  faithfully  reported,  probably 
by  himself.  The  occasion  was  fortunate;  he 
exerted  his  best  powers ;  and  made  his  repu 
tation  national.  As  everybody  knows,  Burr 

was  acquitted.     Luther  Martin's  remark,  thai 
L  121 


122 


WILLIAM    WIRT. 


the  trial  was  "  much  ado  about  nothing,"  is 
now  admitted  to  have  been  as  just  as  it  was  hap 
py.  There  was  on  the  side  of  the  prosecution 
little  opportunity  for  reasoning,  and  certainly 
Mr.  Wirt  exhibited  no  great  ability  in  that 
way ;  but  his  speech  served  his  own  pur 
poses,  and  helped  to  secure  the  proceeding 
from  immediate  contempt. 

In  1808  he  was  elected  to  represent  the  city 
of  Richmond  in  the  House  of  Delegates,  and 
he  acquired  new  distinction  by  his  labours  in 
that  body ;  but  though  often  invited  to  do  so 
he  would  never  after  leave  the  path  of  his  pro 
fession.  He  wrote,  indeed,  in  support  of  Mr. 
Jefferson's  administration,  and  in  favour  of 
the  nomination  of  Mr.  Madison  for  the  presi 
dency;  but  except  when  influenced  by  pri 
vate  friendship  he  had  as  little  as  possible  to 
do  with  party  politics. 

He  was  now  in  the  height  of  his  popularity, 
and  his  office  was  thronged  with  suitors  ;  but 
he  still  found  time  for  indulgence  of  his  taste 
lor  society  and  literature.  His  reading  was 
discursive,  but  the  classics,  the  great  histo 
rians,  and  the  English  dramatists  and  essay 
ists  were  his  favourites.  His  memory  was  ex 
ceedingly  retentive,  and  perhaps  no  one  ever 
surpassed  him  in  readiness  and  felicity  of 
quotation.  Mr.  Thomas,  the  clever  author  of 
Clinton  Bradshaw,  relates  a  characteristic  in 
stance,  which  occurred,  however,  at  a  later  pe 
riod  :  A  Scotch  Presbyterian  church  in  Bal 
timore  was  divided  upon  the  question  of  what 
is  called  the  new  school  theology,  and  Mr. 
Wirt  was  advocate  for  the  Rev.  Mr.  Duncan, 
whom  the  old  school  side  were  endeavouring 
to  eject  from  the  place  of  pastor.  After 
alluding  to  the  fact  that  both  parties  were  from 
Scotland,  he  described  the  preacher  as  being 
in  the  condition  of  the  guest  of  Macbeth,  and 
rebuking  the  plaintiffs  with  great  effect,  said 
that  if  they  succeeded  they  would  feel  like 
the  guilty  Thane ;  for 

This  Duncan 

Hath  borne  his  faculties  so  meek,  hath  been 
So  clear  in  his  great  office,  that  his  virtues 
Will  plead  like  angels,  trumpet-tongued,  against 
The  deep  damnation  of  his  taking  off. 

There  were  in  Richmond  many  persons  of 
congenial  tastes,  upon  whom  he  frequently 
urged  the  custom  of  authorship,  as  delightful 
in  itself,  and  as  an  honourable  and  effective 
means  of  elevating  the  national  character. 
The  British  Spy  had  been  eminently  success 
ful  ;  and  discussing  with  some  friends,  in  1809, 


the  article  on  Ashe's  Travels  in  America, 
which  had  then  just  appeared  in  the  Edin 
burgh  Review,  he  proposed  a  literary  partner 
ship  for  writing  The  Old  Bachelor.  Judge 
Parker,  Beverley  Tucker,  Dabney  Carr,  J.  W. 
Mercer,  and  some  others  promised  assistance, 
and  the  publication  of  that  work  was  soon 
afterward  commenced  in  the  Richmond  En 
quirer.  By  far  the  largest  portion  of  it  was 
written  by  Mr.  WTirt,  though  several  of  his 
friends  furnished  each  one  or  more  essays. 
In  the  twelfth  number  the  prime  objects  in 
view  are  stated  to  be,  to  diffuse  among  the 
people  a  taste  for  letters,  to  make  them  sensi 
ble  of  the  decline  of  intelligence  in  the  coun 
try  since  the  age  of  the  revolution,  and  to 
excite  a  spirit  of  emulation  among  the  young. 
Whatever  may  have  been  the  degeneracy  of  the 
Virginians,  the  contrasts  which  he  describes 
were  nowhere  else  perceptible ;  and  we  can 
hardly  believe,  even  upon  his  testimony,  that 
his  contemporaries  in  that  state  exhibited  in  so 
marked  a  degree  "  the  phenomenon  of  a  young 
people  experiencing  the  decrepitude  of  age  be 
fore  they  attained  maturity."  The  revolution 
had  called  out  all  our  latent  energies,  and  such  a 
crisis  at  any  subsequent  period  would  also  have 
produced  what  he  calls  "  eruptions  of  talent." 
The  tone  of  The  Old  Bachelor  on  this  subject 
is  uniformly  extravagant,  and  exhibits  a  curious 
subserviency  to  the  opinions  of  the  foreign 
travellers  and  reviewers  which  he  professes  to 
condemn.  Its  style  is  gaudy  and  feeble. 

In  1817  Mr.  Wirt  published  the  Life  of 
Patrick  Henry,  a  work  for  which  he  had  been 
many  years  collecting  materials,  but  of  which 
the  execution  had  been  delayed  by  his  profes 
sional  occupations.  This  is  an  extraordinary 
piece  of  biography,  animated  and  picturesque, 
and  though  full  of  extravagancies,  not  an  un 
faithful  representation  of  the  celebrated  origi 
nal.  It  is  one  of  the  small  class  of  works  for 
which  his  genius,  or  rather  his  temperament, 
was  best  suited.  He  would  have  written  the 
life  of  any  other  man  in  the  same  style,  and 
Henry's  was  almost  the  only  one  which 
would  have  borne  it.  Wirt's  whole  experi 
ence  had  been  a  preparation  for  the  portrai 
ture  of  the  great  orator,  and  however  hastily 
it  may  in  the  end  have  been  composed,  we 
have  no  reason  to  suppose  it  would  have  had 
more  unity,  completeness,  condensation  or 
simplicity,  if  it  had  received  from  him  any 
conceivable  amount  of  labour. 


WILLIAM    WIRT. 


123 


Mr.  Wirt  was  appointed  by  President  Ma 
dison  in  1816  Attorney  for  the  district  of  Vir 
ginia,  and  on  the  election  of  Mr.  Monroe  to 
the  presidency,  in  the  following1  year,  he  was 
made  Attorney  General  of  the  United  States. 
He  now  removed  to  Washington,  where  he 
resided  until  1830,  when,  at  the  close  of  the 
administration  of  Mr.  Adams,  he  resigned  his 
office,  and  took  up  his  residence  in  Baltimore, 
where  he  passed  the  remainder  of  his  life. 
He  died  on  the  eighteenth  of  February,  1834, 
in  the  sixty-second  year  of  his  age. 

Mr.  Wirt's  literary  writings,  besides  those 
already  mentioned,  are  a  Eulogy  on  the  Lives 
and  Characters  of  Adams  and  Jefferson;  A 
Discourse  before  the  Societies  of  Rutgers' 
College,  in  1830;  and  an  Address  delivered 
in  Baltimore,  in  the  same  year,  on  the  Tri 
umph  of  Liberty  in  France. 

Mr.  Wirt  had  never  the  reputation  of  being  a 
first  rate  lawyer,  but  his  standing  in  the  Su 
preme  Court,  where  he  was  constantly  liable 
to  be  compared  with  some  of  the  strongest 
men  of  the  country,  was  highly  respectable. 
He  had  a  thorough  knowledge  of  business, 
felicity  in  expedients,  and  great  readiness  in 
bringing  all  his  acquisitions  into  use.  He  had 
given  much  attention  to  the  study  of  oratory, 
and  in  The  British  Spy,  in  The  Old  Bachelor, 
and  in  the  Life  of  Henry,  had  written  much 
on  the  subject;  but  in  a  desultory  manner, 
without  apparent  design,  or  consistency,  so 
that  no  very  definite  ideas  can  be  gathered  of 
his  views  respecting  it.  Yet  it  is  agreed  on 
all  hands  that  he  was  himself  a  very  ready, 
pleasing,  and  effective  speaker,  inferior  per 
haps  to  no  one  among  his  contemporaries  at 
the  bar  in  this  country. 

Of  his  literary  merits  I  do  not  think  highly. 


His  abilities  were  more  brilliant  than  solid. 
He  had  a  rapid  but  not  skilful  command  of 
language,  a  prolific  but  not  a  chaste  or  correct 
fancy,  and  his  opinions  were  generally  neither 
new  nor  striking. 

In  his  essays  he  imitated  closely  the  form  of 
the  English  models  in  this  sort  of  writing,  and 
both  The  British  Spy  and  The  Old  Bachelor 
contain  passages  which  will  bear  a  favourable 
comparison  perhaps  with  any  thing  in  the 
same  style  written  since  the  time  of  Johnson ; 
but  they  are  to  be  regarded  altogether  as  the 
last  productions  of  an  obsolete  school,  which 
never  could  or  will  be  made  to  flourish  in  this 
country. 

In  private  life  Mr.  Wirt  was  justly  held  in 
the  highest  estimation.  At  an  early  period 
he  had  betrayed  an  unsteadiness  of  purpose 
and  a  feebleness  of  will  from  which  the 
worst  consequences  were  apprehended ;  but 
u  the  ship  righted,"  as  he  remarks  in  one  of 
his  letters,  and  it  sailed  gallantly  afterward 
a  long  voyage,  through  various  seas,  to  the 
desired  haven.  He  was  in  all  respects  fitted 
to  adorn  and  charm  society.  His  manners, 
marked  by  the  kindness  which  was  in  his 
nature,  were  pleasing  and  familiar,  yet  digni 
fied,  and  his  conversation  was  fluent,  eloquent, 
enlivened  by  playful  and  apposite  wit,  and  en 
riched  with  the  results,  always  at  command, 
of  his  extensive  and  various  reading.  He 
wrote  verses  and  composed  music  with  facility, 
and  sung,  and  performed  on  various  instru 
ments.  It  is  no  wonder  therefore  that  he  was  a 
favourite  of  society,  and  that  he  is  remembered, 
by  those  who  had  the  happiness  of  being  per 
sonally  intimate  with  him,  with  an  enthusiasm 
which  cannot  be  felt  by  those  who  know  him 
only  as  a  lawyer  and  man  of  letters. 


THE  BLIND   PREACHER. 

FROM  THE  BRITISH   SPY. 

IT  was  one  Sunday,  as  I  travelled  through  the 
county  of  Orange,  that  my  eye  was  caught  by  a 
cluster  of  horses  tied  near  a  ruinous,  old,  wooden 
house  in  the  forest,  not  far  from  the  road-side. 
Having  frequently  seen  such  objects  before,  in 
travelling  through  these  States,  I  had  no  difficulty 
in  understanding  that  this  was  a  place  of  religious 
worship. 

Devotion  alone  should  have  stopped  me,  to  join  ; 
in  the  duties  of  the  congregation  ;  but  I  must  con-  ] 
*css,  that  curiosity  to  hear  the  preacher  of  such  a  j 


wilderness,  was  not  the  least  of  my  motives.  On 
entering,  I  was  struck  with  his  preternatural  ap 
pearance.  He  was  a  tall  and  very  spare  old  man  ; 
his  head,  which  was  covered  with  a  white  linen 
cap,  his  shrivelled  hands,  and  his  voice,  were  all 
shaking  under  the  influence  of  a  palsy ;  and  a  few 
moments  ascertained  to  me  that  he  was  perfectly 
blind. 

The  first  emotions  that  touched  my  breast  wer 
those  of  mingled  pity  and  veneration.  But  how 
soon  were  all  my  feelings  changed  !  The  lips  of 
Plato  were  never  more  worthy  of  a  prognostic 
swarm  of  bees,  than  were  the  lips  of  this  holy 
man  !  It  was  a  day  of  the  administration  of  the 
sacrament;  and  his  subject  was,  of  course,  the 


124 


WILLIAM    WIRT. 


passion  of  our  Saviour.  I  had  heard  the  subject 
handled  a  thousand  times :  I  had  thought  it  ex 
hausted  long  ago.  Little  did  I  suppose  that  in 
the  wild  woods  of  America,  I  was  to  meet  with  a 
man  whose  eloquence  would  give  to  this  topic  a 
new  and  more  sublime  pathos  than  I  had  ever  be 
fore  witnessed. 

As  he  descended  from  the  pulpit  to  distribute 
the  mystic  symbols,  there  was  a  peculiar,  a  more 
than  human  solemnity  in  his  air  and  manner, 
which  made  my  blood  run  cold,  and  my  whole 
frame  shiver. 

He  then  drew  a  picture  of  the  sufferings  of  our 
Saviour ;  his  trial  before  Pilate  ;  his  ascent  up 
Calvary ;  his  crucifixion  ;  and  his  death.  I  knew 
the  whole  history ;  but  never  until  then  had  I 
heard  the  circumstances  so  selected,  so  arranged, 
so  coloured  !  It  was  all  new ;  and  I  seemed  to 
have  heard  it  for  the  first  time  in  my  life.  His 
enunciation  was  so  deliberate  that  his  voice  trem 
bled  on  every  syllable  ;  and  every  heart  in  the  as 
sembly  trembled  in  unison.  His  peculiar  phrases 
had  that  force  of  description,  that  the  original 
scene  appeared  to  be  at  that  moment  acting  before 
our  eyes.  We  saw  the  very  faces  of  the  Jews ; 
the  staring,  frightful  distortions  of  malice  and 
rage.  We  saw  the  buffet :  my  soul  kindled  with 
a  flame  of  indignation ;  and  my  hands  were  in 
voluntarily  and  convulsively  clinched. 

But  when  he  came  to  touch  on  the  patience, 
the  forgiving  meekness  of  our  Saviour ;  when  he 
drew,  to  the  life,  his  blessed  eyes  streaming  in 
tears  to  heaven  ;  his  voice  breathing  to  God  a  soft 
and  gentle  prayer  of  pardon  on  his  enemies, 
"  Father,  forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what 
they  do," — the  voice  of  the  preacher,  which  had 
all  along  faltered,  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  until, 
his  utterance  being  entirely  obstructed  by  the  force 
of  his  feelings,  he  raised  his  handkerchief  to  his 
eyes,  and  burst  into  a  loud  and  irrepressible  flood 
of  grief.  The  effect  is  inconceivable.  The  whole 
house  resounded  with  the  mingled  groans,  and 
sobs,  and  shrieks  of  the  congregation. 

It  was  some  time  before  the  tumult  had  subsided, 
so  far  as  to  permit  him  to  proceed.  Indeed,  judging 
by  the  usual,  but  fallacious  standard  of  my  own 
weakness,  I  began  to  be  very  uneasy  for  the  situa 
tion  of  the  preacher.  For  I  could  not  conceive 
how  he  would  be  able  to  let  his  audience  down  from 
the  height  to  which  he  had  wound  them,  without 
impairing  the  solemnity  and  dignity  of  his  subject, 
or  perhaps  shocking  them  by  the  abruptness  of 
the  fall.  But — no :  the  descent  was  as  beautiful 
and  sublime  as  the  elevation  had  been  rapid  and 
enthusiastic. 

The  first  sentence,  with  which  he  broke  the 
awful  silence,  was  a  quotation  from  Rousseau: 
u  Socrates  died  like  a  philosopher,  but  Jesus  Christ, 
like  a  God !" 

I  despair  of  giving  you  any  idea  of  the  effect 
produced  by  this  short  sentence,  unless  you  could 
perfectly  conceive  the  whole  manner  of  the  man, 
as  well  as  the  peculiar  crisis  in  the  discourse. 
Never  before  did  I  completely  understand  what 
Demosthenes  meant  by  laying  such  stress  on  de 


livery.  You  are  to  bring  before  you  the  venera 
ble  figure  of  the  preacher;  his  blindness,  con 
stantly  recalling  to  your  recollection  old  Homer, 
Ossian,  and  Milton,  and  associating  with  his  per 
formance  the  melancholy  grandeur  of  their  ge 
niuses;  you  are  to  imagine  that  you  hear  his 
slow,  solemn,  well-accented  enunciation,  and  his 
voice  of  affecting,  trembling  melody ;  you  are  to 
remember  the  pitch  of  passion  and  enthusiasm,  to 
which  the  congregation  were  raised;  and  then 
the  few  moments  of  portentous,  deathlike  silence, 
which  reigned  throughout  the  house :  the  preacher 
removing  his  white  handkerchief  from  his  aged 
face,  (even  yet  wet  from  the  recent  torrent  of  his 
tears,)  and  slowly  stretching  forth  the  palsied  hand 
which  holds  it,  begins  the  sentence,  "  Socrates 
died  like  a  philosopher" — then,  pausing,  raising 
his  other  hand,  pressing  them  both,  clasped  to 
gether,  with  warmth  and  energy,  to  his  breast, 
lifting  his  "  sightless  balls"  to  heaven,  arid  pouring 
his  whole  soul  into  his  tremulous  voice — "  but  Je 
sus  Christ — like  a  God  !"  If  he  had  been  indeed  and 
in  truth  an  angel  of  light,  the  effect  could  scarce 
ly  have  been  more  divine.  Whatever  I  had  been 
able  to  conceive  of  the  sublimity  of  Massillon  or 
the  force  of  Bourdaloue,  had  fallen  far  short  of  the 
power  which  I  felt  from  the  delivery  of  this  sim 
ple  sentence. 

If  this  description  give  you  the  impression  that 
this  incomparable  minister  had  any  thing  of  shal 
low  theatrical  trick  in  his  manner,  it  does  him 
great  injustice.  I  have  never  seen,  in  any  other 
orator,  such  a  union  of  simplicity  and  majesty. 
He  has  not  a  gesture,  an  attitude,  or  an  accent,  to 
which  he  does  not  seem  forced  by  the  sentiment 
he  is  expressing.  His  mind  is  too  serious,  too 
earnest,  too  solicitous,  and,  at  the  same  time,  too 
dignified,  to  stoop  to  artifice.  Although  as  far  re 
moved  from  ostentation  as  a  man  can  be,  yet  it  is 
clear,  from  the  train,  the  style  and  substance  of 
his  thoughts,  that  he  is  not  only  a  very  polite 
scholar,  but  a  man  of  extensive  and  profound 
erudition.  I  was  forcibly  struck  with  a  short  yet 
beautiful  character,  which  he  drew  of  your  learned 
and  amiable  countryman,  Sir  Robert  Boyle :  he 
spoke  of  him,  as  if  "  his  noble  mind  had  even  be 
fore  death  divested  herself  of  all  influence  from 
his  frail  tabernacle  of  flesh ;"  and  called  him,  in 
his  peculiarly  emphatic  and  impressive  manner, 
"  a  pure  intelligence :  the  link  between  men  and 
angels." 

This  man  has  been  before  my  imagination  al 
most  ever  since.  A  thousand  times,  as  I  rode 
along,  I  dropped  the  reins  of  my  bridle,  stretched 
forth  my  hand,  and  tried  to  imitate  his  quotation 
from  Rousseau ;  a  thousand  times  I  abandoned 
the  attempt  in  despair,  and  felt  persuaded,  that  his 
peculiar  manner  and  power  arose  from  an  energy 
of  soul,  which  nature  could  give,  but  which  no  hu 
man  being  could  justly  copy.  As  I  recall,  at  this 
moment,  several  of  his  awfully  striking  attitudes, 
the  chilling  tide,  with  which  my  blood  begins  to 
pour  along  my  arteries,  reminds  me  of  the  emo 
tions  produced  by  the  first  sight  of  Gray's  intro 
ductory  picture  of  his  Bard. 


WILLIAM    WIRT. 


125 


WHO  IS  BLANNERHASSETT? 

FROM    A   SPEECH   ON  THE  TRIAL  OF   AARON   BURR. 

WHO  is  Blannerhassctt  1  A  native  of  Ireland, 
a  man  of  letters,  who  fled  from  the  storms  of  his 
own  country  to  find  quiet  in  ours.  His  history 
shows  that  war  is  not  the  natural  element  of  his 
mind.  If  it  had  been,  he  never  would  have  ex 
changed  Ireland  for  America.  So  far  is  an  army 
from  furnishing  the  society  natural  and  proper  to 
Mr.  Blannerhassett's  character,  that  on  his  arrival 
in  America  he  retired  even  from  the  population  of 
the  Atlantic  States,  and  sought  quiet  and  solitude 
in  the  bosom  of  our  western  forests.  But  he  car 
ried  with  him  taste,  and  science,  and  wealth ;  and 
lo,  the  desert  smiled  !  Possessing  himself  of  a  beau 
tiful  island  in  the  Ohio,  he  rears  upon  it  a  palace, 
and  decorates  it  with  every  romantic  embellish 
ment  of  fancy.  A  shrubbery,  that  Shenstone 
might  have  envied,  blooms  around  him.  Music, 
that  might  have  charmed  Calypso  and  her  nymphs, 
is  his.  An  extensive  library  spreads  its  treasures 
before  him.  A  philosophical  apparatus  offers  to 
him  all  the  secret  mysteries  of  nature.  Peace, 
tranquillity,  and  innocence  shed  their  mingled  de 
lights  around  him.  And  to  crown  the  enchant 
ment  of  the  scene,  a  wife,  who  is  said  to  be  lovely 
even  beyond  her  sex,  and  graced  with  every  ac 
complishment  that  can  render  it  irresistible,  had 
blessed  him  with  her  love  and  made  him  the 
father  of  several  children.  The  evidence  would 
convince  you  that  this  is  but  a  faint  picture  of  the 
real  life.  In  the  midst  of  all  this  peace,  this  inno- 
csnt  simplicity,  and  this  tranquillity,  this  feast  of 
the  mind,  this  pure  banquet  of  the  heart,  the  de 
stroyer  comes ;  he  comes  to  change  this  paradise 
into  a  hell.  Yet  the  flowers  do  not  wither  at  his 
approach.  No  monitory  shuddering  through  the 
bosom  of  their  unfortunate  possessor  warns  him 
of  the  ruin  that  is  coming  upon  him.  A  stranger 
presents  himself.  Introduced  to  their  civilities  by 
the  high  rank  which  he  had  lately  held  in  his 
country,  he  soon  finds  his  way  to  their  hearts  by 
the  dignity  and  elegance  of  his  demeanour,  the 
light  and  beauty  of  his  conversation,  and  the  se 
ductive  and  fascinating  power  of  his  address.  The 
conquest  was  not  difficult.  Innocence  is  ever 
simple  and  credulous.  Conscious  of  no  design 
itself,  it  suspects  none  in  others.  It  wears  no 
guard  before  its  breast.  Every  door  and  portal 
and  avenue  of  the  heart  is  thrown  open,  and  all 
who  choose  it  enter.  Such  was  the  state  of  Eden 
when  the  serpent  entered  its  bowers.  The  prison 
er,  in  a  more  engaging  form,  winding  himself  into 
the  open  and  unpractised  heart  of  the  unfortunate 
Blannerhassett,  found  but  little  difficulty  in  chang 
ing  the  native  character  of  that  heart  and  the  ob 
jects  of  its  affection.  By  degrees  he  infuses  into 
it  the  poison  of  his  own  ambition.  He  breathjes 
into  it  the  fire  of  his  own  courage ;  a  daring  and 
desperate  thirst  for  glory ;  and  ardour  panting  for 
great  enterprises,  for  all  the  storm  and  bustle  and 
hurricane  of  life.  In  a  short  time  the  whole  man  is 
changed,  and  every  object  of  his  former  delight  is 
relinquished.  No  more  he  enjoys  the  tranquil 


scene  ;  it  has  become  flat  and  insipid  to  his  taste. 
His  books  are  abandoned.  His  retort  and  cruci 
ble  are  thrown  aside.  His  shrubbery  blooms  and 
breathes  its  fragrance  upon  the  air  in  vain ;  he 
likes  it  not.  His  ear  no  longer  drinks  the  rich 
melody  of  music ;  it  longs  for  the  trumpet's  clan 
gour  and  the  cannon's  roar.  Even  the  prattle  of 
his  babes,  once  so  sweet,  no  longer  affects  him ; 
and  the  angel  smile  of  his  wife,  which  hitherto 
touched  his  bosom  with  ecstasy  so  unspeakable,  is 
now  unseen  and  unfelt.  Greater  objects  have 
taken  possession  of  his  sdul.  His  imagination 
has  been  dazzled  by  visions  of  diadems,  of  stars 
and  garters,  and  titles  of  nobility.  He  has  been 
taught  to  burn  with  restless  emulation  at  the 
names  of  great  heroes  and  conquerors.  His  en 
chanted  island  is  destined  soon  to  relapse  into 
a  wilderness;  and  in  a  few  months  We  find 
the  beautiful  and  tender  partner  of  his  bosom, 
whom  he  lately  "  permitted  not  the  winds  of"  sum 
mer  "  to  visit  too  roughly,"  we  find  her  shivering 
at  midnight  on  the  winter  banks  of  the  Ohio  and 
mingling  her  tears  with  the  torrents  that  froze  as 
they  fell.  Yet  this  unfortunate  man,  thus  de 
luded  from  his  interest  and  his  happiness,  thus 
seduced  from  the  paths  of  innocence  and  peace, 
thus  confounded  in  the  toils  that  were  deliberately 
spread  for  him,  and  overwhelmed  by  the  master 
ing  spirit  and  genius  of  another — this  man,  thus 
ruined  and  undone,  and  made  to  play  a  subordi 
nate  part  in  this  grand  drama  of  guilt  and  treason, 
this  man  is  to  be  called  the  principal  offender, 
while  he  by  whom  he  was  thus  plunged  in  misery 
is  comparatively  innocent,  a  mere  accessory  !  Is 
this  reason  1  Is  it  law  1  Is  it  humanity  1  Sir, 
neither  the  human  heart  nor  the  human  under 
standing  will  bear  a  perversion  so  monstrous  and 
absurd !  so  shocking  to  the  soul !  so  revolting  to 
reason !  Let  Aaron  Burr,  then,  not  shrink  from 
the  high  destination  which  he  has  courted,  and 
having  already  ruined  Blannerhassett  in  fortune, 
character,  and  happiness  for  ever,  let  him  not  at 
tempt  to  finish  the  tragedy  by  thrusting  that  ill- 
fated  man  between  himself  and  punishment. 


PATRICK  HENRY  AGAINST  THE 
PARSONS. 

FROM  THE  LIFE  OF  PATRICK  HENK7. 

ABOUT  the  time  of  Mr.  Henry's  coming  to  the 
bar,  a  controversy  arose  in  Virginia,  which  gradu 
ally  produced  a  very  strong  excitement,  and  called 
to  it,  at  length,  the  attention  of  the  whole  state. 

This  was  the  famous  controversy  between  the 
clergy  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  legislature  of  the 
people  of  the  colony  on  the  other,  touching  the 
stipend  claimed  by  the  former ;  and  as  this  was 
the  occasion  on  which  Mr.  Henry's  genius  first 
broke  forth,  those  who  take  an  interest  in  his  life 
will  not  be  displeased  by  a  particular  account  of 
the  nature  and  grounds  of  the  dispute.  It  will  be 
borne  in  mind,  that  the  church  of  England  was  at 


126 


WILLIAM    WIRT. 


this  period  the  established  church  of  Virginia; 
and  by  an  act  of  Assembly,  passed  so  far  back  as 
the  year  1696,  each  minister  of  a  parish  had  been 
provided  with  an  annual  stipend  of  sixteen  thou 
sand  pounds  of  tobacco.  This  act  was  re-enacted, 
with  amendments,  in  1748,  and  in  this  form  had 
received  the  royal  assent.  This  price  of  tobacco 
had  long  remained  stationary  at  two  pence  in  the 
pound,  or  sixteen  shillings  and  eight  pence  per 
hundred.  According  to  the  provisions  of  the  law, 
the  clergy  had  the  righjt  to  demand,  and  were  in 
the  practice  of  receiving,  payment  to  their  stipend 
in  the  specific  tobacco ;  unless  they  chose,  for  con 
venience,  to  commute  it  for  money  at  the  mar 
ket  price.  In  the  year  1755,  however,  the  crop 
of  tobacco  having  fallen  short,  the  legislature 
passed  "  an  act  to  enable  the  inhabitants  of  this 
colony  to  discharge  their  tobacco  debts  in  money 
for  the  present  year :"  by  the  provisions  of  which, 
"  all  persons,  from  whom  any  tobacco  was  due, 
were  authorized  to  pay  the  same  either  in  tobacco 
or  in  money,  afar  the  rate  of  sixteen  shillings  and 
eight  pence  per  hundred,  at  the  option  of  the  debtor" 
This  act  was  to  continue  in  force  for  ten  months 
and  no  longer,  and  did  not  contain  the  usual  clause 
of  suspension,  until  it  should  receive  the  royal  assent. 
Whether  the  scarcity  of  tobacco  was  so  general 
and  so  notorious  as  to  render  this  act  a  measure 
of  obvious  humanity  and  necessity,  or  whether  the 
clergy  were  satisfied  by  its  generality,  since  it  em 
braced  sheriffs,  clerks,  attorneys,  and  all  other  to 
bacco  creditors,  as  well  as  themselves,  or  whether 
they  acquiesced  in  it  as  a  temporary  expedient, 
which  they  supposed  not  likely  to  be  repeated,  it 
is  certain,  that  no  objection  was  made  to  the  law 
at  that  time.  They  could  not,  indeed,  have  helped 
observing  the  benefits  which  the  rich  planters  de 
rived  from  the  act;  for  they  were  receiving  from 
fifty  to  sixty  shillings  per  hundred  for  their  tobac 
co,  while  they  paid  off  their  debts,  due  in  that  ar 
ticle,  at  the  old  price  of  sixteen  shillings  and  eight 
pence.  Nothing,  however,  was  then  said  in  de 
fence  either  of  the  royal  prerogative  or  of  the 
rights  of  the  clergy,  but  the  law  was  permitted 
to  go  peaceably  through  its  ten  months'  operation. 
The  great  tobacco  planters  had  not  forgotten  the 
fruits  of  this  act,  when,  in  the  year  1758,  upon  a 
surmise  that  another  short  crop  was  likely  to  occur, 
the  provisions  of  the  act  of  1775  were  re-enacted, 
and  the  new  law,  like  the  former,  contained  no 
suspending  clause.  The  crop,  as  had  been  anti 
cipated,  did  fall  short,  and  the  price  of  tobacco  rose 
immediately  from  sixteen  and  eight  pence  to  fifty 
shillings  per  hundred.  The  clergy  now  took  the 
alarm,  and  the  act  was  assailed  by  an  indignant, 
sarcastic,  and  vigorous  pamphlet,  entitled  The 
Two- Penny  Act,  from  the  pen  of  the  Rev.  John 
Camn,  the  rector  of  York  Hampton  parish,  and 
the  Episcopalian  commissary  for  the  colony.* 
He  was  answered  by  two  pamphlets,  written,  the 


*The  governor  of  Virginia  represented  the  king;  the 
council,  the  House  of  Lords  ;  and  the  Episcopalian  com 
missary  (a  member  of  the  council)  represented  the  spi 
ritual  part  of  that  house  ;  the  House  of  Burgesses  was, 
of  course,  the  House  of  Commons. 


one  by  Col.  Richard  Bland,  and  the  other  by  Col. 
Landon  Carter,  in  both  which  the  commissary  was 
very  roughly  handled.  He  replied,  in  a  still  se 
verer  pamphlet,  under  the  ludicrous  title  of  The 
Colonels  Dismounted.  The  Colonels  rejoined ; 
and  this  war  of  pamphlets,  in  which,  with  some 
sound  argument,  there  was  a  great  deal  of  what 
Dry  den  has  called  "  the  horse-play  of  raillery,"  was 
kept  up,  until  the  whole  colony,  which  had  at  first 
looked  on  for  amusement,  kindled  seriously  in  the 
contest  from  motives  of  interest.  Such  was  the 
excitement  produced  by  the  discussion,  and  at 
length  so  strong  the  current  against  the  clergy, 
that  the  printers  found  it  expedient  to  shut  their 
presses  against  them  in  this  colony,  and  Mr. 
Camn  had  at  last  to  resort  to  Maryland  for  publi 
cation.  These  pamphlets  are  still  extant ;  and  it 
seems  impossible  to  deny,  at  this  day,  that  the 
clergy  had  much  the  best  of  the  argument.  The 
king  in  his  council  took  up  the  subject,  denounced 
the  act  of  1758  as  a  usurpation,  and  declared  it 
utterly  null  and  void.  Thus  supported,  the  clergy 
resolved  to  bring  the  question  to  a  judicial  test; 
and  suits  were  accordingly  brought  by  them,  in  the 
various  county  courts  of  the  colony,  to  recover  their 
stipends  in  the  specific  tobacco.  They  selected  the 
county  of  Hanover  as  the  place  of  the  first  experi 
ment  ;  and  this  was  made  in  a  suit  instituted  by  the 
Rev.  James  Maury ,  against  the  collector  of  that  coun 
ty  and  his  sureties.  The  record  of  this  suit  is  now 
before  me.  The  declaration  is  founded  on  the  act 
of  1748,  which  gives  the  tobacco;  the  defendants 
pleaded  specially  the  act  of  1758,  which  authorizes 
the  commutation  into  money,  at  sixteen  and  eight 
pence ;  to  this  plea  the  plaintiff"  demurred ;  assign 
ing  for  causes  of  demurrer,  first,  that  the  act  of 
1758,  not  having  received  the  royal  assent,  had 
not  the  force  of  a  law ;  and,  secondly,  that  the 
king,  in  council,  had  declared  the  act  null  and 
void.  The  case  stood  for  argument  on  the  demur 
rer  to  the  November  term,  1763,  and  was  argued 
by  Mr.  Lyons  for  the  plaintiff*  and  Mr.  John  Lewis 
for  the  defendants;  when  the  court,  very  much  to 
the  credit  of  their  candour  and  firmness,  breasted 
the  popular  current  by  sustaining  the  demurrer. 
Thus  far,  the  clergy  sailed  before  the  wind,  and 
concluded,  with  good  reason,  that  their  triumph 
was  complete:  for  the  act  of  1758  having  been 
declared  void  by  the  judgment  on  the  demurrer, 
that  of  1748  was  left  in  full  force,  and  became,  in 
law,  the  only  standard  for  the  finding  of  the  jury. 
Mr.  Lewis  was  so  thoroughly  convinced  of  this, 
that  he  retired  from  the  cause  ;  informing  his  cli 
ents  that  it  had  been,  in  effect,  decided  against 
them,  and  that  there  remained  nothing  more  for  him 
to  do.  In  this  desperate  situation,  they  applied  to 
Patrick  Henry,  and  he  undertook  to  argue  it  for 
them  before  a  jury,  at  the  ensuing  term.  Accord 
ingly,  on  the  first  day  of  the  following  Decem 
ber,  he  attended  the  court,  and,  on  his  arrival, 
found  in  the  court-yard  such  a  concourse  as  would 
have  appalled  any  other  man  in  his  situation. 
They  were  not  the  people  of  the  county  merely 
who  were  there,  but  visitors  from  all  the  counties, 
to  a  considerable  distance  around.  The  decision 


WILLIAM   WIRT. 


127 


upon  the  demurrer  had  produced  a  violent  fer 
ment  among  the  people,  and  equal  exultation  on 
the  part  of  the  clergy  ;  who  attended  the  court  in 
a  large  body,  either  to  look  down  opposition,  or  to 
enjoy  the  final  triumph  of  this  hard-fought  con 
test,  which  they  now  considered  as  perfectly  se 
cure.  Among  many  other  clergymen,  who  at 
tended  on  this  occasion,  came  the  Reverend  Pat 
rick  Henry,  who  was  the  plaintiff  in  another  cause 
of  the  same  nature,  then  depending  in  court 
When  Mr.  Henry  saw  his  uncle  approach,  he 
walked  up  to  his  carriage,  accompanied  by  Col. 
Meredith,  and  expressed  his  regret  at  seeing  him 
there.  '"Why  sol"  inquired  the  uncle.  ".Be 
cause,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Henry,  "  you  know  that  I  have 
never  yet  spoken  in  public,  and  I  fear  that  I  shall 
be  too  much  overawed  by  your  presence,  to  be  able 
to  do  my  duty  to  my  clients ;  besides,  sir,  I  shall 
be  obliged  to  say  some  hard  things  of  the  clergy, 
and  I  am  very  unwilling  to  give  pain  to  your  feel 
ings."  His  uncle  reproved  him  for  having  en 
gaged  in  the  cause ;  which  Mr.  Henry  excused, 
by  saying,  that  the  clergy  had  not  thought  him 
worthy  of  being  retained  on  their  side,  and  he 
knew  of  no  moral  principle  by  which  he  was 
bound  to  refuse  a  fee  from  their  adversaries ;  be 
sides,  he  confessed,  that  in  this  controversy,  both 
his  heart  and  judgment,  as  well  as  his  professional 
duty,  were  on  the  side  of  the  people  :  he  then  re 
quested  that  his  uncle  would  do  him  the  favour  to 
leave  the  ground.  "  Why,  Patrick,"  said  the  old 
gentleman,  with  a  good-natured  smile,  "  as  to 
your  saying  hard  things  of  the  clergy,  I  advise  you 
to  let  that  alone :  take  my  word  for  it,  you  will 
do  yourself  more  harm  than  you  will  them;  and 
as  to  my  leaving  the  ground,  I  fear,  my  boy,  that 
my  presence  could  neither  do  you  harm  nor  good 
in  such  a  cause.  However,  since  you  seem  to 
think  otherwise,  and  desire  it  of  me  so  earnestly, 
you  shall  be  gratified."  Whereupon,  he  entered 
his  carriage  again,  and  returned  home. 

Soon  after  the  opening  of  the  court,  the  cause 
was  called.  It  stood  on  a  writ  of  inquiry  of  da 
mages,  no  plea  having  been  entered  by  the  defend 
ants  since  the  judgment  on  the  demurrer.  The 
array  before  Mr.  Henry's  eyes  was  now  most 
fearful.  On  the  bench  sat  more  than  twenty  cler 
gymen,  the  most  learned  men  in  the  colony,  and 
the  most  capable,  as  well  as  the  severest,  critics 
before  whom  it  was  possible  for  him  to  have  made 
his  debut.  The  courthouse  was  crowded  with  an 
overwhelming  multitude,  and  surrounded  with  an 
immense  and  anxious  throng,  who,  not  finding 
room  to  enter,  were  endeavouring  to  listen  with 
out,  in  the  deepest  attention.  But  there  was 
something  still  more  awfully  disconcerting  than  all 
this  ;  for  in  the  chair  of  the  presiding  magistrate  sat 
no  other  person  than  his  own  father.  Mr.  Lyons 
opened  the  cause  very  briefly  :  in  the  way  of  ar 
gument  he  did  nothing  more  than  explain  to  the 
jury,  that  the  decision  upon  the  demurrer  had  put 
the  act  of  1758  entirely  out  of  the  way,  and  left  the 
law  of  1748  as  the  only  standard  of  their  damages ; 
he  then  concluded  with  a  highly-wrought  eulo- 
gium  on  the  benevolence  of  the  clergy.  And  now 


came  on  the  first  trial  of  Patrick  Henry's  strength. 
No  one  had  ever  heard  him  speak,  and  curiosity 
was  on  tiptoe.  He  rose  very  awkwardly,  and  fal 
tered  much  in  his  exordium.  The  people  hung  their 
heads  at  so  unpromising  a  commencement;  the 
clergy  were  observed  to  exchange  sly  looks  with 
each  other ;  and  his  father  is  described  as  having 
almost  sunk  with  confusion  from  his  seat.  But 
these  feelings  were  of  shojjt  duration,  and  soon  gave 
place  to  others,  of  a  very  different  character.  For 
now  were  those  wonderful  faculties  which  he  pos 
sessed,  for  the  first  time,  developed ;  and  now  was 
first  witnessed  that  mysterious  and  almost  super 
natural  transformation  of  appearance,  which  the 
fire  of  his  own  eloquence  never  failed  to  work  in 
him.  For  as  his  mind  rolled  along,  and  began  to 
glow  from  its  own  action,  all  the  exuviae  of  the 
clown  seemed 'to  shed' themselves  spontaneously. 
His  attitude,  by  degrees,  became  erect  and  lofty. 
The  spirit  of  his  genius  awakened  all  his  features. 
His  countenance  shone  with  a  nobleness  and  gran 
deur  which  it  had  never  before  exhibited.  There 
was  a  lightning  in  his  eyes  which  seemed  to  rive 
the  spectator.  His  action  became  graceful,  bold, 
and  commanding ;  and  in  the  tones  of  his  voice, 
but  more  especially  in  his  emphasis,  there  was  a 
peculiar  charm,  a  magic,  of  which  any  one  who 
ever  heard  him  will  speak  as  soon  as  he  is  named, 
but  of  which  no  one  can  give  any  adequate  de 
scription.  They  can  only  say  that  it  struck  upon 
the  ear  and  upon  the  heart,  in  a  manner  tvlrich 
language  cannot  tell.  Add  to  all  these,  bis  won 
der-working  fancy,  and  the  peculiar  phniseology 
in  which  he  clothed  its  images ;  for  he  painted  to 
the  heart  with  a  force  that  almost  petrified  it.  In 
the  language  of  those  who  heard  him  on  this  oc 
casion,  "  he  made  their  blood  run  cold,  and  their 
hair  to  rise  on  end." 

It  will  not  be  difficult  for  any  one  who  ever 
heard  this  most  extraordinary  man,  to  believe  the 
whole  account  of  this  transaction,  which  is  given 
by  his  surviving  hearers,  and  from  their  account 
the  courthouse  of  Hanover  county  must  have  ex 
hibited,  on  this  occasion,  a  scene  as  picturesque 
as  has  been  ever  witnessed  in  real  life.  They  say 
that  the  people,  whose  countenance  had  fallen  as  he 
arose,  had  heard  but  a  very  few  sentences  before  they 
began  to  look  up ;  then  to  look  at  each  other  with 
surprise,  as  if  doubting  the  evidence  of  their  own 
senses ;  then,  attracted  by  some  strong  gesture, 
struck  by  some  majestic  attitude,  fascinated  by  the 
spell  of  his  eye,  the  charm  of  his  emphasis,  and  the 
varied  and  commanding  expression  of  his  counte 
nance,  they  could  look  away  no  more.  In  less 
than  twenty  minutes,  they  might  be  seen  in  every 
part  of  the  house,  on  every  bench,  in  every  win 
dow,  stooping  forward  from  their  stands,  in  death 
like  silence ;  their  features  fixed  in  amazement 
and  awe;  all  their  senses  listening  and  riveted 
upon  the  speaker,  as  if  to  catch  the  last  strain  of 
some  heavenly  visitant.  The  mockery  of  the  cler 
gy  was  soon  turned  into  alarm:  their  triumph 
into  confusion  and  despair ;  and  at  one  burst  of 
his  rapid  and  overwhelming  invective,  they  fled 
from  the  bench  in  precipitation  and  terror.  As 


128 


WILLIAM    WIRT. 


for  the  father,  such  was  his  surprise,  such  his 
amazement,  such  his  rapture,  that,  forgetting 
where  he  was,  and  the  character  which  he  was 
filling,  tears  of  ecstasy  streamed  down  his  cheeks, 
without  the  power  or  inclination  to  repress  them. 
The  jury  seem  to  have  been  so  completely  bewil 
dered,  that  they  lost  sight,  not  only  of  the  act  of 
1748,  but  that  of  1758,  also  ;  for  thoughtless  even  of 
the  admitted  right  of  the  .plaintiff,  they  had  scarce 
ly  left  the  bar,  when  they  returned  with  a  verdict 
of  one  penny  damages.  A  motion  was  made  for 
a  new  trial ;  but  the  court,  too,  had  now  lost  the 
equipoise  of  their  judgment,  and  overruled  the 
motion  by  a  unanimous  vote.  The  verdict  and 
judgment  overruling  the  motion,  were  followed  by 
redoubled  acclamations,  from  within  and  from 
without  the  house.  The  people,  who  had  with 
difficulty  kept  their  hands  off  their  champion,  from 
the  moment  of  closing  his  harangue,  no  sooner 
saw  the  fate  of  the  cause  finally  sealed,  than  they 
seized  him  at  the  bar,  and  in  spite  of  his  own  ex 
ertions,  and  the  continued  cry  of  "  order"  from  the 
sheriffs  and  the  court,  they  bore  him  out  of  the 
courthouse,  and  raising  him  on  their  shoulders, 
carried  him  about  the  yard,  in  a  kind  of  elec 
tioneering  triumph. 

0  !  what  a  scene  was  this  for  a  father's  heart ! 
so  sudden  ;  so  unlocked  for ;  so  delightfully  over 
whelming  !     At  the  time,  he  was  not  able  to  give 
utterance  to  any  sentiment ;  but,  a  few  days  after, 
when  speaking   of  it  to   Mr.  Winston,  he  said, 
with  the  most  engaging  modesty,  and  with  a  tre- 
mour  of  v.oice,  which  showed  how  much  more  he 
felt  than  he  expressed,  "  Patrick  spoke  in  this 
cause  near  an  hour !  and  in  a  manner  that  sur 
prised  me  !  and  showed  himself  well-informed  on 
a  subject,  of  which  I  did  not  think  he  had  any 
knowledge !" 

1  have  tried  much  to  procure  a  sketch  of  this  cele 
brated  speech.     But  those  of  Mr.  Henry's  hearers 
who  survive,  seem  to  have  been  bereft  of  their 
senses.     They  can  only  tell  you,  in  general,  that 
they  were   taken  captive;  and  so  delighted  with 
their  captivity,  that  they  followed  implicitly  whith 
ersoever  he  led  them ;  that,  at  his  bidding,  their 
tears  flowed  from  pity,  and  their  cheeks  flushed 
with  indignation :  that  when  it  was  over,  they  felt 
as  if  they  had  just  awaked  from  some   ecstatic 
dream,  of  which  they  were  unable  to  recall  or  con 
nect  the   particulars.     It  was  such  a  speech  as 
they    believe   had   never  before  fallen   from   the 
lips  of  man ;  arid  to  this  day,  the  old  people  of 
that  county  cannot  conceive  that  a  higher  compli- 
merat  can  be  paid  to  a  speaker,  than  to  say  of  him, 
in  their  own  homely  phrase  : — "  He  is  almost  equal 
to  Patrick,  when  he  plead  against  the  parsons" 


MONTICELLO. 

FROM  A    EULOGY  ON   ADAMS   AND  JEFFERSON. 


THE  mansion  house  at  Monticello  was  built  and 
furnished  in  the  days  of  his  prosperity.  In  its  di 
mensions,  its  architecture,  its  arrangements  and 


ornaments,  it  is  such  a  one  as  became  the  charac 
ter  and  fortune  of  the  man.  It  stands  upon  an 
elliptic  plain,  formed  by  cutting  down  the  apex  of 
a  mountain ;  and,  on  the  west,  stretching  away  to 
the  north  and  the  south,  it  commands  a  view  of  the 
Blue  Ridge  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles,  and 
brings  under  the  eye  one  of  the  boldest  and  most 
beautiful  horizons  in  the  world  :  while  on  the  east, 
it  presents  an  extent  of  prospect  bounded  only  by 
the  spherical  form  of  the  earth,  in  which  nature 
seems  to  sleep  in  eternal  repose,  as  if  to  form  one 
of  her  finest  contrasts  with  the  rude  and  rolling 
grandeur  on  the  west. . . . 

Approaching  the  house  on  the  east,  the  visiter 
instinctively  paused,  to  cast  around  one  thrilling 
glance  at  this  magnificent  panorama:  and  then 
passed  to  the  vestibule,  where,  if  he  had  not  been 
previously  informed,  he  would  immediately  per 
ceive  that  he  was  entering  the  house  of  no  com 
mon  man.  In  the  spacious  and  lofty  hall  which 
opens  before  him,  he  marks  no  tawdry  and  un 
meaning  ornaments :  but  before,  on  the  right,  on 
the  left,  all  around,  the  eye  is  struck  and  gratified 
with  objects  of  science  and  taste,  so  classed  and 
arranged  as  to  produce  their  finest  effect.  On  one 
side,  specimens  of  sculpture  set  out,  in  such  order 
as  to  exhibit  at  a  coup  d'ceil,  the  historical  pro 
gress  of  that  art ;  from  the  first  rude  attempts  o 
the  aborigines  of  our  country,  up  to  that  exquisi* 
and  finished  bust  of  the  great  patriot  himself,  from 
the  masterhand  of  Caracci.  On  the  other  side,  the 
visiter  sees  displayed  a  vast  collection  of  specimens 
of  Indian  art,  their  paintings,  weapons,  ornaments, 
and  manufactures;  on  another,  an  array  of  the 
fossil  productions  of  our  country,  mineral  and  ani 
mal  ;  the  polished  remains  of  those  colossal  mon 
sters  that  once  trod  our  forests,  and  are  no  more ; 
and  a  variegated  display  of  the  branching  honours 
of  those  "  monarchs  of  the  waste,"  that  still  peo 
ple  the  wilds  of  the  American  continent. 

From  this  hall  he  was  ushered  into  a  noble  sa 
loon,  from  which  the  glorious  landscape  of  the 
west  again  bursts  upon  his  view;  and  which, 
within,  is  hung  thick  around  with  the  finest  pro 
ductions  of  the  pencil — historical  paintings  of  the 
most  striking  subjects  from  all  countries,  and  all 
ages ;  the  portraits  of  distinguished  men  and  pa 
triots,  both  of  Europe  and  America,  and  medal 
lions  and  engravings  in  endless  profusion. 

While  the  visiter  was  yet  lost  in  the  contem 
plation  of  these  treasures  of  the  arts  and  sciences, 
he  was  startled  by  the  approach  of  a  strong  and 
sprightly  step,  and  turning  with  instinctive  reve 
rence  to  the  door  of  entrance,  he  was  met  by  the 
tall,  and  animated,  and  stately  figure  of  the  patriot 
himself — his  countenance  beaming  with  intelligence 
and  benignity,  and  his  outstretched  hand,  with  its 
strong  and  cordial  pressure,  confirming  the  cour 
teous  welcome  of  his  lips.  And  then  came  that 
charm  of  manner  and  conversation  that  passes  all 
description — so  cheerful — so  unassuming — so  free, 
and  easy,  and  frank,  and  kind,  and  gay — that  even 
the  young,  and  overawed,  and  embarrassed  visiter 
at  once  forgot  his  fears,  and  felt  himself  by  the 
side  of  an  old  and  familiar  friend. 


JOSIAH   QUINCY. 

[Born  1772.    Died  1864.] 


THE  late  Mr.  Justice  Story,  in  dedicating  to 
JOSIAH  QUINCY  his  Miscellaneous  Writings, 
remarks  "  that  few  persons  have  acquired  so 
just  a  distinction  for  unspotted  integrity,  fear 
less  justice,  consistent  principles,  high  talents, 
and  extensive  literature,"  and  that  "  still  fewer 
possess  the  merit  of  having  justified  the  pub 
lic  confidence  by  the  singleness  of  heart  and 
purpose  with  which  they  have  devoted  them 
selves  to  the  best  interests  of  society."  Every 
body  who  is  acquainted  with  the  venerable 
statesman  and  scholar  will  acknowledge  that 
this  praise  is  deserved. 

Josiah  Quincy,  the  third  of  these  names,  is 
of  the  fifth  generation  from  Edmund  Quincy, 
who  came  from  England  with  the  Rev.  John 
Cotton  in  1633;  and  is  the  son  of  Josiah 
Quincy,  the  associate  of  Otis  and  Warren, 
whose  premature  death  was  one  of  the  sever 
est  losses  sustained  by  the  country  in  the  be 
ginning  of  the  revolution.  "  May  the  spirit 
of  liberty  rest  upon  him,"  the  dying  patriot 
wrote  in  his  will,  and  left  him  as  a  specific 
legacy  the  works  of  Tacitus  and  Cato,  Syd 
ney,  Bacon  and  Locke. 

He  was  graduated  at  Harvard  University  in 
1790,  and  in  1804  commenced  his  public  life 
as  a  member  of  the  Massachusetts  senate. 
In  the  same  year  he  was  elected  to  the  na 
tional  House  of  Representatives,  in  which  he 
continued  until  March,  1813,  when  he  de 
clined  further  service  in  that  body.  He  how 
ever  accepted  a  seat  in  the  legislature  of  the 
state,  and  was  a  senator  from  1813  to  1820, 
and  from  the  last  year  to  1822  a  member  of 
the  lower  house,  of  which  he  was  twice 
chosen  speaker.  In  1822  he  became  judge  of 
the  municipal  court  of  Boston,  and  was  mayor 
of  that  city  from  1823  to  1828,  when  he  de 
clined  being  again  a  candidate  for  the  office. 
From  1829  to  1845  he  was  president  of  Har 
vard  University,  and  was  succeeded,  upon 
his  resignation,  in  the  last  year,  by  Edward 
Everett. 

Mr.  Quincy  is  an  "  old  federalist,"  a  term 
which  is  commonly  given  as  a  reproach,  and 
received,  where  it  is  merited,  as  an  honour. 

17 


The  period  in  which  he  was  in  Congress  was 
one  of  extraordinary  interest,  when  party  spirit 
ran  high,  and  decision,  boldness  and  energy 
were  indispensable  qualities  for  politicians  of 
either  side.  He  was  equal  to  the  emergency, 
and  sustained  himself  on  all  occasions  with 
manly  independence,  sound  argument,  and 
fervid  declamation.  One  of  his  most  effec 
tive  speeches  was  made  in  the  House  of  Repre 
sentatives  in  November,  1808,  on  a  resolution 
to  resist  the  edicts  of  Great  Britain  and 
France;  but  this  is  less  celebrated  than  his 
speech  in  1811  on  the  bill  for  the  admission 
of  Louisiana.  If  this  bill  passes,  he  said, 
"the  bonds  of  this  Union  are  virtually  dis 
solved  ;  the  states  which  compose  it  are  free 
from  their  moral  obligations,  and  it  will  be 
the  right  of  all  and  the  duty  of  some  to  pre 
pare  definitely  for  a  separation,  peaceably  if  we 
can,  forcibly  if  we  must."  Before  such  an 
act,  he  thought,  the  bands  of  the  constitu 
tion  were  no  more  than  flax  before  the  fire, 
or  stubble  before  the  whirlwind.  The  tree 
has  since  then  become  dry^  yet  the  Union  is 
not  dissolved. 

War,  right  or  wrong,  always  commands 
the  suffrages  of  the  rabble,  for  to  them,  as 
surely  as  to  carrion  birds,  it  furnishes  occupa 
tion  and  subsistence.  Mr.  Quincy  rarely  re 
ferred  to  himself,  but  in  his  speech  on  the 
army  bill,  in  1813,  alluding  to  the  charges  of 
vulgar  calumny  by  which  the  imaginations  of 
most  men  are  affected,  he  said,  "  It  is  not  for 
a  man  whose  ancestors  have  been  planted  in 
this  country  for  almost  two  centuries  ....  who 
is  conscious  of  being  rooted  in  the  soil  as 
deeply  and  as  exclusively  as  the  oak  which 
shoots  among  its  rocks  ....  to  hesitate  or 
swerve  a  hair's  breadth  from  his  country's  true 
interests,  because  of  the  yelpings,  the  howl- 
ings  and  the  snarlings  of  that  hungry  pack 
which  corrupt  men  keep  directly  or  indi 
rectly  in  pay,  with  the  view  of  hunting  down 
every  man  who  dare  develope  their  purposes , 
a  pack  composed  of  some  native  curs,  but  for 
the  most  part  of  hounds  and  spaniels  of  very 
recent  importation,  whose  backs  are  seared 

129 


130 


JOSIAH     QUINCY. 


with  the  lash  and  whose  necks  are  sore  with 
the  collars  of  their  former  masters."  In  and 
out  of  Congress  he  was  faithful  to  what  he 
deemed  the  true  interests  of  the  people,  and 
laboured  zealously  to  bring  men  and  measures 
to  the  bar  of  public  opinion. 

Mr.  Quincy  has  published  between  thirty 
and  forty  speeches,  orations,  addresses,  and 
miscellaneous  tracts;  the  Life  of  Josiah 
Quincy,  junior,  (his  father,)  in  one  octavo 
volume ;  the  Life  of  James  Grahame,  the 
historian,  (in  the  Massachusetts  Historical 
Collections)  ;  and  The  History  of  Harvard 
University,  in  two  large  octavo  volumes, 
which  appeared  in  1840.  In  the  History  of 
Harvard  University,  the  progress  of  that  dis 


tinguished  seat  of  learning,  which  has  had 
so  great  and  beneficent  an  influence  upon  the 
character  and  condition  of  this  nation,  is 
traced  with  minuteness  and  fidelity  through 
the  two  centuries  which  had  elapsed  since  its 
formation.  His  style  is  perspicuous  and  ele 
gant,  and  the  narrative  animated,  generally 
well  proportioned,  and  interesting. 

He  wrote  also,  The  Journals  and  Life  of  Maj. 
Saml.  Shaw,  Consul  at  Canton;  History  of  the 
Boston  Atheneum  ;  History  of  Boston  ;  Life  of 
John  Q.  Adams ;  and  essays  on  soiling  of  Cattle. 
Since  resigning  the  Presidency  of  the  Univer 
sity,  Mr.  Quincy  lived  at  his  country  seat  at 
Quincy,  until  his  death,  July  1,  1864. 


THE  INVASION  OF  CANADA. 

FROM  A  SPEECH  ON  THE  AKMY  BILL. 

WHEN  I  contemplate  the  character  and  conse 
quences  of  this  invasion  of  Canada,  when  I  re 
flect  upon  its  criminality,  and  its  danger  to  the 
peace  and  liberty  of  this  once  happy  country,  I 
thank  the  great  Author  and  source  of  all  virtue, 
that  through  his  grace,  that  section  of  country  in 
which  I  have  the  happiness  to  reside,  is  in  so 
great  a  degree  free  from  the  iniquity  of  this  trans 
gression.  I  speak  it  with  pride,  the  people  of  that  sec 
tion  have  done  what  they  could,  to  vindicate  them 
selves  and  their  children  from  the  burden  of  this  sin. 
That  whole  section  has  risen,  almost  as  one  man, 
for  the  purpose  of  driving  from  power  by  one  great 
constitutional  effort  the  guilty  authors  of  this  war. 
If  they  have  failed,  it  has  been,  not  through  the 
want  of  will  or  of  exertion,  but  in  consequence 
of  the  weakness  of  their  political  power.  When 
in  the  usual  course  of  divine  providence,  who 
punishes  nations  as  well  as  individuals,  his  de 
stroying  angel  shall,  on  this  account,  pass  over 
this  country ;  and  sooner  or  later,  pass  it  will ;  I 
may  be  permitted  to  hope  that  over  New  England 
his  hand  will  be  stayed.  Our  souls  are  not 
steeped  in  the  blood  which  has  been  shed  in  this 
war.  The  spirits  of  the  unhappy  men  who  have 
b?en  sent  to  an  untimely  audit  have  borne  to  the 
bar  of  Divine  justice  no  accusations  against  us. 


AN  EMBARGO  LIBERTY. 

FROM  A   SPEECH   ON  FOREIGN  RELATIONS. 

AN  embargo  liberty  was  never  cradled  in  Mas 
sachusetts.  Our  liberty  was  not  so  much  a  moun 
tain,  as  a  sea-nymph.  She  was  free  as  air.  She 
could  swim,  or  she  could  run.  The  ocean  was 
her  cradle.  Our  fathers  met  her  as  she  came,  like 
the  goddess  of  beauty,  from  the  waves.  They 


caught  her  as  she  was  sporting  on  the  beach. 
They  courted  her  whilst  she  was  spreading  her 
nets  upon  the  rocks.  But  an  embargo  liberty  ;  a 
hand-cuffed  liberty  ;  a  liberty  in  fetters ;  a  liberty 
traversing  between  the  four  sides  of  a  prison  and 
beating  her  head  against  the  walls,  is  none  of  our 
offspring.  We  abjure  the  monster.  Its  parent 
age  is  all  inland. 


THE  FOUNDERS  OF  HARVARD 
COLLEGE. 

FROM  THE  HISTORY  OF  HARVARD  UNIVERSITY. 

WHEN  we  revert  to  the  time  and  the  circum 
stances  in  which  the  foundations  of  Harvard  Col 
lege  were  laid,  we  seem  to  read  not  so  much  the 
history  of  real  events  as  the  legends  of  the  heroic 
age  and  the  fictions  of  romance.  The  founders 
of  Massachusetts  left  their  native  land,  and  crossed 
unknown  seas  to  desert  wildernesses,  bringing 
with  them  their  household  loves  and  domestic 
hopes,  for  the  sake  of  attaining  the  right  to  wor 
ship  God  according  to  the  dictates  of  their  own 
consciences.  To  place  the  protection  of  that  right 
on  the  basis  of  sound  human  learning  and  faithful 
intellectual  research,  they  first  bade  to  rise  the 
sanctuaries  of  religion,  and,  close  by  their  sacred 
altars,  this  temple  of  science;  thus  establishing 
here,  in  the  language  of  the  master  genius  of 
their  age,  "  a  secure  harbour  for  letters,  which,  as 
ships,  pass  through  the  vast  seas  of  time,  and 
make  ages  so  distant  to  participate  of  the  wisdom, 
the  illumination,  and  inventions  the  one  of  the 
other."  What  scene  more  sublime,  what  more 
glorious  I  What  can  the  mind  conceive,  indicat 
ing  firmer  purpose,  wiser  forecast,  purer  intent, 
bolder  daring?  They  lived  not  for  themselves, 
but  for  us,  for  their  posterity !  They  erected  in 
stitutions,  not  for  the  comfort  and  pleasure  of  the 
passing  day,  but  for  the  safety,  glory,  and  hope  of 
their  own  and  all  future  time. 


WASHINGTON  ALLSTON. 


[Born  1779.    Died  1843.] 


THIS  illustrious  person,  though  chiefly  dis 
tinguished  as  an  artist,  entitled  himself  to  an 
enviable  and  enduring  reputation  by  various 
works  in  literature,  which,  particularly  those 
executed  in  his  mature  years,  have  much  of 
the  character  and  excellence  of  his  pictures. 

Some  specimens  of  his  poems,  which  are 
chiefly  on  subjects  connected  with  his  other 
art,  may  be  found  in  The  Poets  and  Poetry 
of  America,  in  which  volume  are  also  con 
tained  more  particulars  than  will  here  be 
given  of  his  life. 

WASHINGTON  ALLSTON  was  born  in  George 
town,  South  Carolina,  on  the  fifth  of  Novem 
ber,  1779.  His  family  is  respectable,  and 
several  members  of  it  have  been  distinguished 
in  the  public  service.  When  he  was  seven 
years  old  he  was  removed  to  Newport,  Rhode 
Island,  where  he  continued  at  school  until 
1796,  when  he  was  transferred  to  Harvard 
College.  At  Newport  he  became  acquainted 
with  Malbone,  whose  beautiful  miniatures 
were  then  beginning  to  attract  attention,  and 
was  smitten  with  the  love  of  art,  so  that  meet 
ing  him  again  in  Boston,  during  his  freshman 
year  in  college,  he  determined  to  adopt  his 
profession.  Under  the  casual  direction  of 
*  Malbone  he  devoted  as  much  time  to  painting 
as  he  could  borrow  from  his  other  pursuits, 
until  he  graduated,  when  he  sold  his  paternal 
estate  for  the  purpose  of  studying  in  Europe, 
and  sailed  for  London.  West  was  then  presi 
dent  of  the  Royal  Academy,  and  he  received 
his  young  countryman  very  kindly.  In  a  few 
months  he  became  an  exhibitor,  and  sold  one  of 
his  pictures.  In  1804  he  went  to  Paris,  and 
studied  in  the  Louvre  and  Luxembourg*;  and 
f  proceeded  to  Italy,  where  he  remained  four 
years  with  Coleridge  and  our  own  Irving  for 
companions,  and  Thorwaldsen  for  a  fellow 
student.  At  Rome,  on  account  of  his  fine 
colouring,  they  called  him  the  American  Ti 
tian. 

In  1809  Allston  returned  to  Boston,  where 
he  remained  nearly  three  years,  marrying  in 
this  period  a  sister  of  Dr.  Channing;  and  in 


1811  he  went  again  to  England.  One  of  his 
first  works  after  his  arrival  was  the  great  pic 
ture  of  The  Dead  Man  Revived  by  Elijah's 
Bones,  which  obtained  a  prize  of  two  hun 
dred  guineas  from  the  British  Institution, 
and  is  now  in  the  Pennsylvania  Academy. 
While  it  was  in  progress  he  was  seized  with 
a  dangerous  illness,  and  retired  from  London 
to  Cliffton,  a  rural  town,  where  on  his  re 
covery  he  painted  portraits  of  Coleridge, 
Southey,  and  some  others.  When  he  went 
back  to  the  city  his  wife  died,  suddenly,  and 
"left  me,"  he  says  in  one  of  his  letters, 
"  nothing  but  my  art ;  and  this  seemed  to  rne 
as  nothing."  His  intellect  was  for  a  while 
deranged,  but  the  assiduities  of  friends,  and 
his  own  will  triumphed,  and  when  his  mind 
had  recovered  its  tone  he  painted  The  Mother 
and  Child,  now  in  the  collection  of  Mr. 
MacMurtrie  of  Philadelphia;  Jacob's  Dream, 
which  is  owned  by  the  Earl  of  Egremont ; 
Uriel  in  the  Sun,  which  was  purchased  by 
the  Marquis  of  Stafford  ;  and  some  other  pic 
tures. 

In  1818  he  came  back  a  second  time  to  Bos 
ton,  and  he  resided  all  the  rest  of  his  life  near 
that  city.  He  was  married  to  a  sister  of 
Richard  H.  Dana,  a  man  of  kindred  genius, 
and  had  many  warm  friends,  some  of  whom 
could  have  left  him  nothing  to  desire  of  sym 
pathy  or  appreciation.  Among  the  pictures 
which  he  painted  are  Rosalie  Listening  to  Mu 
sic,  Ursulina,  and  The  Spanish  Maid,  which 
he  illustrated  with  beautiful  and  exquisitely 
finished  poems;  and  Miriam  Singing  her 
Song  of  Triumph,  Jeremiah  Dictating  to  the 
Scribe  his  Prophecy  of  the  Destruction  of 
Jerusalem,  Saul  and  the  Witch  of  Endor, 
The  Angel  Liberating  Peter  from  Prison,  and 
Lorenzo  and  Jessica.  In  1814  he  had  com 
menced  a  large  picture,  Belshazzar's  Feast, 
which  it  was  thought  would  be  his  master 
piece  ;  but  though  he  continued  to  work  upon 
it  at  times  for  nearly  thirty  years,  it  was  never 
finished.  Of  his  genius  as  a  painter  I  am 
not  competent  to  write.  As  he  himself  said 

131 


132 


WASHINGTON    ALLSTON. 


of  Monaldi,  doubtless  "  he  differed  from  his 
contemporaries  no  less  in  kind  than  degree. 
If  he  held  any  thing  in  common  with  others,  it 
was  with  those  of  ages  past,  with  the  mighty 
dead  of  the  fifteenth  century,  from  whom  he 
had  learned  the  language  of  his  art ;  but  his 
thoughts  and  their  turn  of  expression  were  his 
own."  I  may  say  with  confidence  that  it  is 
the  judgment  of  the  best  critics  of  this  age  that 
he  left  no  equal,  in  his  department  of  art,  in 
the  world. 

While  in  London,  in  1813,  Allston  pub 
lished  a  small  volume  entitled  The  Sylphs  of 
the  Seasons  and  other  Poems,  and  when  Mr. 
Dana  projected  The  Idle  Man,  in  1820,  he 
wrote  for  that  work  his  romance  of  Monaldi. 
But  The  Idle  Man,  for  some  reason,  was 
discontinued,  and  Allston's  manuscript  was 
laid  aside  for  more  than  twenty  years.  It 
was  finally  published,  in  a  single  volume,  in 
1841. 

The  fame  of  Allston's  writings  has  been  so 
eclipsed  by  that  of  his  paintings  that  they  are 
comparatively  unknown.*  All  the  specimens  j 
that  I  have  seen  of  his  prose  indicate  a  re-  j 
markable  command  of  language,  great  descrip- ' 
tive  powers,  and  rare  philosophical  as  well  as 
imaginative  talent.  Monaldi  is  his  principal 
and  indeed  only  acknowledged  performance 
of  any  length.  It  is  a  tale  of  Italian  life  writ 
ten  with  the  vigour  and  method  of  a  practised 
romancist.  The  mind  of  the  true  artist  ap 
pears  in  several  discussions,  which  are  very 
naturally  introduced,  on  the  merits  of  the  old 
masters ;  and  it  is  no  less  evident  in  the  cha 
racter  of  the  hero,  who  is  a  painter,  as  well  as 
in  many  very  graphic  descriptions  of  scenery. 
Smne  of  the  lights  and  shades  of  the  land 
scape  are  given  as  they  could  have  been  only 
by  one  familiar  with  the  practice  of  art.  The 
style  of  Monaldi  is  remarkably  concise  and 
unaffected,  frequently  rising  into  eloquence 
and  never  becoming  tame.  Its  particular 
merits  as  a  story  consist  in  the  masterly  anal 
ysis  of  human  passion,  the  lovely  unfolding 
of  female  character,  and  the  dramatic  manage 
ment  of  events.  There  is  great  metaphysical 


*  Any  elaborate  criticism  upon  them  will  soon  be  su 
perseded  by  the  publication  of  his  life,  which  is  now  in 
course  of  preparation  by  his  brother  in  law,  Dana.  The 
long  and  intimate  association  of  the  poet  with  the  artist, 
and  his  fine  insight  as  a  critic,  will  enable  him  to  ana 
lyse  Allston's  qualifications  as  an  author  with  skill  and 
authority. 


truth  in  the  development  of  love  and  jeal 
ousy,  which  is  its  chief  purpose.  Indeed  if 
Allston  had  never  painted  Prophets,  these 
written  pictures  would  have  established  his 
fame  as  an  author.  The  work  shows  how 
capable  he  was  of  achieving  a  wide  and  per 
manent  literary  reputation,  and  forms  a  most 
interesting  and  valuable  addition  to  our  ro 
mantic  fiction. 

His  other  prose  writings  are  chiefly  on  sub 
jects  connected  with  the  arts,  and  are  finished 
with  the  same  care  as  his  paintings. 

Mr.  Allston  lived  in  retirement  at  Cam- 
bridgeport,  occasionally  going  into  the  city, 
but  not  often.  His  health  was  feeble,  for 
many  years,  but  he  was  never  idle.  He  spoke 
to  me  once  of  Dunlap's  declaration,  in  his 
History  of  the  Arts  of  Design,  that  he  was 
indolent.  "  I  am  famous  among  my  acquaint 
ances,"  he  said,  "  for  industry  :  I  paint  every 
day :  and  never  pass  an  hour  without  accom 
plishing  something."  At  sixty  he  had  as 
many  pictures  in  contemplation  as  the  most 
ambitious  artist  of  thirty.  An  ordinary  life 
time  would  not  have  sufficed  to  finish  those 
he  had  sketched  upon  canvas.  He  read  much, 
and  delighted  all  who  saw  him  with  his  elo 
quent  conversation.  Not  long  before  his  death 
I  dined  with  him,  and  was  astonished  when  a 
companion  intimated  that  it  was  after  mid 
night.  We  had  listened  six  or  seven  hours 
without  a  thought  of  the  lapse  of  time.  His 
manners  were  gentle  and  dignified.  His  dress 
was  simple  and  old  fashioned  :  a  blue  coat 
with  plain  bright  buttons,  a  buff  vest,  and 
drab  pantaloons.  His  face  was  thin,  and  se-, 
rious,  with  remarkably  expressive  eyes ;  his 
hair,  fine,  long  and  silvery  white,  fell  grace 
fully  upon  his  shoulders ;  and  his  voice  was 
soft,  earnest  and  musical. 

The  evening  of  the  ninth  of  June,  1843,  he 
passed  cheerfully  with  his  friends.  At  about 
eleven  o'clock  he  laid  his  hands  upon  the  head 
of  a  young  relative,  begged  her  to  live  as  near 
perfection  as  she  could,  and  blessed  her  fer 
vently.  He  then  retired  into  his  painting 
room,  where  he  was  found  a  little  while  after 
ward,  seated  before  one  of  his  pictures,  dead. 
He  was  buried  by  torchlight,  in  the  beautiful 
cemetery  of  Mount  Auburn,  in  the  presence 
of  a  large  concourse  who  had  gathered  to  pay 
their  last  tribute  to  the  great  genius  whose 
works  had  added  so  much  to  the  national 
glory. 


WASHINGTON    ALLSTON. 


133 


CONSCIENCE  AND  THE  WILL. 

FROM  MONALDI. 

HAVING  expressed  a  wish  to  see  the  curiosities 
of  the  place,  the  good  prior  the  next  morning  of 
fered  his  services  as  my  cicerone.  As  I  followed 
him  to  the  chapel,  he  observed,  that  his  convent 
had  little  to  gratify  the  taste  of  an  ordinary  tra 
veller  ;  "  but  if  you  are  a  connoisseur,"  he  added, 
"  you  will  find  few  places  better  worth  visiting.  I 
perceive  you  think  the  picture  opposite  hardly 
bears  me  out  in  this  assertion.  I  agree  with  you. 
It  is  certainly  very  insipid,  and  the  mass  of  our 
collection  is  little  better  ;  but  we  have  one  that  re 
deems  them  all — one  picture  worth  twenty  com 
mon  galleries."  As  he  said  this,  we  stopped  be 
fore  a  crucifixion  by  Lanfranco.  Next  to  his 
great  work  at  St.  Andrea  della  Valle,  it  was  the 
best  I  had  seen  of  that  master.  Though  eccentric 
and  somewhat  capricious,  it  was  yet  full  of  power 
ful  expression,  and  marked  by  a  vigour  of  execu 
tion  that  made  every  thing  around  it  look  like 
washed  drawings.  «  Yes,"  said  I,  supposing  this 
the  picture  alluded  to,  "  and  I  can  now  agree  with 
you,  'tis  worth  a  thousand  of  the  flimsy  produc 
tions  of  the  last  age."  "True,"  answered  the 

prior;  "but  I   did   not  allude" Here  he 

was  called  out  on  business  of  the  convent. 

After  waiting  some  time  for  my  conductor's  re 
turn,  and  finding  little  worth  looking  at  besides  the 
Lanfranc,  I  turned  to  leave  the  chapel  by  the  way 
I  had  entered ;  but,  taking  a  wrong  door,  I  came 
into  a  dark  passage,  leading,  as  I  supposed,  to  an 
inner  court.  This  being  my  first  visit  to  a  con 
vent,  a  natural  curiosity  tempted  me  to  proceed, 
when,  instead  of  a  court,  I  found  myself  in  a 
large  apartment.  The  light  (which  descended 
from  above)  was  so  powerful,  that  for  nearly  a 
minute  I  could  distinguish  nothing,  and  I  rested 
on  a  form  attached  to  the  wainscoating.  I  then 
put  up  my  hand  to  shade  my  eyes,  when — the 
fearful  vision  is  even  now  before  me — I  seemed  to 
be  standing  before  an  abyss  in  space,  boundless 
and  black.  In  the  midst  of  this  permeable  pitch 
stood  a  colossal  mass  of  gold,  in  shape  like  an  al 
tar,  and  girdled  about  by  a  huge  serpent,  gorgeous 
and  terrible ;  his  body  flecked  with  diamonds,  and 
his  head,  an  enormous  carbuncle,  floated  like  a 
meteor  on  the  air  above.  Such  was  the  Throne. 
But  no  words  can  describe  the  gigantic  Being  that 
sat  thereon — the  grace,  the  majesty,  its  transcendant 
form ;  and  yet  I  shuddered  as  I  looked,  for  its  su 
perhuman  countenance  seemed,  as  it  were,  to  ra 
diate  falsehood  ;  every  feature  was  in  contradiction 
—the  eye,  the  mouth,  even  to  the  nostril — whilst 
the  expression  of  the  whole  was  of  that  unnatural 
softness  which  can  only  be  conceived  of  malignant 
blandishment.  It  was  the  appalling  beauty  of  the 
King  of  Hell.  The  frightful  discord  vibrated 
through  my  whole  frame,  and  I  turned  for  relief  to 
the  figure  below ;  for  at  his  feet  knelt  one  who  ap 
peared  to  belong  to  our  race  of  e^th.  But  I  had 
turned  from  the  first,  only  to  witness  in  this  second 
object  its  withering  fascination.  It  was  a  man  ap 
parently  in  the  prime  of  life,  but  pale  and  emaci 


ated,  as  if  prematurely  wasted  by  his  unholy  de 
votion,  yet  still  devoted — with  outstretched  hands, 
and  eyes  upraised  to  their  idol,  fixed  with  a  vehe 
mence  that  seemed  almost  to  start  them  from  their 
sockets.  The  agony  of  his  eye,  contrasting  with 
the  prostrate,  reckless  worship  of  his  attitude,  but 
too  well  told  his  tale :  I  beheld  the  mortal  conflict 
between  the  conscience  and  the  will — the  visible 
struggle  of  a  soul  in  the  toils  of  sin.  I  could  look 
no  longer. 

As  I  turned,  the  prior  was  standing  before  me. 
"  Yes,"  said  he,  as  if  replying  to  my  thoughts,  «  it 
is  indeed  terrific.  Had  you  beheld  it  unmoved, 
you  had  been  the  first  that  ever  did  so." 

"  There  is  a  tremendous  reality  in  the  picture  that 
comes  home  to  every  man's  imagination  :  even  the 
dullest  feel  it,  as  if  it  had  the  power  of  calling  up 
that  faculty  in  minds  never  before  conscious  of  it." 


THE  TWO  STUDENTS. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

AMONG  the  students  of  a  seminary  at  Bologna 
were  two  friends,  more  remarkable  for  their  at 
tachment  to  each  other,  than  for  any  resemblance 
in  their  minds  or  dispositions.  Indeed  there  was 
so  little  else  in  common  between  them,  that  hardly 
two  boys  could  be  found  more  unlike.  The  cha 
racter  of  Maldura,  the  eldest,  was  bold,  grasping, 
and  ostentatious;  while  that  of  Monaldi,  timid 
and  gentle,  seemed  to  shrink  from  observation. 
The  one,  proud  and  impatient,  was  ever  labouring 
for  distinction ;  the  world,  palpable,  visible,  audi 
ble,  was  his  idol ;  he  lived  only  in  externals,  and 
could  neither  act  nor  feel  but  for  effect ;  even  his 
secret  reveries  having  an  outward  direction,  as  if 
he  could  not  think  without  a  view  to  praise,  and 
anxiously  referring  to  the  opinion  of  others ;  in 
short,  his  nightly  and  his  daily  dreams  had  but  one 
subject — the  talk  and  the  eye  of  the  crowd.  The 
other  silent  and  meditative,  seldom  looked  out  of 
himself  either  for  applause  or  enjoyment :  if  he 
ever  did  so,  it  was  only  that  he  might  add  to,  or 
sympathize  in  the  triumph  of  another ;  this  done, 
he  retired  again,  as  it  were  to  a  world  of  his  own, 
where  thoughts  and  feelings,  filling  the  place  of 
men  and  things,  could  always  supply  him  with  oc 
cupation  and  amusement. 

Had  the  ambition  of  Maldura  been  less,  or  his 
self-knowledge  greater,  he  might  have  been  a 
benefactor  to  the  world.  His  talents  were  of  a 
high  order.  Perhaps  few  have  ever  surpassed 
him  in  the  power  of  acquiring ;  to  this  he  united 
perseverance ;  and  all  that  was  known,  however 
various  and  opposite,  he  could  master  at  will.  But 
here  his  power  stopped :  beyond  the  regions  of 
discovered  knowledge  he  could  not  see,  and  dared 
not  walk,  for  to  him  all  beyond  was  "  outer  dark 
ness  ;"  in  a  word,  with  all  his  gifts  he  wanted  that 
something,  whatever  it  might  be,  which  gives  the 
living  principle  to  thought.  But  this  sole  defi 
ciency  was  the  last  of  which  he  suspected  him 
self.  With  that  self-delusion  so  common  to  young 
M 


134 


WASHINGTON    ALLSTON. 


men,  of  mistaking  the  praise  of  what  is  promising 
for  that  of  the  thing  promised,  he  too  rashly  con- 
fjunded  the  ease  with  which  he  carried  all  the 
prizes  of  his  school  with  the  rare  power  of  com 
manding  at  pleasure  the  higher  honours  of  the 
world. 

But  the  honours  of  a  school  are  for  things  and  pur 
poses  far  different  from  those  demanded  and  looked 
for  by  the  world.  Maldura  unfortunately  did  not 
make  the  distinction.  His  various  knowledge, 
though  ingeniously  brought  together,  and  skilfully 
set  anew,  was  still  the  knowledge  of  other  men ; 
it  did  not  come  forth  as  in  new  birth,  from  the  mo 
difying  influence  of  his  own  nature.  His  mind 
was  hence  like  a  thing  of  many  parts,  yet  wanting 
a  whole — that  realizing  quality  which  the  world 
must  feel  before  it  will  reverence.  In  proportion 
to  its  stores  such  a  mind  will  be  valued,  and  even 
admired  ;  but  it  cannot  command  that  inward  voice 
— the  only  true  voice  of  fame,  which  speaks  not,  be 
it  in  friend  or  enemy,  till  awakened  by  the  presence 
of  a  master  spirit. 

Such  were  the  mind  and  disposition  of  Maldura ; 
and  from  their  unfortunate  union  sprang  all  the 
after-evils  in  his  character.  As  yet,  however,  he 
was  known  to  himself  and  others  only  as  a  re 
markable  boy.  His  extraordinary  attainments 
placing  him  above  competition,  he  supposed  himself 
incapable  of  so  mean  a  passion  as  envy  ;  indeed  the 
high  station  from  which  he  could  look  down  on 
his  associates  gave  a  complacency  to  his  mind  not 
unfavourable  to  the  gentler  virtues ;  he  was,  there 
fore,  often  kind,  and  even  generous  without  an 
effort.  Besides,  though  he  disdained  to  affect  hu 
mility,  he  did  not  want  discretion,  and  that  taught 
him  to  bear  his  honours  without  arrogance.  His 
claims  were  consequently  admitted  by  his  school 
fellows  without  a  murmur.  But  there  was  one 
amongst  them  whose  praises  were  marked  by  such 
warmth  and  enthusiasm  as  no  heart  not  morally 
sensible  could  long  withstand ;  this  youth  was 
Monaldi.  Maldura  naturally  had  strong  feelings, 
and  so  long  as  he  continued  prosperous  and  happy, 
their  course  was  honourable.  He  requited  the 
praises  of  his  companion  with  his  esteem  and  gra 
titude,  which  soon  ripened  into  a  friendship  so  sin 
cere  that  he  believed  he  could  even  lay  down  his 
life  for  him. 

It  was  in  this  way  that  two  natures  so  opposite 
became  mutually  attracted.  But  the  warmth  and 
magnanimity  of  Monaldi  were  all  that  was  yet 
known  to  the  other;  for,  though  not  wanting  in 
academic  learning,  he  was  by  no  means  distin 
guished  ;  indeed,  so  little,  that  Maldura  could  not 
but  feel  and  lament  it. 

The  powers  of  Monaldi,  however,  were  yet  to 
be  called  forth.  And  it  was  not  surprising  that  to 
his  youthful  companions  hs  should  have  then  ap 
peared  incffici  >'it,  there  being  a  singular  kind  of 
pas.iiveness  al>  >ut  Vim  easily  mistaken  for  vacancy. 
But  his  was  lik  -  the  passiveness  of  some  uncul 
tured  spot,  lyii^  unnoticed  within  its  nook  of 
rocks,  arid  silently  drinking  in  the  light,  and  the 
heat,  and  th;?  showers  of  heaven,  that  nourish  the 
seeds  of  a  thousand  nameless  flowers,  destined  one 


day  to  bloom  and  to  mingle  their  fragrance  with 
the  breath  of  nature.  Yet  to  common  observers 
the  external  world  seemed  to  lie  only 

"Like  a  load  upon  his  weary  eye;" 

but  to  them  it  appeared  so  because  he  delighted  to 
shut  it  out,  and  to  combine  and  give  another  life 
to  the  images  it  had  left  in  his  memory  ;  as  if  he 
would  sleep  to  the  real  and  be  awake  only  to  a 
world  of  shadows.  But,  though  his  emotions  sel 
dom  betrayed  themselves  by  any  outward  signs, 
there  was  nothing  sluggish  in  the  soul  of  Monaldi ; 
it  was  rather  their  depth  and  strength  that  pre 
vented  their  passage  through  the  feeble  medium 
of  words.  He  regarded  nothing  in  the  moral 
or  physical  world  as  tiresome  or  insignificant; 
every  object  had  a  charm,  and  its  harmony  and 
beauty,  its  expression  and  character,  all  passed 
into  his  soul  in  all  their  varieties,  while  his  quick 
ening  spirit  brooded  over  them  as  over  the  elemen 
tary  forms  of  a  creation  of  his  own.  Thus  living 
in  the  life  he  gave,  his  existence  was  too  intense 
and  extended  to  be  conceived  by  the  common 
mind :  hence  the  neglect  and  obscurity  in  which 
he  passed  his  youth. 

But  the  term  of  pupilage  soon  came  to  an  end, 
and  the  friends  parted — each,  as  he  could,  to  make 
his  way  in  the  world. 


THE  POET  AND  HIS  CRITICS. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

THE  poem  was  at  length  published.  Alas,  who 
that  knows  the  heart  of  an  author — of  an  aspiring 
one — will  need  be  told  what  were  the  feelings  of 
Maldura,  when  day  after  day,  week  after  week 
passed  on,  and  still  no  tidings  of  his  book.  To 
think  it  had  failed  was  wormwood  to  his  soul. 
"  No,  that  was  impossible."  Still  the  suspense, 
the  uncertainty  of  its  fate  were  insupportable.  At 
last,  to  relieve  his  distress,  he  fastened  the  blame 
on  his  unfortunate  publisher ;  though  how  he  was 
in  fault  he  knew  not.  Full  of  this  thought,  he  was 
just  sallying  forth  to  vent  his  spleen  on  him,  when 
his  servant  announced  the  count  Piccini. 

«  Now,"  thought  Maldura,  "  I  shall  hear  my 
fate;  and  he  was  not  mistaken:  for  the  Count 
was  a  kind  of  talking  gazette.  The  poem  was 
soon  introduced,  and  Piccini  rattled  on  with  all  he 
had  heard  of  it:  he  had  lately  been  piqued  by 
Maldura,  and  cared  not  to  spare  him. 

After  a  few  hollow  professions  of  regard,  and  a 
careless  remark  about  the  pain  it  gave  him  to  re 
peat  unpleasant  things,  Piccini  proceeded  to  pour 
them  out  one  upon  another  with  ruthless  volu 
bility.  Then,  stopping  as  if  to  take  breath,  he 
continued,  "  I  see  you  are  surprised  at  all  this ; 
but  indeed,  my,friend,  I  cannot  help  thinking  it 
principally  owing  to  your  not  having  suppressed 
your  name  ;  for  your  high  reputation,  it  seems, 
had  raised  such  extravagant  expectations  as  none 
but  a  firstrate  genius  could  satisfy." 


WASHINGTON    ALLSTON. 


135 


"  By  which,"  observed  Maldura,  "  I  am  to  con 
clude  that  my  work  has  failed!" 

"  Why,  no — not  exactly  that ;  it  has  only  not 
been  praised — that  is,  I  mean  in  the  way  you 
might  have  wished.  But  do  not  be  depressed ; 
there's  no  knowing  but  the  tide  may  yet  turn  in 
yuur  favour." 

"  Then  I  suppose  the  book  is  hardly  as  yet 
known  !" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon — quite  the  contrary.  When 
your  friend  the  Marquis  introduced  it  at  his  last 
conversazione,  every  one  present  seemed  quite  au 
fait  on  it,  at  least,  they  all  talked  as  if  they  had 
read  it." 

Maldura  bit  his  lips.  "Pray  who  were  the 
company  !"  "  Oh,  all  your  friends,  I  assure  you : 
Guattani,  Martello,  Pessuti,  the  mathematician, 
Alfieri,  Benuci,  the  Venetian  Castelli,  and  the  old 
Ferrarese  Carnesecchi :  these  were  the  principal, 
but  there  were  twenty  others  who  had  each  some 
thing  to  say." 

Maldura  could  not  but  perceive  the  malice  of 
this  enumeration  ;  but  he  checked  his  rising  choler. 
"  Well,"  said  he,  "  if  I  understand  you,  there  was 
but  one  opinion  respecting  my  poem  with  all  this 
company  !" 

"  Oh,  by  no  means.  Their  opinions  were  as 
various  as  their  characters." 

"  Well,  Pessuti — what  said  he  1" 

"  Why  you  know  he's  a  mathematician,  and 
should  not  regard  him.  But  yet,  to  do  him  jus 
tice,  he  is  a  very  nice  critic,  and  not  unskilled  in 
poetry." 

"  Go  on,  sir,  I  can  bear  it." 

"  Why  then,  it  was  Pessuti's  opinion  that  the 
poem  had  more  learning  than  genius." 

"  Proceed,  sir." 

"  Martello  denied  it  both ;  but  he,  you  know,  is 
a  disappointed  author.  Guattani  differed  but  lit 
tle  from  Pessuti  as  to  its  learning,  but  contended, 
that  you  certainly  showed  great  invention  in  your 
fable — which  was  like  nothing  that  ever  did,  or 
could  happen.  But  I  fear  I  annoy  you." 

"  Go  on,  I  beg,  sir." 

"The  next  who  spoke  was  old  Carnesecchi, 
who  confessed  that  he  had  no  doubt  he  should 
have  been  delighted  with  the  poem,  could  he  have 
taken  hold  of  it ;  but  it  was  so  en  regie  and  like  a 
hundred  others,  that  it  put  him  in  mind  of  what 
is  called  a  polished  gentleman,  who  talks  and 
bows,  and  slips  through  a  great  crowd  without 
leaving  any  impression.  Another  person,  whose 
name  I  have  forgotten,  praised  the  versification, 
but  objected  to  the  thoughts." 

"  Because  they  were  absurd!" 

"  Oh,  no,  for  the  opposite  reason — because  they 
had  all  been  long  ago  known  to  be  good.  Cas 
telli  thought  that  a  bad  reason ;  for  his  part,  he 
said,  he  liked  them  all  the  better  for  that — it  was 
like  shaking  hands  with  an  old  acquaintance  in 
every  line.  Another  observed,  that  at  least  no 
critical  court  could  lawfully  condemn  them,  as 
they  could  each  plead  an  alibi.  Not  an  alilri,  said 
a  third — but  a  double ;  so  they  should  be  burnt 
for  sorcery.  With  all  my  heart,  said  a  fourth — 


but  not  the  poor  author,  for  he  has  certainly  satis 
fied  us  that  he  is  no  conjuror." 

"Then  Castelli — but,  'faith,  I  don't  know  how 
to  proceed." 

"  You  are  over  delicate,  sir.  Speak  out,  I  pray 
you." 

"  Well,  Benuci  finished  by  the  most  extrava 
gant  eulogy  I  ever  heard." 

Maldura  took  breath. 

"  For  he  compared  your  hero  to  the  Apollo  Bel 
vedere,  your  heroine  to  the  Venus  de  Medicis,  and 
your  subordinate  characters  to  the  Diana,  the  Her 
cules,  the  Antinous,  and  twenty  other  celebrated 
antiques ;  declared  them  all  equally  well  wrought, 
and  beautiful — and  like  them  too,  equally  cold, 
hard,  and  motionless.  In  short,  he  maintained  that 
you  were  the  boldest  and  most  original  poet  he  had 
ever  known ;  for  none  but  a  hardy  genius,  who  con 
sulted  nobody's  taste  but  his  own,  would  have  dared, 
like  you,  to  draw  his  animal  life  from  a  statue  gallery, 
and  his  vegetable  from  a  hortus  siccus." 

Maldura's  heart  stiffened  within  him,  but  his 
pride  controlled  him,  and  he  masked  his  thoughts 
with  something  like  composure.  Yet  he  dared 
not  trust  himself  to  speak,  but  stood  looking  at 
Piccini,  as  if  waiting  for  him  to  go  on.  "  I  be 
lieve  that 's  all,"  said  the  count,  carelessly  twirling 
his  hat,  and  raising  to  take  leave. 

Maldura  roused  himself,  and,  making  an  effort, 
said,  "  No,  sir,  there  is  one  person  whom  you  have 
only  named — Alfieri;  what  did  he  say!" 

"Nothing!"  Piccini  pronounced  this  word 
with  a  graver  tone  than  usual ;  it  was  his  fiercest 
bolt,  and  he  knew  that  a  show  of  feeling  would 
send  it  home.  Then,  after  pausing  a  moment,  he 
hurried  out  of  the  room. 


THE  ATHEIST. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

THE  sense  of  guilt  will  sometimes  cow  the 
proudest  philosophy.  The  atheist  may  speculate, 
and  go  on  speculating  till  he  is  brought  up  by  anni 
hilation  ;  he  may  then  return  to  life,  and  reason 
away  the  difference  between  good  and  evil ;  he 
may  even  go  further,  and  imagine  to  himself  the 
perpetration  of  the  most  atrocious  acts :  and  still 
he  may  eat  his  bread  with  relish,  and  sleep  soundly 
in  his  bed :  for  his  sins  wanting,  as  it  were,  sub 
stance,  having  no  actual  solidity  to  leave  their 
traces  in  his  memory,  all  future  retribution  may 
seem  to  him  a  thing  with  which,  in  any  case,  he 
can  have  no  concern ;  but  let  him  once  turn  his 
theory  to  practice — let  him  make  crime  palpable — 
in  an  instant  he  feels  its  hot  impress  on  his  soul. 
Then  it  is,  that  what  may  happen  beyond  the 
grave  becomes  no  matter  of  indifference ;  and, 
though  his  reason  may  seem  to  have  proved  that 
death  is  a  final  end,  then  comes  the  question :  what 
does  his  reason  know  of  death !  Then,  last  of 
all,  the  little  word  if,  swelling  to  a  fearful  size, 
and  standing  at  the  outlet  of  his  theories,  like  a 
relentless  giant,  ready  to  demolish  his  conclusions 


136 


WASHINGTON    ALLSTON. 


LOVE  MATCHES. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 


«  MY  dear  father,"  said  Rosalia,  "  I  would  that  I 
could  reason  on  this  subject,  but — indeed  I  cannot." 

"  Strange  !  You  hint  not  even  an  objection, 
and  yet —  Do  vou  think  I  overrate  him]'' 

"  No ;  he  deserves  all  you  say  of  him ;  but  yet" — 

"  You  would  still  reject  him  !" 

Rosalia  was  silent. 

"  If  you  esteem,  you  may  certainly  love ;  nay, 
it  will  follow  of  course." 

"  Did  you  always  think  so,  sir!" 

"  Perhaps  not.  When  I  was  young,  I  was  no 
doubt  fanciful,  like  others." 

"  And  yet  you  did  not  marry  till  past  thirty." 

"Well,  child!" 

"  My  mother  died  when  I  was  too  young  to 
know  her  ;  but  I  have  heard  her  character  so  often 
from  yourself  and  others,  that  I  have  it  now  as 
fresh  before  me  as  if  she  had  never  been  taken 
from  us.  Was  she  not  mild  and  gentle  !" 

"As  the  dew  of  heaven." 

"  And  her  mind  !" 

«  The  seat  of  every  grace  and  virtue." 

"  And  her  person  too  was  beautiful !" 

"  Except  yourself,  I  have  never  seen  a  creature 
so  lovely." 

"And  did  she  make  you  a  good  wife !" 

Landi  turned  pale.  "  Rosalia — my  child — why 
remind  me,  by  these  cruel  questions,  of  a  loss 
which  the  whole  world  cannot  repair!" 

"  She  was  then  all  you  wished ;  and  yet  I  have 
heard  that  yours  was  a  love  match" 

« No  more,"  cried  Landi,  averting  his  face. 
«  You  have  conquered." 


A  SUMMER  NOON  IN  ROME. 

FROM  THE   SAME. 

THE  air  was  hot  and  close,  and  there  was  a  thin 
yellow  haze  over  the  distance  like  that  which  pre 
cedes  the  scirocco,  but  the  nearer  objects  were  clear 
and  distinct,  and  so  bright  that  the  eye  could 
hardly  rest  on  them  without  quivering,  especially 
on  the  modern  buildings,  with  their  huge  sweep 
of  whited  walls,  and  their  red  tiled  roofs,  that  lay 
burning  in  the  sun,  with  the  sharp,  black  sha 
dows,  which  here  and  there  seemed  to  indent  the 
dazzling  masses,  might  almost  have  been  fancied 
the  cinder-tracks  of  his  fire.  The  streets  of  Rome, 
at  no  time  very  noisy,  are  for  nothing  more  re 
markable  than,  during  the  summer  months,  for 
their  noontide  stillness,  the  meridian  'heat  being 
frequently  so  intense  as  to  stop  all  business,  driv 
ing  every  thing  within  doors  with  the  proverbial 
exception  of  dogs  and  strangers.  But  even  these 
might  scarcely  have  withstood  the  present  scorching 
atmosphere.  It  was  now  high  noon,  and  the  few 
straggling  vine-Jressers  that  were  wont  to  stir  in  this 
secluded  quarter  had  already  been  driven  under  shel 
ter  ;  not  a  vestige  of  life  was  to  be  seen,  not  a  bird 
on  the  wing,  and  so  deep  was  the  stillness  that  a 

litary  footfall  migh'  have  filled  the  whole  air. 


AN  ITALIAN  SUNSET. 

FROM   THE  SAME. 

IT  was  one  of  those  evenings  never  to  be  for 
gotten  by  a  painter — but  one  too  which  must  come 
upon  him  in  misery  as  a  gorgeous  mockery.  The 
sun  was  yet  up,  and  resting  on  the  highest  peak 
of  a  ridge  of  mountain-shaped  clouds,  that  seemed 
to  make  a  part  of  the  distance ;  suddenly  he  dis 
appeared,  and  the  landscape  was  overspread  with 
a  cold,  lurid  hue ;  then,  as  if  molten  in  a  furnace, 
the  fictitious  mountains  began  to  glow ;  in  a  mo 
ment  more  they  tumbled  asunder ;  in  another  he 
was  seen  again,  piercing  their  fragments,  and  dart 
ing  his  shafts  to  the  remotest  east,  till,  reaching 
the  horizon,  he  appeared  to  recall  them,  and  with 
a  parting  flash  to  wrap  the  whole  heavens  in  flame. 


THOUGHTS  FROM  HIS  STUDIO. 

[MRS.  JAMESON,  author  of  ihe  Characteristics  of  Women, 
etc.,  when  in  this  country  in  1838,  visited  the  painting 
room  of  Allston  at  Cambridgeport,  and  found  written  on 
the  walls  many  sentences,  which,  he  said,  were  to  serve 
as  "  texts  for  reflection  before  he  began  his  day's  work." 
A  mutual  friend  was  permitted  to  copy  them,  and  since 
his  death  she  has  published  the  following  in  her  Me 
moirs  and  Essays  Illustrative  of  Art,  Literature,  and 
Social  Morals.] 

THE  painter  who  is  content  with  the  praise  of 
the  world  in  respect  to  what  does  not  satisfy  him 
self,  is  not  an  artist,  but  an  artisan ;  for  though 
his  reward  be  only  praise,  his  pay  is  that  of  a  me 
chanic  for  his  time,  and  not  for  his  art." 

He  that  seeks  popularity  in  art  closes  the  door 
on  his  own  genius :  as  he  must  needs  paint  for 
other  minds,  and  not  for  his  own. 

Reputation  is  but  a  synonym  of  popularity  :  de 
pendent  on  suffrage,  to  be  increased  or  diminished 
at  the  will  of  the  voters.  It  is  the  creature,  so  to 
speak,  of  its  particular  age,  or  rather  of  a  particu 
lar  state  of  society  ;  consequently,  dying  with  that 
which  sustained  it.  Hence  we  can  scarcely  go 
over  a  page  of  history,  that  we  do  not,  as  in  a 
churchyard,  tread  upon  some  buried  reputation. 
But  fame  cannot  be  voted  down,  having  its  imme 
diate  foundation  in  the  essential.  It  is  the  eternal 
shadow  of  excellence,  from  which  it  can  never  be 
separated,  nor  is  it  ever  made  visible  but  in  the 
light  of  an  intellect  kindred  with  that  of  its  au 
thor.  It  is  that  light  by  which  the  shadow  is  pro 
jected,  that  is  seen  of  the  multitude,  to  be  won 
dered  at  and  reverenced,  even  while  so  little  com 
prehended  as  to  be  often  confounded  with  the  sub 
stance — the  substance  being  admitted  from  the  sha 
dow,  as  a  matter  of  faith.  It  is  the  economy  of 
Providence  to  provide  such  lights :  like  rising  and 
setting  stars,  they  follow  each  other  through  suc 
cessive  ages:  and  thus  the  monumental  form  of 
Genius  stands  for  ever  relieved  against  its  own 
imperishable  glory. 

All  excellence  of  every  kind  is  but  variety  of 
truth.  If  we  wish,  then,  for  something  beyond 
the  true,  we  wish  for  that  which  is  false.  Ac 
cording  to  this  test  how  little  truth  is  there  in  art ! 


WASHINGTON    ALLSTON. 


137 


Little  indeed  !  but  how  much  is  that  little  to  him 
who  feels  it ! 

Fame  does  not  depend  on  the  will  of  any  man, 
but  reputation  may  be  given  or  taken  away :  for 
Fame  is  the  sympathy  of  kindred  intellects,  and 
sympathy  is  not  a  subject  of  willing :  while  Re 
putation,  having  its  source  in  the  popular  voice,  is 
a  sentence  which  may  either  be  uttered  or  sup 
pressed  at  pleasure.  Reputation  being  essentially 
contemporaneous,  is  always  at  the  mercy  of  the 
Envious  and  the  Ignorant.  But  Fame,  whose  very 
birth  is  posthumous,  and  which  is  only  known  to 
exist  l>y  the  echo  of  its  footsteps  through  congenial 
minds,  can  neither  be  increased  nor  diminished  by 
any  degree  of  wilfulness. 

What  light  is  in  the  natural  world,  such  is  fame 
in  the  intellectual :  both  requiring  an  atmosphere  in 
order  to  become  perceptible.  Hence  the  fame  of 
Michael  Angelo  is,  to  some  minds,  a  nonentity  ;  even 
as  the  sun  itself  would  be  invisible  in  vacuo. 

Fame  has  no  necessary  conjunction  with  praise  : 
it  may  exist  without  the  breath  of  a  word  :  it  is 
a  recognition  of  excellence,  which  must  be  felt,  hut 
need  not  be  spoken.  Even  the  envious  must  feel 
it :  feel  it,  and  hate  it  in  silence. 

I  cannot  believe,  that  any  man  who  deserved 
fame,  ever  laboured  for  it :  that  is,  directly.  For 
as  fame  is  but  the  contingent  of  excellence,  it 
would  be  like  an  attempt  to  project  a  shadow,  be 
fore  its  substance  was  obtained.  Many,  however, 
have  so  fancied  :  "  I  write  and  paint  for  fame,"  has 
often  been  repeated :  it  should  have  been, "  I  write,  I 
paint  for  reputation."  All  anxiety,  therefore,  about 
fame,  should  be  placed  to  the  account  of  reputation. 

A  man  may  be  pretty  sure  that  he  has  not  at 
tained  excellence,  when  it  is  not  all  in  all  to  him. 
Nay,  I  may  add,  that  if  he  looks  beyond  it,  he  has 
not  reached  it.  This  is  not  the  less  true  for  being 
good  Irish. 

An  original  mind  is  rarely  understood  until  it 
has  been  reflected  from  some  half-dozen  congenial 
with  it :  so  averse  are  men  to  admitting  the  true 
in  an  unusual  form :  whilst  any  novelty,  however 
fantastic,  however  false,  is  greedily  swallowed. 
Nor  is  this  to  be  wondered  at :  for  all  truth  de 
mands  a  response,  and  few  people  care  to  think, 
yet  they  must  have  something  to  supply  the  place 
of  thought.  Every  mind  would  appear  original, 
if  every  man  had  the  power  of  projecting  his  own 
into  the  mind  of  others. 

All  effort  at  originality  must  end  either  in  the 
quaint  or  the  monstrous.  For  no  man  knows 
himself  as  an  original :  he  can  only  believe  it  on 
the  report  of  others  to  whom  he  is  made  known,  as 
he  is  by  the  projecting  power  before  spoken  of. 

There  is  an  essential  meanness  in  the  wish  to 
get  the  be-ler  of  any  one.  The  only  competition 
worthy  of  a  wise  man,  is  with  himself. 

Reverence  is  an  ennobling  sentiment ;  it  is  felt 
to  be  degrading  only  by  the  vulgar  mind,  which 
would  escape  the  sense  of  its  own  littleness,  by  ele 
vating  itself  into  the  antagonist  to  what  is  above  it. 

He  that  has  no  pleasure  in  looking  up,  is  not 
fit  to  look  down ;  of  such  minds  are  the  manner 
ists  in  art ;  and  in  the  world,  the  tyrants  of  all  sorts. 
18 


The  phrenologists  are  right  in  putting  the  organ 
of  self-love  in  the  back  part  of  the  head.  It  be 
ing  there  that  a  vain  man  carries  his  light ;  the 
consequence  is  that  every  object  he  approaches 
becomes  obscure  by  his  own  shadow. 

A  witch's  skiff  cannot  more  easily  sail  in  the 
teeth  of  the  wind,  than  the  human  eye  can  lie 
against  fact :  but  the  truth  will  often  quiver  through 
lips  with  a  lie  upon  them. 

It  is  a  hard  matter  for  a  man  to  lie  all  over,  Na 
ture  having  provided  king's  evidence  in  almost 
every  member.  The  hand  will  sometimes  act  as  a 
vane,  to  show  which  way  the  wind  blows,  when 
every  feature  is  set  the  other  way  :  the  knees 
smite  together  and  sound  the  alarm  of  fear  under 
a  fierce  countenance :  the  legs  shake  with  anger, 
when  all  above  is  calm. 

Make  no  man  your  idol !  For  the  best  man 
must  have  faults,  and  his  faults  will  usually  be 
come  yours,  in  addition  to  your  own.  This  is  as 
true  in  art,  as  in  morals. 

The  Devil's  heartiest  laugh,  is  at  a  detracting 
witticism.  Hence  the  phrase,  "  devilish  good,"  has 
sometimes  a  literal  meaning. 

There  is  one  thing  which  no  man,  however 
generously  disposed,  can  give,  hut  which  every 
one,  however  poor,  is  bound  to  pay.  This  is 
Praise.  He  cannot  give  it,  because  it  is  not  his 
own ;  since  what  is  dependent  for  its  very  exist 
ence  on  something  in  another,  can  never  become 
to  him  a  possession  :  nor  can  he  justly  withhold  it, 
when  the  presence  of  merit  claims  it  as  a  conse- 
c/uenre.  As  praise,  then,  cannot  be  made  a  gift, 
so,  neither,  when  not  his  due,  can  any  man  re 
ceive  it;  he  may  think  he  does,  but  he  receives 
only  words :  for  desert  being  the  essential  condi 
tion  of  praise,  there  can  be  no  reality  in  the  one 
without  the  other.  This  is  no  fanciful  statement : 
for  though  praise  may  be  withheld  by  the  ignorant 
or  envious,  it  cannot  be  but  that,  in  the  course  of 
time,  an  existing  merit  will  on  some  one  produce 
its  effects ;  inasmuch  as  the  existence  of  any  cause 
without  its  effect  is  an  impossibility.  A  fearful 
truth  lies  at  the  bottom  of  this,  an  irreversible  jus 
tice  for  the  weal  or  wo  of  him  confirms  or  vio 
lates  it. 

ON  A  PICTURE  BY  CARACCI. 

FROM   HIS  LETTERS. 

THE  subject  was  the  body  of  the  virgin  borne 
for  interment  by  four  apostles.  The  figures  are 
colossal ;  the  tone  dark  and  of  tremendous  co 
lour.  It  seemed,  as  I  looked  at  it,  as  if  the  ground 
shook  at  their  tread,  and  the  air  were  darkened 
by  their  grief. 

SUNRISE  AMONG  THE  ALPS. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

SUCH  a  sunrise !  The  giant  Alps  seemed  lite 
rally  to  rise  from  their  purple  beds,  and  putting  on 
their  crowns  of  gold,  to  send  up  hallelujahs  al 
most  audible ! 

M2 


JOSEPH  STORY. 


[Born  1779.    Died  1845.] 


JOSEPH  STORY  was  a  son  of  Elisha  Story, 
a  respectable  physician,  who  had  been  a  sur 
geon  in  the  revolutionary  army.  He  was  born 
in  Marblehead,  Massachusetts,  on  the  eigh 
teenth  of  September,  1779,  and  at  the  age  of 
sixteen  entered  Harvard  College,  in  the  class 
with  William  Ellery  Channing.  Immedi 
ately  after  graduating  he  commenced  with 
Chief  Justice  Sewall,  of  his  native  town,  the 
study  of  the  law,  which  he  afterward  pursued 
with  Mr.  Justice  Putnam,  of  Salem,  where 
he  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  began  the 
practice  of  his  profession,  in  1801. 

In  early  life  he  was  a  democrat,  and  of 
course,  living  in  Essex  county,  in  a  minority ; 
but  such  was  his  reputation  for  ability  and 
integrity,  that  in  his  twenty-fifth  year  he  was 
chosen  a  member  of  the  state  house  of  repre 
sentatives,  to  which  he  was  several  times  re- 
elected,  and  in  which  he  was  twice  made 
speaker.  He  became  at  once  the  acknow 
ledged  leader  of  his  party  in  the  legislature, 
where  he  used  his  power  with  great  magna 
nimity,  on  many  occasions  rising  above  parti 
san  prejudice  and  dictation,  and  so  serving 
the  people  as  to  win  their  nearly  unanimous 
applause. 

In  1809  he  was  elected  a  member  of  Con 
gress,  to  fill  a  vacancy  occasioned  by  the 
death  of  Mr.  Crowninshield,  but  declined  a 
further  service  than  for  the  remainder  of  the 
term,  deeming  the  excitement  of  political  life 
incompatible  with  that  devotion  to  his  profes 
sion  which  was  necessary  to  the  highest  suc 
cess. 

The  place  made  vacant  on  the  bench  of  the 
Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States  by  the 
death  of  Judge  Gushing,  in  1811,  was  ten 
dered  by  President  Madison  to  Mr.  John 
Quincy  Adams,  at  that  time  in  Russia,  and 
being  declined  by  him  was  conferred  upon 
Mr.  Story,  who  was  then  but  thirty-two  years 
of  age.  So  young  a  man  had  never  before,  in 
England  or  America,  been  elevated  to  so  high 
a  judicial  position,  and  much  dissatisfaction 
was  occasioned  by  this  appointment  ;  but 
every  regret  and  apprehension  was  soon  dis- 

138 


sipated  by  the  displays  of  his  extensive  and 
accurate  professional  learning,  excellent  judg 
ment,  perfect  candor,  and  decided  business 
habits.  He  remained  on  the  bench  until  the 
close  of  his  life,  and  held  no  other  civil  office, 
except  in  1820,  when  he  sat  with  John 
Adams,  Josiah  Quincy,  Daniel  Webster,  and 
other  leading  men  of  Massachusetts,  in  the 
convention  which  revised  the  constitution  of 
that  state. 

His  judgments  in  the  supreme  court 'of  the 
United  States  are  contained  in  the  Reports  of 
Cranch,  Wheaton,  Peters  and  Howard,  of 
which  they  constitute  much  more  than  a  just 
proportion ;  and  those  which  he  delivered  in 
the  courts  of  the  first  circuit,  embracing  the 
states  of  Maine,  New  Hampshire,  Massachu 
setts,  and  Rhode  Island,  fill  two  volumes  of 
Reports  by  Gallison,  five  by  Mason,  three  by 
Sumner,  and  two  by  William  Story.  It  is 
generally  admitted  that  these  learned  and  ela 
borate  performances,  on  a  vast  variety  of  diffi 
cult  and  complicated  questions,  some  of  which 
were  entirely  new,  are  not  inferior  in  com 
prehensiveness,  clearness  and  soundness,  to 
any  in  the  English  language. 

In  1829  Mr.  Nathan  Dane,  one  of  the  wis 
est  and  purest  men  who  have  lived  in  this 
nation,  founded  a  professorship  of  law  in  Har 
vard  College;  and  by  a  condition  of  the  en 
dowment  Judge  Story  became  the  first  occu 
pant  of  the  chair.  He  had  already  made 
acceptable  presents  to  the  profession  in  his 
Selection  of  Pleadings,  and  in  his  editions 
of  Chitty  on  Bills  of  Exchange  and  Promis 
sory  Notes,  and  Lord  Tenterden  on  the  Law 
of  Shipping,  to  both  of  which  he  added  many 
valuable  notes.  The  delivery  of  courses 
of  lectures,  in  Dane  Hall,  upon  the  law  of 
nature,  the  laws  of  nations,  maritime  and 
commericial  law,  equity  law,  and  the  consti 
tutional  law  of  the  United  States,  led  to  the 
preparation  of  that  series  of  great  works  upon 
which  his  reputation  chiefly  rests,  and  which 
have  made  his  name  familiar  in  all  the  high 
parliaments,  judicatures  and  universities  of  the 
world.  The  first  of  these  was  Commentaries 


JOSEPH    STORY. 


139 


on  the  Law  of  Bailments,  which  appeared  in 
1832.  This  was  followed  in  1833  by  Com 
mentaries  on  the  Constitution  of  the  United 
States,  prefaced  by  a  constitutional  history  of 
the  colonies,  and  of  the  states  under  the  con 
federation.  This  work,  which  is  of  great  in 
terest  to  the  student  in  history  as  well  as  to 
the  lawyer,  he  subsequently  abridged,  that  it 
might  be  used  as  a  class  book  in  the  schools. 
In  1834  appeared  in  three  volumes  his  Com 
mentaries  on  the  Conflict  of  Laws,  in>  which 
the  opposing  laws  of  different  nations  are 
treated  with  especial  reference  to  marriages, 
divorces,  wills,  successions  and  judgments. 
It  is  regarded  as  the  most  original  and  pro 
found  of  his  works,  and  was  the  first  upon 
the  subject  in  the  English  language.  In  1836 
were  published  his  Commentaries  on  Equity 
Jurisprudence,  in  two  volumes,  and  in  1838 
his  Commentaries  on  Equity  Pleadings,  two 
works  which  were  equal  to  his  reputation  and 
which  were  received  by  the  profession  with 
unhesitating  approval.  He  subsequently  pub 
lished  Commentaries  upon  the  Laws  of  Agen 
cy,  Partnership,  Bills  of  Exchange,  and  Pro 
missory  Notes,  but  they  were  composed  with 
less  care,  and  though  valuable,  might  have  been 
written  quite  as  well  by  a  much  inferior  man. 

Although  Judge  Story  must  be  regarded  as 
a  lawyer  of  the  first  class,  it  cannot  be  said 
that  in  this  class  he  was  preeminent.  Mar 
shall,  Hamilton,  Parsons,  Kent  and  some 
others  had  in  various  respects  merit  of  prece 
dence,  though  perhaps  not  one  of  these  cele 
brated  men  could  be  justly  compared  with 
him  for  extent  of  acquisitions.  Circum 
stances  which  will  occur  to  the  considerate 
lawyer  gave  him  an  extraordinary  reputation 
abroad,  and  that  enhanced  the  weight  of  his 
authority  at  home,  but  it  is  highly  probable 
that  both  Marshall  and  Kent,  reasoning  from 
first  principles,  grounding  their  judgments 
upon  the  nature  of  things,  will  have  a  more 
solid  and  permanent  renown. 

Story  was  perhaps  too  sedulous  a  student  of 
the  tone  and  tendencies  of  the  day,  and  his  want 
of  decidedness  and  precision  often  leaves  it  ex 
tremely  doubtful  what  were  his  own  opinions. 

His  industry  was  very  great.  Doubtless 
his  memory  was  so  retentive  that  a  single  and 
hasty  reading  was  quite  sufficient  to  make 
him  familiar  with  almost  any  author.  Yet 
when  we  remember  the  extent  of  the  litera 
ture  of  his  profession,  which  is  probably 


twice  as  great  as  when  Marshall  came  to  the 
bench,  we  are  struck  with  the  amount  of  la 
bour  necessary  to  form  the  most  general  ac 
quaintance  with  it.  Add  to  this  the  number* 
of  his  works,  which  are  more  voluminous* 
than  those  of  any  other  lawyer  of  great  emi 
nence,  and  we  cannot  understand  how  he  had 
any  leisure  for  the  pursuit  of  literature  or  the 
enjoyment  of  society.  But  he  was  a  man  of 
taste,  of  warm  affections,  with  a  wide  circle  of 
friends,  and  of  a  deep  and  abiding  interest  in 
all  the  great  movements  of  the  people. 

During  his  student  life,  and  soon  after  he 
entered  upon  the  practice  of  the  law  in  Salem, 
Mr.  Story  was  an  occasional  writer  of  verses, 
and  in  1802  he  published  a  didactic  poem  en 
titled  The  Power  of  Solitude,  which  was  re 
printed  with  several  miscellaneous  pieces  in 
a  duodecimo  volume  of  two  hundred  and  fifty 
pages  in  1804.  They  have  very  little  merit, 
of  any  kind,  but  their  composition  may  have 
enabled  him  to  acquire  something  of  that  co 
piousness  and  harmony  for  which  his  prose 
diction  is  distinguished. 

His  principal  literary  writings  are  contained 
in  a  collection  of  his  discourses,  reviews  and 
miscellanies,  published  in  1835.  In  this  vo 
lume  are  twenty-nine  papers,  among  which 
are  sketches  of  Samuel  Dexter,  William  Pink- 
ney,  Thomas  Addis  E^imet,  John  Hooker 
Ashmun,  and  Justices  Marshall,  Trimble, 
Washington,  and  Parker;  addresses  before 
the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  of  Harvard  Col 
lege,  and  the  Essex  Historical  Society ;  his 
contributions  to  the  North  American  Review ; 
and  various  juridical  arguments,  and  political 
reports,  memorials  and  speeches. 

Judge  Story's  career  was  undoubtedly  the 
one  in  which  he  was  fitted  to  shine  most  bright 
ly.  With  vast  learning,  strong  sense,  reasoning 
powers  of  a  high  order,  and  generally  correct 
taste,  he  would  have  been  eminently  respecta 
ble  in  any  field  of  intellectual  exertion  ;  but  he 
had  too  little  both  of  metaphysical  power  and 
imagination  to  make  a  deep  and  lasting  im 
pression. 

He  died,  after  a  short  illness,  at  Cambridge, 
near  Boston,  on  the  tenth  of  September,  1845, 
having  nearly  completed  the  sixty-ninth  year 
of  his  age. 

*  His  written  judgments  on  his  own  circuit  and  his  va 
rious  commentaries  occupy  twenty-seven  volumes,  and 
his  judgments  in  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States 
form  an  important  part  of  thirty-four  volumes. 


140 


JOSEPH    STORY. 


INDIAN  SUMMER  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

FROM   CENTENNIAL   DISCOURSE   AT   SALEM. 

IT  is  now  the  early  advance  of  autumn.  What 
can  be  more  beautiful  or  more  attractive  than  this 
season  in  New  England  1  The  sultry  heat  of 
summer  has  passed  away  ;  and  a  delicious  cool 
ness  at  evening  succeeds  the  genial  warmth  of  the 
day.  The  labours  of  the  husbandman  approach 
Jheir  natural  termination :  and  he  gladdens  with 
the  near  prospect  of  his  promised  reward.  The 
earth  swells  with  the  increase  of  vegetation.  The 
fields  wave  with  their  yellow  and  luxuriant  har 
vests.  The  trees  put  forth  the  darkest  foliage, 
half  shading  and  half  revealing  their  ripened  fruits, 
to  tempt  the  appetite  of  man,  and  proclaim  the 
goodness  of  his  Creator.  Even  in  scenes  of  an 
other  sort,  where  nature  reigns  alone  in  her  own 
majesty,  there  is  much  to  awaken  religious  enthu 
siasm.  As  yet,  the  forests  stand  clothed  in  their 
dress  of  uridecayed  magnificence.  The  winds, 
that  rustle  through  their  tops,  scarcely  disturb  the 
silence  of  the  shades  below.  The  mountains  and 
the  valleys  glow  in  warm  green,  of  lively  russet 
The  rivulets  flow  on  with  a  noiseless  current,  re 
flecting  back  the  images  of  many  a  glossy  insect,  that 
dips  his  wings  in  their  cooling  waters.  The  morn 
ings  and  evenings  are  still  vocal  with  the  notes  of  a 
thousand  warblers,  which  plume  their  wings  for  a 
later  flight.  Above  all,  the  clear  blue  sky,  the  long 
and  sunny  calms,  the  scarcely  whispering  breezes, 
the  brilliant  sunsets,  lit  up  with  all  the  wondrous 
magnificence  of  light,  and  shade,  and  colour,  and 
slowly  settling  down  into  a  pure  and  transparent 
twilight.  These,  these  are  days  and  scenes,  which 
even  the  cold  cannot  behold  without  emotion ;  but 
on  which  the  meditative  and  pious  gaze  with  pro 
found  admiration ;  for  they  breathe  of  holier  and 
happier  regions  beyond  the  grave. 


PERSECUTION. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

I  STAND  not  up  here  the  apologist  for  persecu 
tion,  whether  it  be  by  Catholic  or  Protestant,  by 
Puritan  or  Prelate,  by  Congregationalist  or  Cove 
nanter,  by  Church  or  State,  the  monarch  or  the 
people.  Wherever,  arid  by  whomsoever,  it  is  pro 
mulgated  or  supported,  under  whatever  disguises, 
for  whatever  purposes,  at  all  times,  and  under  all 
circumstances,  it  is  a  gross  violation  of  the  rights 
of  conscience,  and  utterly  inconsistent  with  the 
spirit  of  Christianity.  I  care  not,  whether  it  goes 
to  life,  or  property,  or  office,  or  reputation,  or  mere 
private  comfort,  it  is  equally  an  outrage  upon  reli 
gion  and  the  inalienable  rights  of  man.  If  there 
is  any  right,  sacred  beyond  all  others,  because  it 
imports  everlasting  consequences,  it  is  the  right  to 
worship  God  according  to  the  dictates  of  our  own 
consciences.  Whoever  attempts  to  narrow  it  down 
in  any  degree,  to  limit  it  by  the  creed  of  any  sect, 
to  bound  the  exercises  of  private  judgment,  or  free 
inquiry,  by  the  standard  of  his  own  faith,  be  he 
priest  or  layman,  ruler  or  subject,  dishonours,  so 


far,  the  profession  of  Christianity,  and  wounds  it  in 
its  vital  virtues.  The  doctrine  on  which  such  at 
tempts  are  founded,  goes  to  the  destruction  of  all 
free  institutions  of  government.  There  is  not  a 
truth  to  be  gathered  from  history,  more  certain, 
or  more  momentous,  than  this,  that  civil  liberty 
cannot  long  be  separated  from  religious  liberty 
without  danger,  and  ultimately  without  destruc 
tion  to  both.  Wherever  religious  liberty  exists,  it 
will,  first  or  last,  bring  in  and  establish  political 
liberty.  Wherever  it  is  suppressed,  the  Church 
establishment  will,  first  or  last,  become  the  engine 
of  despotism;  and  overthrow,  unless  it  be  itself 
overthrown,  every  vestige  of  political  right.  How 
it  is  possible  to  imagine,  that  a  religion  breathing 
the  spirit  of  mercy  and  benevolence,  teaching  the 
forgivness  of  injuries,  the  exercise  of  charity,  and 
the  return  of  good  for  evil ;  how  it  is  possible,  I 
say,  for  such  a  religion  to  be  so  perverted  as  to 
breathe  the  spirit  of  slaughter  and  persecution,  of 
discord  and  vengeance,  for  differences  of  opinion,  is 
a  most  unaccountable  and  extraordinary  moral  phe 
nomenon.  Still  more  extraordinary,  that  it  should 
be  the  doctrine,  not  of  base  and  wicked  men  mere 
ly,  seeking  to  cover  up  their  own  misdeeds ;  but 
of  good  men,  seeking  the  way  of  salvation  with 
uprightness  of  .heart  and  purpose.  It  affords  a 
melancholy  proof  of  the  infirmity  of  human  judg 
ment;  and  teaches  a  lesson  of  humility,  from 
which  spiritual  pride  may  learn  meekness,  and 
spiritual  zeal  a  moderating  wisdom. 


THE  INDIANS. 

FROM  THE   SAME. 

THERE  is,  in  the  fate  of  these  unfortunate  be 
ings,  much  to  awaken  our  sympathy,  and  much 
to  disturb  the  sobriety  of  our  judgment;  much 
which  may  be  urged  to  excuse  their  own  atroci 
ties  ;  much  in  their  characters,  which  betrays  us 
into  an  involuntary  admiration.  What  can  be 
more  melancholy  than  their  history  1  By  a  law 
of  their  nature,  they  seem  destined  to  a  slow,  but 
sure  extinction.  Everywhere,  at  the  approach  of 
the  white  man,  they  fade  away.  We  hear  the  rust 
ling  of  their  footsteps,  like  that  of  the  withered 
leaves  of  autumn,  and  they  are  gone  forever.  They 
pass  mournfully  by  us,  and  they  return  no  more. 
Two  centuries  ago,  the  smoke  of  their  wigwams 
and  the  fires  of  their  councils  rose  in  every  val 
ley,  from  Hudson's  Bay  to  the  farthest  Florida, 
from  the  ocean  to  the  Mississippi  and  the  lakes. 
The  shouts  of  victory  and  the  war-dance  rang 
through  the  mountains  and  the  glades.  The 
thick  arrows  and  the  deadly  tomahawk  whistled 
through  the  forests ;  and  the  hunter's  trace  and 
dark  encampment  startled  the  wild  beasts  in  their 
lairs.  The  warriors  stood  forth  in  their  glory. 
The  young  listened  to  the  songs  of  other  days. 
The  mothers  played  with  their  infants,  and  gazed 
on  the  scene  with  warm  hopes  of  the  future.  The 
aged  sat  down ;  but  they  wept  not.  They  should 
soon  be  at  rest  in  fairer  regions,  where  the  Great 
Spirit  dwelt,  in  a  home  prepared  for  the  brave,  be- 


JOSEPH    STORY. 


141 


yond  the  western  skies.  Braver  men  never  lived  ; 
truer  men  never  drew  the  bow.  They  had  cour 
age,  and  fortitude,  and  sagacity,  and  perseverance, 
beyond  most  of  the  human  race.  They  shrank 
from  no  dangers,  and  they  feared  no  hardships. 
If  they  had  the  vices  of  savage  life,  they  had  the 
virtues  also.  They  were  true  to  their  country, 
their  friends,  and  their  homes.  If  they  forgave  not 
injury,  neither  did  they  forget  kindness.  If  their 
vengeance  was  terrible,  their  fidelity  and  generosi 
ty  were  unconquerable  also.  Their  love,  like  their 
hate,  stopped  not  on  this  side  of  the  grave. 

But  where  are  they!  Where  are  the  villagers, 
and  warriors,  and  youth;  the  sachems  and  the 
tribes;  the  hunters  and  their  families'!  They 
have  perished.  They  are  consumed.  The  wast 
ing  pestilence  has  not  alone  done  the  mighty 
work.  No, — nor  famine,  nor  war.  There  has 
been  a  mightier  power,  a  moral  canker,  which 
has  eaten  into  their  heart-cores— a  plague,  which 
the  touch  of  the  white  man  communicated — a 
poison,  which  betrayed  them  into  a  lingering  ruin. 
The  winds  of  the  Atlantic  .fan  not  a  single  re 
gion,  which  they  may  now  call  their  own.  Al 
ready  the  last  feeble  remnants  of  the  race  are  pre 
paring  for  their  journey  beyond  the  Mississippi. 
I  see  them  leave  their  miserable  homes,  the  aged, 
the  helpless,  the  women,  and  the  warriors,  "  few 
and  faint,  yet  fearless  still."  The  ashes  are  cold 
on  their  native  hearths.  The  smoke  no  longer 
curls  round  their  lowly  cabins.  They  move  'on 
with  a  slow,  unsteady  step.  The  white  man 
is  upon  their  heels,  for  terror  or  despatch ;  but 
they  heed  him  not.  They  turn  to  take  a  last  look 
of  their  deserted  villages.  They  cast  a  last  glance 
upon  the  graves  of  their  fathers.  They  shed  no 
tears ;  they  utter  no  cries ;  they  heave  no  groans. 
There  is  something  in  their  hearts  which  passes 
speech.  There  is  something  in  their  looks,  not  of 
vengeance  or  submission;  but  of  hard  necessity, 
which  stifles  both;  which  chokes  all  utterance; 
which  has  no  aim  or  method.  It  is  courage  ab 
sorbed  in  despair.  They  linger  but  for  a  mo 
ment.  Their  look  is  onward.  They  have  passed 
the  fatal  stream.  It  shall  never  be  repassed  by 
them, — no,  never.  Yet  there  lies  not  between 
us  and  them  an  impassable  gulf.  They  know 
and  feel  that  there  is  for  them  still  one  remove 
farther,  not  distant,  nor  unseen.  It  is  to  the  ge 
neral  burial-ground  of  their  race. 

Reason  as  we  may,  it  is  impossible  not  to  read 
in  such  a  fate  much  that  we  know  not  how  to  in 
terpret  ;  much  of  provocation  to  cruel  deeds  and 
deep  resentments  ;  much  of  apology  for  wrong  and 
perfidy  ;  much  of  pity  mingling  with  indignation  ; 
much  of  doubt  and  misgiving  as  to  the  past ;  much 
of  painful  recollections  ;  much  of  dark  forebodings. 


DESTINY  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 

FHOM  THE  SAME. 

WHAT  is  to  be  the  destiny  of  this  Republic  ?  In 
proposing  this  question,  I  drop  all  thought  of  New 


England.  She  has  bound  herself  to  the  fate  of 
the  Union.  May  she  be  true  to  it,  now,  and  for 
ever  ;  true  to  it,  because  true  to  herself,  true  to  her 
own  principles,  true  to  the  cause  of  religion  and 
liberty  throughout  the  world.  I  speak,  then,  of 
our  common  country,  of  that  blessed  mother,  that 
has  nursed  us  in  her  lap,  and  led  us  up  to  manhood, 
What  i«  her  destiny  1  Whither  does  the  finger  of 
fate  point  ]  Is  the  career,  on  which  we  have 
entered,  to  be  bright  with  ages  of  onward  and  up 
ward  glory  ]  Or  is  our  doom  already  recorded  in 
the  past  history  of  the  earth,  in  the  past  lessons  of 
the  decline  and  fall  of  other  republics  ]  If  we  are  to 
flourish  with  a  vigorous  growth,  it  must  be,  I  think, 
by  cherishing  principles,  institutions,  pursuits,  and 
morals,  such  as  planted,  and  have  hitherto  sup 
ported  New  England.  If  we  are  to  fall,  may  she 
still  possess  the  melancholy  consolation  of  the 
Trojan  patriot : 

•'Sat  patrice  Priamoque,  datum;  si  Pergama  dextra 
Defend!  possenl,  etiam  hac  defensa  t'uisseinV 

I  would  not  willingly  cloud  the  pleasures  of  such 
a  day,  even  with  a  transient  shade.  I  would  not, 
that  a  single  care  should  flit  across  the  polished 
brow  of  hope,  if  considerations  of  the  highest 
moment  did  not  demand  our  thoughts,  and  give 
us  counsel  of  our  duties.  Who,  indeed,  can  look 
around  him  upon  the  attractions  of  the  scene, 
upon  the  faces  of  the  happy  and  the  free,  the 
smiles  of  youthful  beauty,  the  graces  of  matron 
virtue,  the  strong  intellect  of  manhood,  and  the 
dignity  of  age,  and  hail  these  as  the  accompani 
ments  of  peace  and  independence ; — who  can  look 
around  him,  and  not  at  the  same  time  feel,  that 
change  is  written  on  all  the  works  of  man ;  that 
the  breath  of  a  tyrant,  or  the  fury  of  a  corrupt 
populace,  may  destroy,  in  one  hour,  what  centu 
ries  have  slowly  consolidated  1  It  is  the  privi 
lege  of  great  minds,  that  to  them  "coming  events 
cast  their  shadows  before."  We  may  not  possess 
this  privilege  ;  but  it  is  true  wisdom,  not  to  blind 
ourselves  to  dangers  which  are  in  full  view ;  and 
true  prudence,  to  guard  against  those,  of  which  ex 
perience  has  already  admonished  us. 

When  we  reflect  on  what  has  been,  and  is,  how 
is  it  possible  not  to  feel  a  profound  sense  of  the 
responsibleness  of  this  Republic  to  all  future  ages  1 
What  vast  motives  press  upon  us  for  lofty  efforts ! 
What  brilliant  prospects  invite  our  enthusiasm ! 
What  solemn  warnings  at  once  demand  our  vigi 
lance,  and  moderate  our  confidence  ! 


THE  FIELD  OF  PEACE. 

FROM  AN  ADDRESS  AT  THE  CEMETERY  OF  MOUNT  AUBURN. 


what  spot  can  be  more  appropriate  than 
this,  for  such  a  purpose  ]  Nature  seems  to  point 
it  out,  with  significant  energy,  as  the  favourite  re 
tirement  for  the  dead.  There  are  around  us  all 
the  varied  features  of  her  beauty  and  grandeur  ;  — 
the  forest-crowned  height  ;  the  abrupt  acclivity  ; 
the  sheltered  valley;  the  deep  glen;  the  grassy 
glade  ;  and  the  silent  grove.  Here  are  the  lofty 


142 


JOSEPH   STORY. 


oak,  the  beach,  that"  wreaths  its  old  fantastic  roots 
so  high,"  the  rustling  pine,  and  the  drooping  wil 
low; — the  tree,  that  sheds  its  pale  leaves  with 
every  autumn,  a  fit  emblem  of  our  own  transitory 
bloom;  and  the  evergreen,  with  its  perennial 
shoots  instructing  us,  that  « the  wintry  blasts  of 
death  kills  not  the  buds  of  virtue."  Here  is  the 
thick  shrubbery  to  protect  and  conceal  the  new- 
made  grave ;  and  there  is  the  wild  flower  creeping 
along  the  narrow  path,  and  planting  its  seeds  in 
the  upturned  earth.  All  around  us  there  breathes 
a  solemn  calm,  as  if  it  were  in  the  bosom  of  a  wil 
derness,  broken  only  by  the  breeze,  as  it  murmurs 
through  the  tops  of  the  forest,  or  by  the  notes  of 
the  warbler,  pouring  forth  his  matin  or  his  evening 
song. 

Ascend  but  a  few  steps,  and  what  a  change  of 
scenery  to  surprise  and  delight  us !  We  seem,  as 
it  were,  in  an  instant,  to  pass  from  the  confines  of 
death,  to  the  bright  and  balmy  regions  of  life. 
Below  us  flows  the  winding  Charles,  with  its  rip 
pling  current,  like  the  stream  of  time  hastening  to 
the  ocean  of  eternity.  In  the  distance,  the  city — 
at  once  the  object  of  our  admiration  and  our  love 
— rears  its  proud  eminences,  its  glittering  spires, 
its  lofty  towers,  its  graceful  mansions,  its  curling 
smoke,  its. crowded  haunts  of  business  and  plea 
sure,  which  speak  to  the  eye,  and  yet  leave  a 
noiseless  loneliness  on  the  ear.  Again  we  turn, 
and  the  walls  of  our  venerable  University  rise  be 
fore  us,  with  many  a  recollection  of  happy  days 
passed  there  in  the  interchange  of  study  and 
friendship,  and  many  a  grateful  thought  of  the  afflu 
ence  of  its  learning,  which  has  adorned  and  nou 
rished  the  literature  of  our  country.  Again  we 
turn,  and  the  cultivated  farm,  the  neat  cottage,  the 
village  church,  the  sparkling  lake,  the  rich  valley, 
and  the  distant  hills,  are  before  us,  through  open 
ing  vistas ;  and  we  breathe  amidst  the  fresh  and 
varied  labours  of  man. 

There  is,  therefore,  within  our  reach,  every  va 
riety  of  natural  and  artificial  scenery,  which  is 
fitted  to  awaken  emotions  of  the  highest  and 
most  affecting  character.  We  stand,  as  it  were, 
upon  the  borders  of  two  worlds ;  and,  as  the  mood 
of  our  minds  may  be,  we  may  gather  lessons  of 
profound  wisdom  by  contrasting  the  one  with  the 
other,  or  indulge  in  dreams  of  hope  and  ambition, 
or  solace  our  hearts  by  melancholy  meditations. 


CLASSICAL  STUDIES. 

FROM  A  DISCOURSE  BEFORE  THE  PHI  BETA  KAPPA  SOCIETY. 

I  PASS  over  all  consideration  of  the  written  trea 
sures  of  antiquity,  which  have  survived  the  wreck 
of  empires  and  dynasties,  of  monumental  trophies 
and  triumphal  arches,  of  palaces  of  princes  and 


temples  of  the  gods.  I  pass  over  all  consideration 
of  those  admired  compositions,  in  which  wisdom 
speaks,  as  with  a  voice  from  heaven  ;  of  those  sub 
lime  efforts  of  poetical  genius  which  still  freshen, 
as  they  pass  from  age  to  age,  in  undying  vigour ; 
of  those  finished  histories  which  still  enlighten  and 
instruct  governments  in  their  duty  and  their  desti 
ny  ;  of  those  matchless  orations  which  roused  na 
tions  to  arms,  and  chained  senates  to  the  chariot- 
wheels  of  all-conquering  eloquence.  These  all 
may  now  be  read  in  our  vernacular  tongue.  Ay, 
as  one  remembers  the  face  of  a  dead  friend  by  ga 
thering  up  the  broken  fragments  of  his  image — as 
one  listens  to  the  tale  of  a  dream  twice  told— as 
one  catches  the  roar  of  the  ocean  in  the  ripple  of 
a  rivulet — as  one  sees  the  blaze  of  noon  in  the 

first  glimmer  of  twilight 

There  is  not  a  single  nation  from  the  North  to 
the  South  of  Europe,  from  the  bleak  shores  of  the 
Baltic  to  the  bright  plains  of  immortal  Italy,  whose 
literature  is  not  embedded  in  the  very  elements  of 
classical  learning.  The  literature  of  England  is, 
in  an  emphatic  sense,  the  production  of  her  scho 
lars  ;  of  men  who  have  cultivated  letters  in  her 
universities,  and  colleges,  and  grammar-schools ; 
of  men  who  thought  any  life  too  short,  chiefly  be 
cause  it  left  some  relic  of  antiquity  unmastered, 
and  any  other  fame  humble,  because  it  faded  in 
the  presence  of  Roman  and  Grecian  genius.  He 
who  studies  English  literature  without  the  lights 
of«  classical  learning  loses  half  the  charms  of  its 
sentiments  and  style,  of  its  force  and  feelings,  of 
its  delicate  touches,  of  its  delightful  allusions,  of 
its  illustrative  associations.  Who,  that  reads  the 
poetry  of  Gray,  does  not  feel  that  it  is  the  re 
finement  of  classical  taste  which  gives  such  inex 
pressible  vividness  and  transparency  to  his  diction ': 
Who,  that  reads  the  concentrated  sense  and  melo 
dious  versification  of  Dryden  and  Pope,  does  not 
perceive  in  them  the  disciples  of  the  old  school, 
whose  genius  was  inflamed  by  the  heroic  verse, 
the  terse  satire,  and  the  playful  wit  of  antiquity  ] 
Who,  that  meditates  over  the  strains  of  Milton, 
does  not  feel  that  he  drank  deep  at 

"  Siloa's  brook,  that  flow'd 
Fast  by  the  oracle  of  God" — 

that  the  fires  of  his  magnificent  mind  were  lighted 
by  coals  from  ancient  altars  1 

It  is  no  exaggeration  to  declare  that  he  who 
proposes  to  abolish  classical  studies  proposes  to 
render,  in  a  great  measure,  inert  and  unedifying 
the  mass  of  English  literature  for  three  centuries : 
to  rob  us  of  the  glory  of  the  past,  and  much  of  the 
instruction  of  future  ages ;  to  blind  us  to  exccllen 
cies  which  few  may  hope  to  equal  and  none  to  sur 
pass ;  to  annihilate  associations  which  are  inter 
woven  with  our  best  sentiments,  and  give  to  distant 
times  and  countries  a  presence  and  reality  as  if  thov 
were  in  fact  his  own. 


JAMES  KIRKE  PAULDING. 


Born  1778.    Died  I860.] 


IT  is  more  than  forty  years  since  this  vete 
ran  author  made  his  first  appearance  before 
the  public,  and  at  nearly  seventy  he  continued 
to  write  with  the  vivacity,  good  sense,  and 
strong  love  of  country  for  which  his  earliest 
works  were  distinguished. 

Mr.  PAULDING  is  of  Dutch  extraction,  and 
was  born  on  the  twenty-second  of  August, 
1778,  in  the  town  of  Pawling,  on  the  Hudson, 
so  named  from  one  of  his  ancestors.  After 
receiving  a  liberal  education  he  settled  in 
New  York,  where  except  during  short  inter 
vals  he  has  since  resided.  Connected  with 
some  of  the  first  families  of  the  city,  with  an 
income  sufficient  for  his  wants,  and  a  love  of 
quiet  which  forbade  his  seeking  distinction 
as  a  lawyer  or  politician,  he  would  probably 
have  been  content  with  the  simple  pursuit  of 
ease,  had  not  the  follies  of  the  town,  and  subse 
quently  a  conviction  of  injustice  to  the  coun 
try,  called  into  action  his  powers  as  a  satirist. 

The  first  series  of  Salmagundi,  published 
in  1807,  was  the  production  of  Mr.  Paulding 
and  Mr.  Washington  Irving,  except  the  verses 
and  three  or  four  of  the  concluding  essays, 
which  were  by  Mr.  William  Irving,  a  brother- 
in-law  of  the  former  and  brother  of  the  latter, 
who  was  afterward  well  known  as  a  repre 
sentative  of  the  city  of  New  York  in  Congress. 
This  work  had  a  great  deal  of  freshness ;  its 
humour,  though  unequal,  was  nearly  always 
gay,  and  as  its  satire  was  general,  everybody 
was  pleased.  Its  success  surprised  the  au 
thors,  and  was  perhaps  the  determining  cause 
of  their  subsequent  devotion  to  literature. 
The  publisher  found  it  very  profitable,  as  he 
paid  nothing  for  the  copy ;  and  upon  his 
refusal  to  make  any  remuneration  for  it,  the 
work  was  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  brought 
to  a  close. 

In  1813  Mr.  Paulding  published  The  Lay 
of  a  Scotch  Fiddle,  a  satirical  poem,  and  in 
the  following  year  The  United  States  and 
England,  in  reply  to  the  article  on  Inchiquin's 
Letters  in  the  Quarterly  Review.  The  Divert 
ing  History  of  John  Bull  and  Brother  Jona 
than,  the  most  successful  of  his  satires,  ap 


peared  in  1816.  The  allegory  is  well  sustained, 
and  the  style  has  a  homely  simplicity  and 
vigour  that  remind  us  of  Swift.  A  part  ot 
this  year  was  passed  in  Virginia,  where  he 
wrote  his  Letters  from  the  South,  which  were 
published  in  1817.  The  humour  in  them  is 
not  of  his  happiest  vein,  and  the  soundness  of 
the  views  respecting  education,  paper  money, 
and  some  other  subjects,  may  be  questioned  ; 
but  the  work  contains  interesting  sketches  of 
scenery,  manners,  and  personal  character. 

In  1818  Mr.  Paulding  published  The  Back 
woodsman,  a  poem,  and  in  the  next  year  the 
second  series  of  Salmagundi,  of  which  he 
was  the  sole  author.  Koningsmarke,  or  Old 
Times  in  the  New  World,  a  novel  founded 
on  incidents  in  the  history  of  the  Swedish 
settlements  on  the  Delaware,  appeared  in 
1823;  John  Bull  in  America  in  1824;  and 
the  Merry  Tales  of  the  Three  Wise  Men  ot 
Gotham  in  1826.  The  idea  that  the  progress 
of  mankind  is  more  apparent  than  actual  is  a 
favourite  one  with  Mr.  Paulding,  and  modern 
improvements  and  discoveries  in  political 
economy,  and  productive  labour,  law,  and 
philosophy,  are  in  this  work  ridiculed  with 
considerable  ingenuity. 

The  Book  of  St.  Nicholas,  a  collection  of 
stories  purporting  to  be  translated  from  the 
Dutch  ;  The  New  Pilgrim's  Progress,  which 
contains  some  of  the  best  specimens  of  his 
satire,  and  Tales  of  the  Good  Woman  by  a 
Doubtful  Gentleman,  came  out  in  the  three 
following  years. 

The  Dutchman's  Fireside  was  published  in 
1831.  Its  success  was  decided  and  imme 
diate,  and  it  continues  to  be  regarded  as  the 
best  of  Mr.  Paulding's  novels.  It  is  a  do 
mestic  story,  of  the  time  of  the  "  old  French 
war."  The  scenes  are  among  the  sources  of 
the  Hudson,  on  the  borders  of  Lake  Cham- 
plain,  and  in  other  parts  of  the  province  of 
New  York.  The  characters  are  natural,  and 
possess  much  individuality.  From  the  out 
set  the  reader  feels  as  if  he  had  a  personal 
acquaintance  with  each  of  them.  One  of  tht 
most  cleverly  executed  is  a  meddling  little 

J4J 


144 


JAMES    KIRKE    PAULDING. 


old  Dutchman,  Ariel  Vancour,  who  with  the 
best  intentions  is  continually  working-  mis 
chief:  an  everyday  sort  of  person,  which  I  do 
not  remember  having  seen  so  palpably  imbo- 
died  by  any  other  author.  The  hero,  Sybrandt 
Vancour,  is  educated  in  almost  total  seclusion, 
and  finds  himself,  on  the  verge  of  manhood, 
a  scholar,  ignorant  of  the  world.  He  is  proud, 
sensitive,  and  suspicious:  unhappy,  and  a 
cause  of  unhappiness  to  all  about  him.  His 
transformation  is  effected  by  the  famous  Sir 
William  Johnson,  whom  he  accompanies  on 
a  campaign ;  and  in  the  end,  a  self-confident 
and  self-complacent  gentleman,  he  marries  a 
woman  whom  he  had  loved  all  the  while,  but 
whom  his  infirmities  had  previously  rendered 
as  wretched  as  himself.  The  work  is  marked 
throughout  with  Mr.  Paulding's  quaint  and 
peculiar  humour,  and  it  is  a  delightful  picture 
of  primitive  colonial  life,  varied  with  glimpses 
of  the  mimic  court  of  the  governor,  where  la 
dies  figure  in  hoops  and  brocades,  and  of  the 
camp  in  the  wilderness,  and  the  strategy  of 
Indian  warfare. 

In  the  following  year  Mr.  Paulding  pub 
lished  Westward  Ho !  The  moral  of  this 
story  is,  that  we  are  to  disregard  the  presenti 
ments  of  evil,  withstand  the  approaches  of 
fanaticism,  and  feel  confident  that  the  surest 
means  of  inducing  a  gracious  interposition  of 
Providence  in  our  favour  is  to  persevere  our 
selves  in  all  the  kind  offices  of  humanity  to 
ward  the  unfortunate.  The  characters  are 
original  and  well-drawn.  The  Virginia  planter 
who  squanders  his  estates  in  a  prodigal  hos 
pitality,  and  with  the  remnants  of  a  liberal 
fortune  seeks  a  new  home  in  the  untried  fo 
rests;  Zenoand  Judith  Paddock,  a  pair  of  vil 
lage  inquisitors;  and  Bushfield,  an  untamed 
western  hunter,  are  all  actual  and  indigenous 
beings.  Mr.  Paulding  had  already  sketched 
the  Kentuckian,  with  a  freer  but  less  skilful 
hand,  in  his  comedy  of  Nimrod  Wildfire. 
Whoever  wanders  in  the  footsteps  of  Daniel 
Boone  will  still  meet  with  Bushfields,  though 
until  he  approaches  nearer  the  Rocky  Moun 
tains  the  rough  edges  of  the  character  may  be 
somewhat  softened  down ;  and  Dangerfields 
are  not  yet  strangers  in  Virginia. 

His  nnxt  work  was  on  slavery  in  the  United 
States,  and  this  was  followed  in  1835  by  his  ex 
cellent  life  of  Washington  for  youth,  which  is 
published  in  Messrs.  Harpers'  Family  Library. 

After   the   close  of  our   second  war  with 


Great  Britain  he  resided  some  time  at  the  seat 
of  government,  and  was  subsequently  many 
years  navy  agent  for  the  port  of  New  York. 
When  President  Van  Buren  formed  his  cabi 
net,  in  the  spring  of  1837,  he  was  selected 
to  be  the  head  of  the  Navy  Department,  and 
he  continued  in  that  office  until  the  clcse  of 
Mr.  Van  Buren's  administration,  in  1841. 

Upon  retiring  from  public  life,  being  then 
more  than  sixty  years  of  age,  he  resumed  his 
pen,  and  some  of  his  magazine  papers,  written 
since  that  time,  are  equal  to  any  of  the  produc 
tions  of  his  most  vigorous  days.  In  1846  he 
published  The  Old  Continental,  or  the  Price 
of  Liberty,  a  novel  which  he  had  nearly  com 
pleted  before  he  entered  the  cabinet.  It  has 
all  his  peculiarities  of  manner  and  spirit. 

The  various  works  by  Mr.  Paulding  which 
I  have  mentioned  make  twenty-five  volumes, 
and  the  stories,  essays,  and  other  papers  which 
he  has  published  in  the  Tales  of  Glauber  Spa, 
and  in  periodicals,  would  increase  the  number 
to  more  than  thirty. 

Mr.  Paulding's  writings  are  distinguished 
for  a  decided  nationality.  He  has  had  no  re 
spect  for  authority  unsupported  by  reason,  but 
on  all  subjects  has  thought  and  judged  for 
himself.  He  has  defended  our  government 
and  institutions,  and  has  imbodied  what  is 
peculiar  in  our  manners  and  opinions.  There 
is  hardly  a  character  in  his  works  who  would 
not  in  any  country  be  instantly  recognised  as 
an  American. 

He  is  unequalled  in  a  sort  of  quaint  and 
whimsical  humour,  but  occasionally  falls  into 
the  common  error  of  thinking  there  is  humour 
in  epithets,  and  these  are  sometimes  coarse 
or  vulgar.  Humour  is  a  quality  of  feeling 
and  action,  and  like  any  sentiment  or  habit 
should  be  treated  in  a  style  which  indicates 
a  sympathy  with  it.  He  who  pauses  to  in 
vent  its  dress  will  usually  find  his  invention 
exhausted  before  he  attempts  its  body. 

He  seems  generally  to  have  no  regular 
schemes  and  premeditated  catastrophies.  He 
follows  the  lead  of  a  free  fancy  and  writes 
down  whatever  comes  into  his  rnind.  He 
creates  his  characters,  and  permits  circum 
stances  to  guide  their  conduct. 

Mr.  Paulding  died  at  Tarrytown,  April  4, 1 860. 
His  son,  W.  I.  Paulding,  published  his  Hternrj 
life,  April,  186*7,  and  four  volumes  of  his  se 
lect  works  were  reprinted  in  New  York  in 
1867-68. 


JAMES    KIRKE    PAULDING. 


145 


NEW  YEAR  IN  ELSINGBURGH. 

FROM   KONINGSMAKKE. 

THE  holy  days,  those  wintry  blessings  which 
cheer  the  heart  of  young  and  old,  and  give  to  the 
gloomy  depths  of  winter  the  life  and  spirit  of  laugh 
ing,  jolly  spring,  were  now  near  at  hand.  The 
chopping-knife  gave  token  of  goodly  minced  pies, 
and  the  bustle  of  the  kitchen  afforded  shrewd  in 
dications  of  what  was  coming  by  and  by.  The 
celebration  of  the  new  year,  it  was  well  known, 
came  originally  from  the  northern  nations  of  Eu 
rope,  who  still  keep  up  many  of  the  practices, 
amusements,  and  enjoyments,  known  to  their  an 
cestors.  The  Heer  Piper  valued  himself  upon 
being  a  genuine  northern  man,  and  consequently 
held  the  winter  holydays  in  special  favour  and 
affection.  In  addition  to  this  hereditary  attach 
ment  to  ancient  customs,  it  was  shrewdly  suspected 
that  his  zeal  in  celebrating  these  good  old  sports 
was  not  a  little  quickened  in  consequence  of  his 
mortal  antagonist,  William  Penn,  having  hinted, 
in  the  course  of  their  controversy,  that  the  practice 
of  keeping  holydays  savoured  not  only  of  popery, 
but  paganism. 

Before  the  Heer  consented  to  sanction  the  pro 
jects  of  Dominie  Kanttwell  for  abolishing  sports 
and  ballads,  he  stipulated  for  full  liberty,  on  the 
part  of  himself  and  his  people  of  Elsingburgh,  to 
eat,  drink,  sing,  and  frolic  as  much  as  they  liked, 
during  the  winter  holydays.  In  fact,  the  Dominie 
made  no  particular  opposition  to  this  suspension 
of  his  blue  laws,  being  somewhat  addicted  to  good 
eating  and  drinking,  whenever  the  occasion  justi 
fied  ;  that  is  to  say,  whenever  such  accidents  came 
in  his  way. 

It  had  long  been  the  custom  with  Governor 
Piper,  to  usher  in  the  new  year  with  a  grand  sup 
per,  to  which  the  Dominie,  the  members  of  the 
council,  and  certain  of  the  most  respectable  burgh 
ers,  were  always  bidden.  This  year,  he  determined 
to  see  the  old  year  out  and  the  new  one  in,  as  the 
phrase  was,  having  just  heard  of  a  great  victory 
gained  by  the  bulwark  of  the  Protestant  religion, 
the  immortal  Gustavus  Adolphus ;  which,  though 
it  happened  nearly  four  years  before,  had  only 
now  reached  the  village  of  Elsingburgh.  .  .  . 

Exactly  at  ten  o'clock,  the  guests  sat  down  to 
the  table,  where  they  ate  and  drank  to  the  success 
of  the  Protestant  cause,  the  glory  of  the  great 
Gustavus,  the  downfall  of  Popery  and  the  Quakers, 
with  equal  zeal  and  patriotism.  The  instant  the 
clock  struck  twelve,  a  round  was  fired  from  the 
fort,  and  a  vast  and  bottomless  bowl,  supposed  to 
be  the  identical  one  in  which  the  famous  wise  men 
of  Gotham  went  to  sea,  was  brought  in,  filled  to 
the  utmost  brim  with  smoking  punch.  The  me 
mory  of  the  departed  year  and  the  hopes  of  the 
future  were  then  drank  in  a  special  bumper,  after 
which  the  ladies  retired,  and  noise  and  fun  became 
the  order  of  the  night.  The  Heer  told  his  great 
story  of  having  surprised  and  taken  a  whole  pic- 
quet-guard,  under  the  great  Gustavus ;  and  each 
of  the  guests  contributed  his  tale,  taking  special 
care,  however,  not  to  outdo  their  host  in  the  mar- 
19 


vellcus,  a  thing  which  always  puts  the  governor 
out  of  humour. 

Counsellor  Langfanger  talked  wonderfully  about 
public  improvements ;  Counsellor  Varlett  sung,  or 
rather  roared,  a  hundred  verses  of  a  song  in  praise 
of  Rhenish  wine ;  and  Othman  Pfegel  smoked  and 
tippled,  till  he  actually  came  to  a  determination  of 
bringing  matters  to  a  crisis  with  the  fair  Christina 
the  very  next  day.  Such  are  the  wonder-working 
powers  of  hot  punch !  As  for  the  Dominie,  he 
departed  about  the  dawn  of  day,  in  such  a  plight 
that  if  it  had  not  been  impossible,  we  should  have 
suspected  him  of  being  as  it  were  a  little  overtaken 
with  the  said  punch.  To  one  or  two  persons  who 
chanced  to  see  him,  he  actually  appeared  to  stag 
ger  a  little ;  but  such  was  the  stout  faith  of  the 
good  Dominie's  parishioners,  that  neither  of  these 
worthy  fellows  would  believe  his  own  eyes  suffi 
ciently  to  state  these  particulars. 

A  couple  of  hours'  sleep  sufficed  to  disperse  the 
vapours  of  punch  and  pepper-pot ;  for  heads  in 
those  days  were  much  harder  than  now,  and  the 
Heer,  as  well  as  his  roistering  companions,  rose 
betimes  to  give  and  receive  the  compliments  and 
good  wishes  of  the  season.  The  morning  was 
still,  clear,  and  frosty.  The  sun  shone  with  the 
lustre,  though  not  with  the  warmth  of  summer, 
and  his  bright  beams  were  reflected  with  indescrib 
able  splendour  from  the  glassy,  smooth  expanse  of 
ice  that  spread  across,  and  up  and  down  the  broad 
river,  far  as  the  eye  could  see.  The  smoke  of  the 
village  chimneys  rose  straight  into  the  air,  looking 
like  so  many  inverted  pyramids,  spreading  gradu 
ally  broader  and  broader,  until  they  melted  away 
and  mixed  imperceptibly  with  ether.  Scarce  was 
the  sun  above  the  horizon,  when  the  village  was 
alive  with  rosy  boys  and  girls,  dressed  in  their  new 
suits,  and  going  forth  with  such  warm  anticipa 
tions  of  happiness,  as  time  and  experience  imper 
ceptibly  fritter  away  into  languid  hopes  or  strength 
ening  apprehensions.  «  Happy  New  Year !"  came 
from  every  mouth  and  every  heart.  Spiced  beve 
rages  and  lusty  cakes  were  given  away  with  liberal 
open  hand ;  everybody  was  welcomed  to  every 
house ;  all  seemed  to  forget  their  little  heart-burn 
ings  and  disputes  of  yore — all  seemed  happy,  and 
all  were  so ;  and  the  Dominie,  who  always  wore 
his  coat  with  four  great  pockets  on  new-year's  day, 
came  home  and  emptied  them  seven  times,  of  loads 
of  new-year  cookies. 

When  the  gay  groups  had  finished  their  rounds 
in  the  village,  the  ice  in  front  was  seen  all  alive 
with  the  small  fry  of  Elsingburgh,  gambolling  and 
skating,  sliding  and  tumbling,  helter  skelter,  and 
making  the  frost-bit  ears  of  winter  glad  with  the 
sounds  of  mirth  and  revelry.  .  .  .  All  was  rout, 
laughter,  and  happiness;  and  that  day  the  icy 
mirror  of  the  noble  Delaware  reflected  as  light 
hearts  as  ever  beat  together  in  the  new  world. 
At  twelve  o'clock  the  jolly  Heer,  according  to  his 
immemorial  custom,  went  forth  from  the  edge  ol 
the  river  distributing  apples  and  other  dainties, 
together  with  handsful  of  wampum,  which,  rolling 
away  on  the  ice  in  different  directions,  occasioned 
j  innumerable  contests  and  squabbles  among  the  fry, 
N 


146 


JAMES    KIRKE    PAULDING. 


whose  disputes,  tumbles,  and  occasional  bufferings 
for  the  prizes,  were  inimitably  ludicrous  upon  the 
slippery  element.  Among  the  most  obstreperous 
and  mischievous  of  the  crowd  was  that  likely  fel 
low  Cupid,  who  made  more  noise,  and  tripped  up 
more  heels  that  day,  than  any  half  a  dozen  of  his 
contemporaries.  His  voice  could  be  heard  above 
all  the  rest,  especially  after  the  arrival  of  the  Heer, 
before  whom  he  seemed  to  think  it  h?s  duty  to  ex 
ert  himself,  while  his  unrestrained,  extravagant 
laugh  exhibited  that  singular  hilarity  of  spirit 
which  distinguishes  the  deportment  of  the  African 
slave  from  the  invariable  gravity  of  the  free  red 
man  of  the  western  world. 

All  day,  and  until  after  the  sun  had  set  and  the 
shadows  of  night  succeeded,  the  sports  continued, 
and  the  merry  sounds  rung  far  and  near,  occasion 
ally  interrupted  by  those  loud  noises  which  some 
times  shoot  across  the  ice  like  a  rushing  earthquake, 
and  are  occasioned  by  its  cracking,  as  the  water 
rises  or  falls. 


THE  QUARREL  OF  SQUIRE  BULL  AND 
HIS  SON. 

FROM  JOHN  BULL  AND  BROTHER  JONATHAN. 

JOHX  BULL  was  a  choleric  old  fellow,  who  held 
a  good  manor  in  the  middle  of  a  great  millpond, 
and  which,  by  reason  of  its  being  quite  surrounded 
by  water,  was  generally  called  Bullock  Island. 
Bull  was  an  ingenious  man,  an  exceedingly  good 
blacksmith,  a  dexterous  cutler,  and  a  notable 
weaver  arid  pot-baker  besides.  He  also  brewed 
capital  porter,  ale,  and  small  beer,  and  was  in  fact. 
a  sort  of  jack  of  all  trades,  and  good  at  each.  In 
addition  to  these,  he  was  a  hearty  fellow,  an  ex 
cellent  bottle-companion,  and  passably  honest  as 
times  go. 

But  what  tarnished  all  these  qualities  was  a 
devilish  quarrelsome,  overbearing  disposition,  which 
was  always  getting  him  into  some  scrape  or  other. 
The  truth  is,  he  never  heard  of  a  quarrel  going  on 
among  his  neighbours,  but  his  fingers  itched  to  be 
in  the  thickest  of  them ;  so  that  he  was  hardly  ever 
seen  without  a  broken  head,  a  black  eye,  or  a 
bloody  nose.  Such  was  Squire  Bull,  as  he  was 
commonly  called  by  the  country  people  his  neigh 
bours — one  of  those  odd,  testy,  grumbling,  boast 
ing  old  codgers,  that  never  get  credit  for  what  they 
are,  because  they  are  always  pretending  to  be  what 
they  are  not. 

The  squire  was  as  tight  a  hand  to  deal  with  in 
doors  as  out ;  sometimes  treating  his  family  as  if 
they  were  not  the  same  flesh  and  blood,  when  they 
happened  to  differ  with  him  in  certain  matters. 
One  day  he  got  into  a  dispute  with  his  youngest 
son  Jonathan,  who  was  familiarly  called  BROTHER 
JONATHAN,  about  whether  churches  ought  to  be 
called  churches  or  meeting-houses ;  and  whether 
steeples  were  not  an  abomination.  The  squire, 
either  having  the  worst  of  the  argument,  or  being 
naturally  impatient  of  contradiction,  (I  can't  tell 
which.)  fell  into  a  great  passion,  and  swore  he 
would  physic  such  notions  out  of  the  boy's  noddle. 


So  he  went  to  some  of  his  doctors  and  got  them  to 
draw  up  a  prescription,  made  up  of  thirty-nine  dif 
ferent  articles,  many  of  them  bitter  enough  to  some 
palates.  This  he  tried  to  make  Jonathan  swal 
low  ;  and  finding  he  made  villanous  wry  faces,  and 
would  not  do  it,  fell  upon  him  and  beat  him  like 
fury.  After  this,  he  made  the  house  so  disagree 
able  to  him,  that  Jonathan,  though  as  hard  as  a 
pine  knot  and  as  tough  as  leather,  could  bear  it  no 
longer.  Taking  his  gun  and  his  axe,  he  put  him 
self  in  a  boat  and  paddled  over  the  millpond  to 
some  new  lands  to  which  the  squire  pretended 
some  sort  of  claim,  intending  to  settle  them,  and 
build  a  meeting-house  without  a  steeple  as  soon 
as  he  grew  rich  enough. 

When  he  got  over,  Jonathan  found  that  the  land 
was  quite  in  a  state  of  nature,  covered  with  wood, 
and  inhabited  by  nobody  but  wild  beasts.  But 
being  a  lad  of  mettle,  he  took  his  axe  on  one 
shoulder  and  his  gun  on  the  other,  marched  into 
the  thickest  of  the  wood,  and  clearing  a  place,  built 
a  log  hut.  Pursuing  his  labours,  and  handling  his 
axe  like  a  notable  woodman,  he  in  a  few  years 
cleared  the  land,  which  he  laid  out  into  thirteen 
good  farms :  and  building  himself  a  fine  frame 
house,  about  half-finished,  began  to  be  quite  snug 
and  comfortable. 

But  Squire  Bull,  who  was  getting  old  and 
stingy,  and,  besides,  was  in  great  want  of  money, 
on  account  of  his  having  lately  been  made  to  pay 
swinging  damages  for  assaulting  his  neighbours 
and  breaking  their  heads — the  squire,  I  say,  find 
ing  Jonathan  was  getting  well  to  ^o  in  the  world, 
began  to  be  very  much  troubled  about  his  welfare ; 
so  he  demanded  that  Jonathan  should  pay  him  a 
good  rent  for  the  land  which  he  had  cleared  and 
made  good  for  something.  He  trumped  up  I  know 
not  what  claim  against  him,  and  under  different 
pretences  managed  to  pocket  all  Jonathan's  honest 
gains.  In  fact,  the  poor  lad  had  not  a  shilling  left 
for  holyday  occasions ;  and  had  it  not  been  for  the 
filial  respect  he  felt  for  the  old  man,  he  would  cer 
tainly  have  refused  to  submit  to  such  impositions. 

But  for  all  this,  in  a  little  time,  Jonathan  grew 
up  to  be  very  large  of  his  age,  and  became  a  tall, 
stout,  double-jointed,  broad-footed  cub  of  a  fellow, 
awkward  in  his  gait  and  simple  in  his  appearance ; 
but  showing  a  lively,  shrewd  look,  and  having  the 
promise  of  great  strength  when  he  should  get  his 
full  growth.  He  was  rather  an  odd-looking  chap, 
in  truth,  and  had  many  queer  ways ;  but  every 
body  that  had  seen  John  Bull  saw  a  great  likeness 
between  them,  and  swore  he  was  John's  own  boy, 
and  a  true  chip  of  the  old  block.  Like  the  old 
squire,  he  was  apt  to  be  blustering  and  saucy,  but 
in  the  main  was  a  peaceable  sort  of  careless  fellow, 
that  would  quarrel  with  nobody  if  you  only  let 
him  alone.  He  used  to  dress  in  homespun  trou 
sers  with  a  huge  bagging  seat,  which  seemed  to 
have  nothing  in  it.  This  made,  people  to  say  he 
had  no  bottom ;  but  whoever  said  so  lied,  as  they 
found  to  their  cost  whenever  they  put  Jonathan 
in  a  passion.  He  always  wore  a  linsey-woolsey 
coat  that  did  not  above  half  cover  his  breech,  and 
the  sleeves  of  which  were  so  short  that  his  hand 


JAMES    KIRKE    PAULDING. 


147 


and  wrist  came  out  beyond  them,  looking  like  a 
shoulder  of  mutton.  All  which  was  in  conse 
quence  of  his  growing  so  fast  that  he  outgrew  his 
clothes. 

While  Jonathan  was  outgrowing  his  strength 
in  this  way,  Bull  kept  on  picking  his  pockets  of 
every  penny  he  cou'd  scrape  together ;  till  at  last 
one  day  when  the  squire  was  even  more  than 
usually  pressing  in  his  demands,  which  he  accom 
panied  with  threats,  Jonathan  started  up  in  a  furi 
ous  passion,  and  threw  the  TEA-KETTLE  at  the 
old  man's  head.  The  choleric  Bull  was  hereupon 
exceedingly  enraged ;  and  after  calling  the  poor 
lad  an  undutiful,  ungrateful,  rebellious  rascal, 
seized  him  by  the  collar,  and  forthwith  a  furious 
scuffle  ensued.  This  lasted  a  long  time  ;  for  the 
squire,  though  in  years,  was  a  capital  boxer,  and 
of  most  excellent  bottom.  At  last,  however,  Jona 
than  got  him  under,  and  before  he  would  let  him 
up,  made  him  sign  a  paper  giving  up  all  claim  to 
the  farms,  and  acknowledging  the  fee-simple  to  be 
in  Jonathan  for  ever. 


A  NIGHT   ADVENTURE  DURING  THE 
OLD  FRENCH  WAR. 

FROM  THE  DUTCHMAN'S  FIRESIDE. 

"  SHOULD  you  discover  the  position  of  the  ene 
my,"  continued  Sir  William  Johnson  to  Sybrandt, 
"  you  must  depend  upon  your  own  sagacity,  and 
that  of  Timothy  Weasel  for  the  direction  of  your 
subsequent  conduct." 

"Timothy  Weasel!  who  is  he?" 

"  What !  have  you  never  heard  of  Timothy 
Weasel,  the  Varmounter,  as  he  calls  himself!" 

«  Never." 

"  Well  then,  I  must  give  you  a  sketch  of  his 
story  before  I  introduce  him.  He  was  born  in 
New  Hampshire,  as  he  says,  and  in  due  time,  as 
is  customary  in  those  parts,  married,  and  took  pos 
session,  by  right  of  discovery  I  suppose,  of  a  tract 
of  land  in  what  was  at  that  time  called  the  New 
Hampshire  grants.  Others  followed  him,  and  in 
the  course  of  a  few  years  a  little  settlement  was 
formed  of  real  'cute  Yankees,  as  Timothy  calls 
them,  to  the  amount  of  sixty  or  seventy  men,  wo 
men,  and  children.  They  were  gradually  growing 
in  wealth  and  numbers,  when  one  night,  in  the 
dead  of  winter,  they  were  set  upon  by  a  party  of 
Indians  from  Canada,  and  every  soul  of  them,  ex 
cept  Timothy,  either  consumed  in  the  flames  or 
massacred  in  the  attempt  to  escape.  I  have  wit 
nessed  in  the  course  of  my  life  many  scenes  of 
horror,  but  nothing  like  that  which  he  describes, 
in  which  his  wife  and  eight  children  perished. 
Timothy  was  left  for  dead  by  the  savages,  who,  as 
is  their  custom,  departed  at  the  dawn,  for  fear  the 
news  of  this  massacre  might  rouse  some  of  the 
neighbouring  settlements  in  time  to  overtake  them 
before  they  reached  home.  When  all  was  silent, 
Timothy,  who,  though  severely  wounded  in  a 
dozen  places,  had,  as  he  says,  only  been  « playing 
'possum,'  raised  himself  up  and  looked  around 
him.  The  smoking  ruins,  mangled  limbs,  blood 


stained  snow,  and  the  whole  scene,  as  he  describes 
it  with  quaint  pathos,  is  enough  to  make  one's 
blood  run  cold.  He  managed  to  raise  himself  up 
right,  and,  by  dint  of  incredible  exertions,  to  reach 
a  neighbouring  settlement,  distant  about  forty 
miles,  where  he  told  his  story,  and  then  was  put 
to  bed,  where  he  lay  some  weeks.  In  the  mean 
time  the  people  of  the  settlement  had  gone  and 
buried  the  remains  of  his  unfortunate  family  and 
neighbours.  When  Timothy  got  well,  he  visited 
the  spot,  and  while  viewing  the  ruins  of  the  houses, 
and  pondering  over  the  graves  of  all  that  were 
dear  to  him,  solemnly  devoted  the  remainder  of 
his  life  to  revenge.  He  accordingly  buried  him 
self  in  the  woods,  and  built  a  cabin  about  twelve 
miles  from  hence,  in  a  situation  the  most  favour 
able  to  killing  the  <  kritters,'  as  he  calls  the  savages. 
From  that  time  until  now  he  has  waged  a  perpe 
tual  war  against  them,  and,  according  to  his  own 
account,  sacrificed  almost  a  hecatomb  to  the  manes 
of  his  wife  and  children.  His  intrepidity  is  won 
derful,  and  his  sagacity  in  the  pursuit  of  this  grand 
object  of  his  life  beyond  all  belief.  I  am  half  a 
savage  myself,  but  I  have  heard  this  man  relate 
stories  of  his  adventures  and  escapes  which  make 
me  feel  myself,  in  the  language  of  the  red  skins, 
<  a  woman'  in  comparison  with  this  strange  com 
pound  of  cunning  and  simplicity.  It  is  inconceiv 
able  with  what  avidity  he  will  hunt  an  Indian ; 
and  the  keenest  sportsman  does  not  feel  a  hun 
dredth  part  of  the  delight  in  bringing  down  his 
game  that  Timothy  does  in  witnessing  the  mortal 
pangs  of  one  of  these  <  kritters.'  It  is  a  horrible 
propensity :  but  to  lose  all  in  one  night,  and  to 
wake  the  next  morning  and  see  nothing  but  the 
mangled  remains  of  wife,  children,  all  that  man 
holds  most  dear  to  his  inmost  heart,  is  no  trifle. 
If  ever  man  had  motive  for  revenge,  it  is  Timothy. 
Such  as  he  is  I  employ  him,  and  find  his  services 
highly  useful.  He  is  a  compound  of  the  two  races, 
and  combines  all  the  qualities  essential  to  the  spe 
cies  of  warfare  in  which  we  are  now  engaged.  I 
have  sent  for  him,  and  expect  him  here  every 
moment." 

As  Sir  William  concluded,  Sybrandt  heard  a 
long  dry  sort  of  "  H-e-e-m-m,"  ejaculated  just  out 
side  of  the  door.  "  That's  he,"  exclaimed  Sir 
William ;  "  I  know  the  sound.  It  is  his  usual 
expression  of  satisfaction  at  the  prospect  of  being 
employed  against  his  old  enemies  the  Indians. 
Come  in,  Timothy." 

Timothy  accordingly  made  his  appearance,  for 
got  his  bow,  and  said  nothing.  Sybrandt  eyed  his 
associate  with  close  attention.  He  was  a  tall, 
wind-dried  man,  with  extremely  sharp,  angulur 
features,  and  a  complexion  deeply  bronzed  by  the 
exposures  to  which  he  had  been  subjected  for  so 
many  years.  His  scanty  head  of  hair  was  of  a 
sort  of  sunburnt  colour ;  his  beard  of  a  month's 
growth  at  least,  and  his  eye  of  sprightly  blue  never 
rested  a  moment  in  its  socket.  It  glanced  from 
side  to  side,  and  up  and  down,  and  here  and  there, 
with  indescribable  rapidity,  as  though  in  search  of 
some  object  of  interest,  or  apprehensive 
danger.  It  was  a  perpetual  silent  alarum. 


148 


JAMES    KIRKE    PAULDING. 


"  Timothy,"  said  Sir  William,  "  I  want  to  em 
ploy  you  to-night." 

"  H-e-m-m,"  answered  Timothy. 

«  Are  you  at  leisure  to  depart  immediately  1" 

«  What,  right  off?" 

«  Ay,  in  less  than  no  time." 

"  I  guess  I  am." 

«  Very  well — that  means  you  are  certain." 

"  I'm  always  sartin  of  my  mark." 

"  Have  you  your  gun  with  you  1" 

«  The  kritter  is  just  outside  the  door." 

"  And  plenty  of  ammunition  ?" 

"  Why,  what  under  the  sun  should  I  do  with  a 
gun  and  no  ammunition?" 

«  Can  you  paddle  a  canoe  so  that  nobody  can 
hear  you  1" 

«  Can't  II  h-e-e-m-m!" 

"  And  you  are  all  ready  !" 

"  I  'spect  so.  I  knew  you  didn't  want  me  for 
nothing,  and  so  got  every  thing  to  hand." 

"  Have  you  any  thing  to  eat  by  the  way  ?" 

"  No ;  if  I  only  stay  out  two  or  three  days  I 
sha'n't  want  any  thing." 

"  But  you  are  to  have  a  companion." 

Timothy  here  manufactured  a  sort  of  linsey- 
woolsey  grunt,  betokening  disapprobation. 

«  I'd  rather  go  alone." 

"  But  it  is  necessary  you  should  have  a  com 
panion;  this  young  gentleman  will  go  with 
vou." 

Timothy  hereupon  subjected  Sybrandt  to  a  rigid 
mutiny  of  those  busy  eyes  of  his,  that  seemed  to 
un  over  him  as  quick  as  lightning. 

"  I'd  rather  go  by  myself,"  said  he  again. 

"  That  is  out  of  the  question,  so  say  no  more 
about  it.  Are  you  ready  to  go  now — this  minute  1 " 

"Yes." 

Sir  William  then  explained  the  object  of  the 
expedition  to  Timothy  much  in  the  same  manner 
he  had  previously  done  to  Sybrandt. 

"  But  mayn't  I  shoot  one  of  these  tarnil  kritters 
if  he  comes  in  my  way  1"  said  Timothy,  in  a  tone 
of  great  interest. 

"  No ;  you  are  not  to  fire  a  gun,  nor  attempt 
any  hostility  whatever,  unless  it  is  neck  or  nothing 
with  you." 

«  Well,  that's  what  I  call  hard ;  but  maybe  it 
will  please  God  to  put  our  lives  in  danger — that's 
some  comfort." 

The  knight  now  produced  two  Indian  dresses, 
which  he  directed  them  to  put  on  somewhat 
against  the  inclinations  of  friend  Timothy,  who 
observed  that  if  he  happened  to  see  his  shadow  in 
the  water,  he  should  certainly  mistake  it  for  one 
of  the  tarnil  kritters,  and  shoot  himself.  Sir  Wil 
liam  then  with  his  own  hand  painted  the  face  of 
Sybrandt  so  as  to  resemble  that  of  an  Indian — an 
operation  not  at  all  necessary  to  Timothy ;  his 
toilet  was  already  made ;  his  complexion  required 
no  embellishment.  This  done,  the  night  having 
now  set  in,  Sir  William,  motioning  silence,  led 
the  way  cautiously  to  one  of  the  gates  of  Ticon- 
deroga,  which  was  opened  by  the  sentinel,  and 
they  proceeded  swiftly  and  silently  to  the  high 
oank  which  hung  over  the  narrow  strait  in  front 


of  the  fort.  A  little  bark  canoe  lay  moored  at  the 
foot,  into  which  Sybrandt  and  Timothy  placed 
themselves  flat  on  the  bottom,  each  with  his  mus 
ket  and  accoutrements  at  his  side,  and  a  paddle  in 
his  hand. 

«  Now,"  said  Sir  William,  almost  in  a  whisper, 
— "  now,  luck  be  with  you,  boys ;  remember,  you 
are  to  return  before  daylight  without  fail." 

«  But,  Sir  William,"  said  Timothy,  coaxingly, 
"  now,  mayn't  I  take  a  pop  at  one  of  the  tarnal 
kritters,  if  I  meet  'em?" 

"  I  tell  you,  No  !"  replied  the  other ;  «  unless 
you  wish  to  be  popped  out  of  the  world  when  you 
come  back.  Away  with  you,  my  boys." 

Each  seized  his  paddle ;  and  the  light  feather 
of  a  boat  darted  away  with  the  swiftness  of  a  bub 
ble  in  a  whirlpool. 

"  It's  plaguy  hard,"  muttered  Timothy  to  him 
self. 

"  What?"  quoth  Sybrandt. 

"  Why,  not  to  have  the  privilege  of  shooting 
one  of  these  varmints." 

"  Not  another  word,"  whispered  Sybrandt;  "  we 
may  be  overheard  from  the  shore." 

"Does  he  think  I  don't  know  what's  what?" 
again  muttered  Timothy,  plying  his  paddle  with  a 
celerity  and  silence  that  Sybrandt  vainly  tried  to 
equal. 

The  night  gradually  grew  dark  as  pitch.  All 
became  of  one  colour,  and  the  earth  and  the  air 
were  confounded  together  in  utter  obscurity,  at 
least  to  the  eyes  of  Sybrandt  Westbrook.  Not  a 
breath  of  wind  disturbed  the  foliage  of  the  trees 
that  hung  invisible  to  all  eyes  but  those  of  Timo 
thy,  who  seemed  to  see  best  in  the  dark ;  not  an 
echo,  not  a  whisper  disturbed  the  dead  silence  of 
nature,  as  they  darted  along  unseen  and  unseeing^ 
— at  least  our  hero  could  see  nothing  but  darkness. 

"  Whisht !"  aspirated  Timothy,  at  length,  so 
low  that  he  could  scarcely  hear  himself;  and  after 
making  a  few  strokes  with  his  paddle,  so  as  to  shoot 
the  boat  out  of  her  course,  cowered  himself  down 
to  the  bottom.  Sybrandt  did  the  same,  peering 
just  over  the  side  of  the  boat,  to  discover  if  possible 
the  reason  of  Timothy's  manoeuvres.  Suddenly 
he  heard,  or  thought  he  heard,  the  measured  sound 
of  paddles  dipping  lightly  into  the  water.  A  few 
minutes  more  and  he  saw  five  or  six  little  lights 
glimmering  indistinctly  through  the  obscurity,  ap 
parently  at  a  great  distance.  Timothy  raised 
himself  up  suddenly,  seized  his  gun  and  pointed 
it  for  a  moment  at  one  of  the  lights ;  but  recol 
lecting  the  injunction  of  Sir  William,  immediately 
resumed  his  former  position.  In  a  few  minutes 
the  sound  of  the  paddles  died  away,  and  the  lights 
disappeared. 

«  What  was  that?"  whispered  Sybrandt. 

"  The  Frenchmen  are  turning  the  tables  on  us, 
I  guess,"  replied  the  other.  <«  If  that  boat  isn't 
going  a-spying  jist  like  ourselves,  I'm  quite  out  in 
my  calculation." 

"What!  with  lights?  They  must  be  great 
fools." 

"  It  was  only  the  fire  of  their  pipes,  which  the 
darkness  made  look  like  so  many  candles.  I'm 


JAMES    KIRKE    PAULDING. 


149 


thinking  what  a  fine  mark  these  lights  would  have 
bin ;  and  how  I  could  have  peppered  two  or  three 
of  them,  if  Sir  William  had  not  bin  so  plaguy  ob 
stinate." 

"  Peppered  them !  why,  they  were  half-a-dozen 
miles  off." 

"  They  were  within  fifty  yards — the  kritters ;  I 
could  have  broke  all  their  pipes  as  easy  as  kiss  my 
hand." 

"  How  do  you  know  they  were  kritters,  as  you 
call  the  Indians  ?" 

"  Why,  did  you  ever  hear  so  many  Frenchmen 
make  so  little  noise?" 

This  reply  was  perfectly  convincing;  and  Sy- 
brandt  again  enjoining  silence,  they  proceeded 
with  the  same  celerity,  and  in  the  same  intensity 
of  darkness  as  before,  for  more  than  an  hour. 
This  brought  them,  at  the  swift  rate  they  were 
going,  a  distance  of  at  least  twenty  miles  from  the 
place  of  their  departure. 

Turning  a  sharp  angle,  at  the  expiration  of  the 
time  just  specified,  Timothy  suddenly  stopped  his 
paddle  as  before,  and  cowered  down  at  the  bottom 
of  the  canoe.  Sybrandt  had  no  occasion  to  inquire 
the  reason  of  this  action ;  for,  happening  to  look 
toward  the  shore,  he  could  discover  at  a  distance 
innumerable  lights  glimmering  and  flashing  amid 
the  obscurity,  and  rendering  the  darkness  beyond 
the  sphere  of  their  influence  still  more  profound. 
These  lights  appeared  to  extend  several  miles 
along  what  he  supposed  to  be  the  strait  or  lake, 
which  occasionally  reflected  their  glancing  rays 
upon  its  quiet  bosom. 

"  There  they  are,  the  kritters,"  whispered  Timo 
thy  exultingly ;  «  we've  treed  'em  at  last,  I  swow. 
Now,  mister,  let  me  ask  you  one  question — will 
you  obey  my  orders'?" 

"  If  I  like  them,"  said  Sybrandt. 

"  Ay,  like  or  no  like.  I  must  be  captain  for  a 
little  time,  at  least." 

"  I  have  no  objection  to  benefit  by  your  expe 
rience." 

"  Can  you  play  Ingen  when  you  are  put  to  it!" 

"  I  have  been  among  them,  and  know  something 
of  their  character  and  manners." 

"  Can  you  talk  Ingen  '?" 

«  No !" 

"  Ah  !  your  education  has  been  sadly  neglected. 
But  come,  there's  no  time  to  waste  in  talking  In 
gen  or  English.  We  must  get  right  in  the  middle 
of  these  kritters.  Can  you  creep  on  all-fours  with 
out  waking  up  a  cricket?" 

"No!" 

"  Plague  on  it !  I  wonder  what  Sir  William 
meant  by  sending  you  with  me.  I  could  have 
done  better  by  myself.  Are  you  afeared  ?" 

«  Try  me." 

*  Well,  then,  I  must  make  the  best  of  the  mat 
ter.  The  kritters  are  camped  out — I  see  by  their 
fires — by  themselves.  I  can't  stop  to  tell  you 
every  thing ;  but  you  must  keep  close  to  me,  do 
jist  as  I  do,  and  say  nothing ;  that's  all." 

"  I  am  likely  to  play  a  pretty  part,  I  see." 

"  Play  !  you'll  find  no  play  here,  I  guess,  mister. 
Set  down  close  ;  make  no  noise ;  and  if  you  go  to 


sneeze  or  cough,  take  right  hold  of  your  throat, 
and  let  it  go  downwards." 

Sybrandt  obeyed  his  injunctions ;  and  Timothy 
proceeded  toward  the  lights,  which  appeared  much 
farther  off  in  the  darkness  than  they  really  were, 
handling  his  paddle  with  such  lightness  and  dex 
terity  that  Sybrandt  could  not  hear  the  strokes. 
In  this  manner  they  swiftly  approached  the  en 
campment,  until  they  could  distinguish  a  confused 
noise  of  shoutings  and  hallooings  which  gradually 
broke  on  their  ears  in  discordant  violence.  Timo 
thy  stopped  his  paddle  and  listened. 

"  It  is  the  song  of  those  tarnal  kritters,  the  Uta- 
was.  They're  in  a  drunken  frolic,  as  they  always 
are  the  night  before  going  to  battle.  I  know  the 
kritters,  for  I've  popped  off  a  few,  and  can  talk 
and  sing  their  songs  pretty  considerably,  I  guess. 
So  we'll  be  among  'em  right  off.  Don't  forget 
what  I  told  you  about  doing  as  I  do,  and  holding 
your  tongue." 

Cautiously  plying  his  paddle,  he  now  shot  in 
close  to  the  shore  whence  the  sounds  of  revelry 
proceeded,  and  made  the  land  at  seme  little  dis 
tance,  that  he  might  avoid  the  sentinels,  whom 
they  could  hear  ever  and  anon  challenging  each 
other.  They  then  drew  up  the  light  canoe  into 
the  bushes,  which  here  closely  skirted  the  waters. 
"  Now  leave  all  behind  but  yourself,  and  follow 
me,"  whispered  Timothy,  as  he  carefully  felt 
whether  the  muskets  were  well  covered  from  the 
damps  of  the  night;  and  then  laid  himself  down 
on  his  face  and  crawled  along  under  the  bushes 
with  the  quiet  celerity  of  a  snake  in  the  grass. 

"  Must  we  leave  our  guns  behind,"  whispered 
Sybrandt. 

"  Yes,  according  to  orders ;  but  it's  a  plaguy 
hard  case.  Yet  upon  the  whole  it's  best ;  for  if  I 
was  to  get  a  fair  chance  at  one  of  these  kritters,  I 
believe  in  my  heart  my  gun  would  go  off  clean  of 
itself.  But  hush  !  shut  your  mouth  as  close  as  a 
powder-horn." 

After  proceeding  some  distance,  Sybrandt  get 
ting  well  scratched  by  the  briars,  and  finding  infi 
nite  difficulty  in  keeping  up  with  Timothy,  the 
latter  stopped  short. 

"  Here  the  kritters  are,"  said  he,  in  the  lowest 
whisper. 

"  Where?"  replied  the  other,  in  the  same  tone. 

"  Look  right  before  you." 

Sybrandt  followed  the  direction,  and  beheld  a 
group  of  five  or  six  Indians  seated  round  a  fire, 
the  waning  lustre  of  which  cast  a  fitful  light  upon 
their  dark  countenances,  whose  savage  expression 
was  heightened  to  ferocity  by  the  stimulant  of  the 
debauch  in  which  they  were  engaged.  They  sat 
on  the  ground  swaying  to  and  fro,  backward  and 
forward,  and  from  side  to  side,  ever  and  anon  pass 
ing  round  the  canteen  from  one  to  the  other,  and 
sometimes  rudely  snatching  it  away  when  they 
thought  either  was  drinking  more  than  his  share. 
At  intervals  they  broke  out  into  yelling  and  dis 
cordant  songs,  filled  with  extravagant  boastings  of 
murders,  massacres,  burnings,  and  plundering*, 
mixed  up  with  threatening  of  what  they  would 
do  to  the  red-coat  long  knives  on  the  morrow. 

N  2 


150 


JAMES    KIRKE    PAULDING. 


One  of  these  songs  recited  the  destruction  of  a  vil 
lage,  and  bore  a  striking  resemblance  to  the  bloody 
catastrophe  of  poor  Timothy's  wife  and  children. 
Sybrandt  could  not  understand  it,  but  he  could 
hear  the  quick  suppressed  breathings  of  his  com 
panion,  who,  when  it  was  done,  aspirated,  in  a 
tone  of  smothered  vengeance,  "  If  I  only  had  my 
gun !" 

"  Stay  here  a  moment,"  whispered  he,  as  he 
crept  cautiously  toward  the  noisy  group,  which  all 
at  once  became  perfectly  quiet,  and  remained  in 
the  attitude  of  listening. 

"  Huh !"  muttered  one,  who  appeared  by  his 
dress  to  be  the  principal. 

Timothy  replied  in  a  few  Indian  words,  which 
Sybrandt  did  not  comprehend ;  and  raising  him 
self  from  the  ground,  suddenly  appeared  in  the 
midst  of  them.  A  few  words  were  rapidly  inter- 
c.ianged ;  and  Timothy  then  brought  forward  his 
companion,  whom  he  presented  to  the  Utawas, 
who  welcomed  him  and  handed  the  canteen,  now 
almost  empty. 

"  My  brother  does  not  talk,"  said  Timothy. 

"Is  he  dumb?"  asked  the  chief  of  the  Utawas. 

"  No ;  but  he  has  sworn  not  to  open  his  mouth 
till  he  has  struck  the  body  of  a  long  knife." 

"  Good,"  said  the  other ;  "  he  is  welcome." 

After  a  pause  he  went  on,  at  the  same  time  eye 
ing  Sybrandt  with  suspicion ;  though  his  faculties 
were  obscured  by  the  fumes  of  the  liquor  he  still 
continued  to  drink,  and  hand  round  at  short 
intervals. 

"  I  don't  remember  the  young  warrior.  Is  he 
of  our  tribe  ?" 

«  He  is ;  but  he  was  stolen  by  the  Mohawks 
many  years  ago,  and  only  returned  lately." 

"  How  did  he  escape  1" 

"  He  killed  two  chiefs  while  they  were  asleep 
by  the  fire,  and  ran  away." 

"  Good,"  said  the  Utawas ;  and  for  a  few  mo 
ments  sunk  into  a  kind  of  stupor,  from  which  he 
suddenly  roused  himself,  and  grasping  his  toma 
hawk  started  up,  rushed  toward  Sybrandt,  and 
raising  his  deadly  weapon,  stood  over  him  in  the 
attitude  of  striking.  Sybrandt  remained  perfectly 
unmoved,  waiting  the  stroke. 

"  Good,"  said  the  Utawas  again ;  "  I  am  satis 
fied  ;  the  Utawas  never  shuts  his  eyes  at  death. 
He  is  worthy  to  be  our  brother.  He  shall  go  with 
us  to  battle  to-morrow." 

"  We  have  just  come  in  time,"  said  Timothy. 
"  Does  the  white  chief  march  against  the  red-coats 
to-morrow  1" 

«  He  does." 

"  Has  he  men  enough  to  fight  them  ]" 

"  They  are  like  the  leaves  on  the  trees,"  said 
the  other. 

By  degrees  Timothy  drew  from  the  Utawas 
chief  the  number  of  Frenchmen,  Indians,  and 
roureurs  <k  b<  i  ,  which  composed  the  army;  the 
time  when  they  were  to  commence  their  march  ; 
the  course  they  were  to  take,  and  the  outlines  of 
the  plan  of  attack,  in  case  the  British  either  waited 
f  >r  them  in  the  fort  or  met  them  in  the  field.  By 
the  time  he  had  finished  his  examination,  the 


whole  party,  with  the  exception  of  Timothy,  Sy 
brandt,  and  the  chief,  were  fast  asleep.  In  a  few 
minutes  after,  the  two  former  affected  to  be  in  the 
same  state,  and  began  to  snore  lustily.  The  Uta 
was  chief  nodded  from  side  to  side ;  then  sunk 
down  like  a  log  and  remained  insensible  to  every 
thing  around  him,  in  the  sleep  of  drunkenness. 

Timothy  lay  without  motion  for  awhile,  then 
turned  himself  over,  and  rolled  about  from  side  to 
side,  managing  to  strike  against  each  of  the  party 
in  succession.  They  remained  fast  asleep.  He 
then  cautiously  raised  himself,  and  Sybrandt  did 
the  same.  In  a  moment  Timothy  was  down  again, 
and  Sybrandt  followed  his  example  without  know 
ing  why,  until  he  heard  some  one  approach,  and 
distinguished,  as  they  came  nigh,  two  officers,  ap 
parently  of  rank.  They  halted  near  the  waning 
fire,  and  one  said  to  the  other  in  French,  in  a  low 
tone : 

"  The  beasts  are  all  asleep :  it  is  time  to  wake 
them.  Our  spies  are  come  back,  and  we  must 
march." 

"  Not  yet,"  replied  the  other ;  «  let  them  sleep 
an  hour  longer,  and  they  will  wake  sober."  They 
then  passed  on,  and  when  their  footsteps  were  no 
longer  heard,  Timothy  again  raised  himself  up, 
motioning  our  hero  to  lie  still.  After  ascertaining 
by  certain  tests  which  experience  had  taught  him 
that  the  Indians  still  continued  in  a  profound 
sleep,  he  proceeded  with  wonderful  dexterity  and 
silence  to  shake  the  priming  from  each  of  the  guns 
in  succession.  After  this,  he  took  their  powder- 
horns  and  emptied  them;  then  seizing  up  the 
tomahawk  of  the  Utawas  chief,  which  had  dropped 
from  his  hand,  he  stood  over  him  for  a  moment 
with  an  expression  of  deadly  hatred  which  Sy 
brandt  had  never  before  seen  in  his  or  any  other 
countenance.  The  intense  desire  of  killing  one 
of  the  kritters,  as  he  called  them,  struggled  a  few 
moments  with  his  obligations  to  obey  the  order? 
of  Sir  William ;  but  the  latter  at  length  triumphed 
and  motioning  Sybrandt,  they  crawled  away  with 
the  silence  and  celerity  with  which  they  came; 
launched  their  light  canoe  and  plied  their  paddles 
with  might  and  main.  "  The  morning  breeze  is 
springing  up,"  said  Timothy,  "  and  it  will  soon 
be  daylight.  We  must  be  tarnal  busy." 

And  busy  they  were,  and  swiftly  did  the  light 
canoe  slide  over  the  wave,  leaving  scarce  a  wake 
behind  her.  As  they  turned  the  angle  which  hid 
the  encampment  from  their  view,  Timothy  ven 
tured  to  speak  a  little  above  his  breath. 

"  It's  lucky  for  us  that  the  boat  we  passed  com 
ing  down  has  returned,  for  it's  growing  light  apace. 
I'm  only  sorry  for  one  thing." 
"What's  that!"  asked  Sybrandt. 
"  That  I  let  that  drunken  Utawas  alone.     If  I 

i  had  only  bin  out  on  my  own  bottom,  he'd  have 
bin  stun  dead  in  a  twinkling,  I  guess." 

"  And  you,  too,  I  gwe.ss,"  said  Sybrandt,  adopt- 

i  ing  his  peculiar  phraseology  ;  "  you  would  have 

i   been  overtaken  and  killed." 

|    .   "  Who,  11     I  must  be  a  poor  kritter  if  I  can't 

;   dodge  half  a  dozen  of  these  drunken  varmints  ' 
A  few  hours  of  sturdy  exertion  brought  them  at 


JAMES    KIRKE    PAULDiNG. 


151 


length  within  sight  of  Ticonderoga,  just  as  the  red 
harbingers  of  morning  striped  the  pale  green  of 
the  skies.  Star  after  star  disappeared,  as  Timothy 
observed,  like  candles  that  had  been  burning  all 
night  and  gone  out  of  themselves,  and  as  they 
struck  the  foot  of  the  high  bluff  whence  they  had 
departed,  the  rays  of  the  sun  just  tipped  the  peaks 
of  the  high  mountains  rising  toward  the  west. 
Timothy  then  shook  hands  with  our  hero. 

"  You're  a  hearty  kritter,"  said  he, "  and  I'll  tell 
Sir  William  how  you  looked  at  that  tarnal  toma 
hawk  as  if  it  had  bin  an  old  pipe-stem." 

Without  losing  a  moment,  they  proceeded  to 
the  quarters  of  Sir  William,  whom  they  found 
waiting  for  them  with  extreme  anxiety.  He  ex 
tended  both  hands  toward  our  hero,  and  eagerly 
exclaimed — 

"  What  luck,  my  lads  ?  I  have  been  up  all 
night,  waiting  your  return." 

«  Then  you  will  be  quite  likely  to  sleep  sound 
to-night,"  quoth  master  Timothy,  unbending  the 
intense  rigidity  of  his  leathern  countenance.  «  I 
am  of  opinion  if  a  man  wants  to  have  a  real  good 
night's  rest,  he's  only  to  set  up  the  night  before, 
and  he  may  calculate  upon  it  with  sartinty." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Timothy,"  said  Sir  Wil 
liam,  good-humouredly, "  or  else  speak  to  the  pur 
pose.  Have  you  been  at  the  enemy's  camp]" 

"  Eight  in  their  very  bowels,"  said  Timothy. 

Sir  William  proceeded  to  question,  and  Sybrandt 
and  Timothy  to  answer,  until  he  drew  from  them 
all  the  important  information  of  which  they  had 
possessed  themselves.  He  then  dismissed  Timo 
thy  with  cordial  thanks  and  a  purse  of  yellow  boys, 
which  he  received  with  much  satisfaction. 

"  It's  not  of  any  great  use  to  me,  to  be  sure," 
said  he  as  he  departed  ;  "  but  somehow  or  other  I 
love  to  look  at  the  kritters." 

"  As  to  you,  Sybrandt  Westbrook,  you  have 
fulfilled  the  expectations  I  formed  of  you  on  our 
first  acquaintance.  You  claim  a  higher  reward ; 
for  you  have  acted  from  higher  motives  and  at 
least  equal  courage  and  resolution.  His  majesty 
shall  know  of  this;  and  in  the  mean  time  call 
yourself  Major  Westbrook,  for  such  you  are  from 
this  moment.  Now  go  with  me  to  the  commander- 
in-chief,  who  must  know  of  what  you  heard  and 
saw." 

DEATH  IN  THE   COUNTRY. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

THERE  is  to  my  mind  and  to  my  early  recollec 
tions  something  exquisitely  touching  in  the  tolling 
of  a  church-bell  amid  the  silence  of  the  country. 
It  communicates  for  miles  around  the  message  of 
mortality.  The  ploughman  stops  his  horses  to 
listen  to  the  solemn  tidings ;  the  housewife  remits 
her  domestic  occupations,  and  sits  with  the  needle 
idle  in  her  fingers,  to  ponder  who  it  is  that  is  going 
to  the  long  home ;  arid  even  the  little  thoughtless 
children,  playing  and  laughing  their  way  from 


school,  are  arrested  for  a  moment  in  their  evening 
gambols  by  these  sounds  of  melancholy  import, 
and  cover  their  heads  when  they  go  to  rest. 

KENTUCKY   HOSPITALITY. 

FROM  WESTWARD   HO ! 

"  You  must  know,  colonel,  not  long  after  you 
went  away  there  came  a  man  riding  along  here 
that  I  calculate  had  just  thrown  off  his  moccasins, 
with  another  feller  behind  him  in  a  laced  hat, 
and  for  all  the  world  dressed  like  a  militia  officer. 
Well,  I  hailed  him  in  here,  for  you  know  I  like  to 
do  as  you  would  in  your  own  house ;  and  he  came 
to  like  a  good  feller.  But  the  captain,  as  I  took 
him  to  be,  hung  fire  and  stayed  out  with  the  horses. 
So  I  went  and  took  hold  of  him  like  a  snapping- 
turtle,  and  says  I,  '  Captain,  one  would  think  you 
had  never  been  inside  of  a  gentleman's  house  be 
fore.'  But  he  held  back  like  all  wrath,  and 
wouldn't  take  any  thing.  So  says  I,  <  Stranger, 
I'm  a  peaceable  man  anyhow,  but  maybe  you 
don't  know  what  it  is  to  insult  a  feller  by  sneak 
ing  away  from  his  hospitality  here  in  Old  Ken- 
tuck.'  I  held  on  to  him  all  the  while,  or  he'd 
have  gone  off  like  one  of  these  plaguy  precussion- 
locks  that  have  just  come  into  fashion.  '  Captain,' 
says  I,  '  here's  your  health,  and  may  you  live  to 
be  a  general.'  'Captain!'  says  the  other, 'he's 
no  captain ;  he's  my  servant.  <  What !'  says  I, 
'  one  white  man  be  a  servant  to  another  !  make  a 
nigger  of  himself!  come,  that's  too  bad!'  and  I 
began  to  feel  a  little  sa*age.  I  asked  one  if  he 
wasn't  ashamed  to  make  a  slave  of  a  feller-cretur, 
and  the  other  if  he  wasn't  ashamed  to  make  a 
nigger  of  himself;  and  they  got  rather  obstropo- 
lous.  I  don't  know  exactly  how  it  came  about, 
but  we  got  into  a  fight,  and  I  lick'd  them  both, 
but  not  till  they  got  outside  the  door,  for  I 
wouldn't  be  uncivil  anyhow.  Well,  what  do 
you  think]  instead  of  settling  the  thing  like  a 
gentleman,  the  feller  that  had  a  white  man  for  his 
nigger,  instead  of  coming  out  fine,  I'll  be  eternally 
dern'd  if  he  didn't  send  a  constable  after  me. 
Well,  I  made  short  work  of  it,  and  lick'd  him  too, 
anyhow.  But  I  can't  stand  it  here  any  longer. 
Poor  old  Snowball*  slipped  her  bridle  the  other 
day,  and  went  out  like  a  flash  in  the  pan ;  so  I'm 
my  own  master  again,  with  nobody  to  stand  in 
my  way  at  all.  I  must  look  out  for  some  place 
where  a  man  can  live  independent,  where  there's 
no  law  but  gentlemen's  law,  and  no  niggers  but 
black  ones.  I  sha'n't  see  you  again,  colonel,  it's 
most  likely,  so  good-by  all.  I  expect  you'll  be 
after  me  soon,  for  I  look  upon  it  to  be  impossible 
for  a  man  in  his  senses  to  live  here  much  longer, 
to  be  hoppled  like  a  horse,  and  not  go  where  he 
pleases."  And  away  he  marched,  with  a  heart 
as  light  as  a  feather,  in  search  of  a  place  where 
he  might  live  according  to  his  conscience. 

*A  servant  who  had  died. 


TIMOTHY  FLINT. 


[Born  1780.    Died  1840.] 


TIMOTHY  FLINT  was  born  in  Reading, 
Massachutetts,  and  was  educated  at  Harvard 
College,  where  he  graduated  when  twenty 
years  of  age.  After  devoting  two  years  to 
the  study  of  theology,  he  was  ordained  as 
minister  of  the  Congregational  church  in  Lu- 
nenburg,  in  the  county  of  Worcester,  where 
he  continued  until  the  summer  of  1814.  In 
the  following  year,  hoping  that  travel  and  the 
milder  airs  of  the  south-west  would  improve 
his  health,  which  had  been  impaired  by  seden 
tary  habits,  he  became  a  missionary  for  the 
Valley  of  the  Mississippi.  The  first  winter 
was  passed  in  Cincinnati,  the  following  spring 
in  making  a  tour  through  parts  of  Ohio,  Indi 
ana,  and  Kentucky,  and  the  summer  in  St. 
Louis.  In  September  he  arrived  at  St. 
Charles,  where,  occupied  in  the  wide  range 
of  his  missionary  duties,  he  remained  nearly 
three  years.  He  then  descended  the  Missis 
sippi  to  Arkansas,  but  -met  with  disappoint 
ments,  and  after  a  gloomy  summer  returned 
to  the  counties  of  Cape  Girardeau  and  St. 
Genevieve;  and  in  1821  to  his  former  resi 
dence  at  St.  Charles,  where,  with  nearly  all 
the  members  of  his  family,  he  suffered  severe 
and  protracted  illness.  In  1822  he  removed 
to  New  Orleans ;  in  the  following  spring  to 
the  Florida  side  of  Lake  Ponchartrain,  where 
he  opened  a  school ;  in  the  autumn  back  to 
New  Orleans;  and  in  the  summer  of  1824  to 
Alexandria,  on  Red  River,  where  he  accepted 
the  charge  of  a  seminary,  and  continued  until, 
at  the  end  of  the  year,  a  broken  constitution 
compelled  him  to  suspend  his  labours  and 
revisit  the  northern  states. 

Soon  after  his  removal  to  Alexandria,  Mr. 
Flint  began  to  write  his  Recollections  of 
Ten  Years  passed  in  the  Valley  of  the  Mis 
sissippi,  which  were  published  in  Boston 
early  in  1826.  This  was  his  first  work,  and 
its  success  was  decided  and  immediate.  Lite 
rature  now  became  his  profession.  Francis 
Berrian,  or  the  Mexican  Patriot,  which  was 
probably  commenced  before  he  left  the  south, 
appeared  in  the  following  summer.  It  pur 
ports  to  be  the  autobiography  of  a  New  Eng- 

152 


land  adventurer,  who  acted  a  conspicuous  part 
in  the  first  Mexican  revolution,  and  in  the 
overthrow  of  Iturbide.  The  events  were  too 
recent  and  familiar.  Three  years  had  not 
elapsed  since  the  close  of  the  drama,  and 
several  of  the  characters  were  still  before  the 
world.  The  novelist  has  not  a  right  to  trans 
cend  the  possible.  The  condition  of  Mexico 
in  1822  presented  no  barriers  to  the  invention 
of  plots  and  counterplots  as  startling,  and 
deeds  as  chivalrous,  as  he  has  described, 
had  not  the  actors,  by  name  or  position,  been 
historical.  It  seems  to  be  difficult  for  the 
writers  of  romantic  fiction  to  learn  when  their 
heroes  are  sufficiently  heroical  for  necessary 
purposes.  They  are  generally  made  to  per 
form  works  of  supererogation.  The  interest 
of  Francis  Berrian  would  riot  have  been  less 
if  the  hero  had  done  nothing  to  startle  the 
credulity  of  the  reader.  There  is  in  the  de 
tails  an  occasional  want  of  keeping;  the  letters 
of  Dona  Martha  are  commonplace,  and  there 
are  some  faults  of  a  minor  kind.  The  style 
however  is  generally  animated  and  pictur 
esque,  and  the  narrative,  in  spite  of  its  im 
probabilities,  is  interesting. 

The  Geography  and  History  of  the  Missis 
sippi  Valley  was  published  at  Cincinnati,  in 
1827.  It  was  an  original  work,  composed 
with  great  care  and  labour  from  original  ma 
terials,  principally  collected  by  the  author 
during  his  travels.  It  was  subsequently  re 
printed  with  a  condensed  survey  of  the  whole 
continent.  It  was  at  that  time  the  most  im 
portant  contribution  which  had  been  made  to 
American  geography,  and,  with  the  Recol 
lections,  it  embraces  the  most  graphic  and 
faithful  descriptions  cf  the  scenery  and  physi 
cal  aspect  of  the  western  states  that  has  ever 
yet  been  written. 

Arthur  Clenning,  a  novel,  in  two  volumes, 
appeared  in  1828.  The  hero  leaves  the  bor 
ders  of  Lake  Champlain  in  his  boyhood,  and 
after  various  adventures  is  wrecked  on  an 
island  of  the  southern  ocean.  A  beautiful 
girl  survives  to  share  his  solitude,  and  after  a 
few  years,  when  they  escape  to  New  Holland, 


TIMOTHY    FLINT. 


153 


is  married  to  him.  They  reach  London,  but 
the  lady's  father  refuses  to  see  her  unless 
she  will  abandon  her  husband,  which  she  of 
course  refuses  to  do,  and  they  come  to  Ame 
rica  and  settle  on  a  farm  in  Illinois.  Ulti 
mately  the  father  dies  and  leaves  them  his 
fortune.  This,  after  Robinson  Crusoe,  was  a 
bold  experiment,  and  it  was  a  failure. 

George  Mason,  the  Young  Backwoodsman, 
followed.  It  is  better  than  Arthur  Clenning, 
but  did  not  increase  Mr.  Flint's  reputation. 

The  last  of  his  novels  was  The  Shoshonee 
Valley,  published  at  Cincinnati,  in  1830. 
The  principal  scene  is  among  the  tributaries 
of  the  Columbia  river.  Baptiste  Dettier,  a 
reckless  and  gay  Canadian,  encounters  a  Ken 
tucky  preacher  west  of  the  Mississippi,  and 
they  agree  to  cross  tlje  Rocky  Mountains  in 
company,  one  in  quest  of  peltries  and  adven 
tures,  arid  the  other  influenced  in  a  large  de 
gree  by  the  hope  of  making  converts.  Elder 
Wood  is  the  most  original,  natural,  and  suc 
cessfully  sustained  character  in  Mr.  Flint's 
works.  He  is  a  man  of  strong  but  undisci 
plined  genius,  who  blends  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  missionary  with  that  of  the  trapper. 
"  The  psalmist,"  he  thought,  "  had  the  spirit 
of  a  Kentuckian."  He  had  offended  the  Cana 
dian,  by  some  allusion  to  his  idolatrous  wor 
ship,  and  when  the  articles  of  agreement  were 
settled,  Baptiste  complimented  him  upon  his 
undoubted  skill  in  the  hunt,  and  said,  "  In  a 
leet  time  me  learn  you  to  trap  too,  comme  un 
diable !  but  sare,  please  take  notice,  I  hab 
noting  to  do  wit  your  dem  religion !''  The 
minister  was  as  lit.tle  pleased  with  this  pro 
fane  allusion  to  his  profession  as  the  other 
had  been  with  his  own  description  of  the  Ca 
tholic  faith,  but  he  said  to  himself,  "  I  shall 
be  able  to  bring  him  also  out  of  the  heathen 
ish  darkness  ;"  and  thus  balancing  their  dis 
agreements,  they  set  out  for  the  Pacific.  They 
reached  the  happy  Valley  of  the  Shoshonee, 
to  be  witnesses  of  the  gradual  decay  of  its  pa 
triarchal  government  and  people,  from  causes 
connected  with  the  invasion  of  the  whites. 
The  characters,  except  those  which  have  been 
mentioned,  are  not  drawn  with  much  skill, 
and  the  Indians  are  hardly  distinguishable 
from  the  rest.  The  invention  is  feeble,  and 
we  are  conducted  to  a  second  catastrophe, 
apparently  for  no  other  reason  than  that  the 
author  was  ill  satisfied  with  the  first.  The 

tale  is  nevertheless  interesting;  it  is  distin- 
20 


guished  for  a  manly  simplicity  of  style,  a 
vivid  freshness  of  description,  and  a  genuine 
but  unobtrusive  religious  sentiment. 

In  1832  Mr.  Flint  published,  in  Boston, 
Lectures  upon  Natural  History,  Geology, 
Chemistry,  The  Application  of  Steam,  and 
Interesting  Discoveries  in  the  Arts. 

In  1833  he  edited  several  numbers  of  the 
Knickerbocker  Magazine,  which  had  been 
established  in  the  beginning  of  that  year  by 
Mr.  Charles  F.  Hoffman,  who  retired  from  its 
management  on  personal  grounds.  In  the 
beginning  of  1834  the  proprietorship  of  the 
work  was  changed,  and  Mr.  Flint's  connec 
tion  with  it  ceased.  He  had  already  pub 
lished  a  translation,  with  original  essays  on 
the  same  subject,  from  the  work  of  Droz,  sur 
Part  d'etre  heureuse,  and  in  the  early  part  of 
1834  he  translated  Celibacy  Vanquished  or 
the  Old  Bachelor  Reclaimed,  a  novel  which 
gained  a  considerable  though  transient  popu 
larity. 

Mr.  Flint  now  removed  to  Cincinnati,  and 
became  editor  of  The  Western  Monthly  Maga 
zine,  which  he  conducted  with  much  industry 
and  ability  for  three  years.  Besides  the  vo 
lumes  which  have  been  mentioned,  he  wrote 
several  of  less  importance,  and  a  great  num 
ber  of  tales  and  essays  for  various  periodicals 
and  other  works. 

During  the  last  year  of  his  life,  enfeebled 
by  disease,  he  wrote  but  little  for  the  public. 
He  left  his  Louisiana  home  early  in  May, 
1840,  to  visit  the  place  of  his  nativity,  and  in 
the  hope  that  he  would  derive  a  benefit  from 
the  bracing  air  of  New  England.  He  was  at 
Natchez,  on  his  way,  when  that  city  was 
nearly  destroyed  by  a  tornado,  and  with  his 
son  was  buried  many  hours  under  the  ruins. 
Soon  after  his  arrival  in  Reading  his  malady 
assumed  a  more  malignant  character,  and  he 
wrote  to  his  wife  at  Alexandria,  that  when 
she  received  his  letter  he  would  no  longer  be 
alive.  The  melancholy  news  hastened  her 
death.  The  prediction  of  his  own  decease 
was  premature,  but  he  survived  only  until  the 
eighteenth  of  August. 

Mr.  Flint  commenced  his  literary  career 
when  forty-five  years  of  age.  To  its  end  he 
was  an  invalid,  but  was  compelled  to  write 
constantly  and  rapidly,  and  to  print  without 
revision. 

His  mind  was  vigorous  and  imaginative, 
and  enriched  with  reading  and  observation. 


154 


TIMOTHY    FLINT. 


He  ad  a  discriminating  judgment,  warm  af 
fections,  and  a  quick  perception  of  the  grand 
and  beautiful.  His  works  are  marked  by 
good  sense  and  a  genuine  Christian  philoso 


phy.  His  chief  merit  is  in  his  descriptions. 
His  landscapes  have  extraordinary  freedom 
and  distinctness,  and  appear  to  be  copies  from 
nature. 


A  THUNDER  STORM  IN  MEXICO. 


FROM  FRANCIS  SERBIAN. 


THE  thunder,  which  had  been  rolling  at  a  dis 
tance  in  the  mountains,  approached  nearer.  The 
peals  were  more  frequent,  and  the  echoes  more 
loud  and  awful.  The  brassy  edges  of  the  clouds 
rolled  together,  and  sweeping  forward,  like  the 
smouldering  pillars  of  smoke  from  some  mighty 
conflagration,  were  seen  looming  from  the  heights 
and  beginning  to  cover  the  sun.  .  .  . 

The  thunder  storms  of  the  northern  regions 
seldom  give  an  idea  of  the  assemblage  of  terrific 
accompaniments  belonging  to  a  severe  one  in  the 
tropics.  A  thick  mist  fills  all  the  distance  between 
the  clouds  and  the  earth.  A  dim  and  yellowish 
twilight  throws  a  frightful  yellow  upon  the  ver 
dure  of  the  trees. 

The  storm  was  tremendous.  The  commence 
ment  was  in  the  stillness  of  death,  and  the  burst 
of  the  winds  was  as  instantaneous  as  the  crash  of 
the  thunder.  The  rain  did  not  descend  in  drops, 
or  in  sheets,  but  the  terrible  phenomenon  of  the 
bursting  of  the  clouds  upon  the  mountains  took 
place.  The  roar  of  the  new-formed  torrents  and 
cascades  pouring  from  the  mountains,  mingled 
with  that  of  the  rain,  the  thunder,  and  the  winds. 
The  atmosphere  was  a  continued  and  lurid  glare 
of  lightning,  which  threw  a  portentous  brilliance 
through  the  descending  waters  and  the  darkness. 
Many  an  aged  tree,  that  had  remained  unscathed 
for  ages,  was  stript  from  its  summits  to  its  roots 
by  the  descending  fires.  .  .  . 

The  sick  man,  aroused  from  his  sleep,  rested 
his  head  upon  his  hand,  and  his  pains  seemed  to 
be  suspended,  while  he  contemplated  the  uproar 
and  apparent  conflagration  of  the  elements.  A 
blaze  of  lightning  filled  the  room,  and  the  thunder 
bolt  fell  upon  a  vast  cypress,  but  a  few  feet  from 
the  house.  The  shock  was  so  violent  that  each 
one  was  thrown  from  his  seat.  As  we  recovered 
from  the  blow,  we  saw  how  naturally  in  such  mo 
ments  each  one  flies  to  the  object  in  which  he  has 
mo£t  confidence.  The  widowed  mother  sprang 
to  the  arms  of  her  son,  and  Martha  at  the  same 
moment  clung  to  me.  .  .  .  We  resumed  our  seats 
in  a  kind  of  tranquil  astonishment,  as  the  storm 
gradually  subsided.  The  thunder  rolled  sublimely 
still,  but  at  a  greater  distance.  The  blue  of  the  at 
mosphere  began  to  show  itself  at  the  zenith.  The 
clouds  rolled  away  toward  the  east,  and  the  sun 
came  forth  in  his  brightness  just  above  the  smok 
ing  summits  of  the  hills.  The  scene,  that  was 
terrific  in  the  fury  of  the  storm,  was  now  an  inde- 
<«cribable  mixture  of  beauty  and  grandeur.  Fre 
quent  gleams  of  the  most  vivid  lightning  played 


on  the  passing  extremities  of  the  clouds.  White 
pillars  of  mist  arose  from  the  earth.  The  birds 
welcomed  the  return  of  the  sun,  and  the  re 
newed  repose  of  nature,  with  a  thousand  mingled 
songs. 


COUNTRY  OF  THE  SEWASSERNA. 

FROM  THE  SHOSHONEE  VALLEY. 

THE  traces  of  their  footsteps  and  their  tempo 
rary  huts  were  frequently  seen  amidst  the  dark 
hemlock  forests  on  the  Pacific  shore.  These  free 
rangers  of  the  deserts,  as  they  saw  the  immense 
fronts,  range  behind  range,  of  the  ocean  surf  roll 
ing  onward  to  whiten  and  burst  on  the  sand  at 
their  feet,  had  their  own  wild  conceptions  of  the 
illimitable  grandeur,  and  the  mysterious  and  resist 
less  power  of  the  ever-heaving  element.  .  .  . 

Their  free  domain  comprised  an  extent  of  five 
hundred  leagues.  The  country  of  their  compact 
and  actual  settlement  is  a  vale,  than  which  the 
earth  can  show  none  more  beautiful  or  more  se 
cluded,  the  vale  of  the  Sewasserna.  This  stream, 
in  which  the  poets  would  have  placed  the  crystal 
caves  of  the  Naiads  of  the  ancient  days,  comes 
winding  down  in  a  clear,  full,  strong,  and  yet 
equable  and  gentle  tide,  from  the  mountains.  Up 
its  pure  and  ice-formed  waters  ascend,  in  their  sea 
son,  countless  numbers  of  the  finest  salmon ;  and 
in  its  deep  and  circling  eddies  play  trout,  pike, 
carp,  tench,  and  all  the  varieties  of  fish  of  cold 
mountain  rivers.  The  Indian,  as  he  glides  down 
the  stream,  sees  the  shining  rocks  at  the  bottom, 
covered  with  tresses  of  green  waving  moss,  at  the 
depth  of  twenty  feet.  This  circumstance,  along 
with  its  transparency,  furnishes  the  etymology  of 
its  name,  which  imports  the  sea  green  river. 
Streaked  bass,  shiners,  gold  fishes,  and  beautiful 
and  undescribed  finny  tribes,  dart  from  their  coverts 
along  the  white  sand,  flit  from  the  shadow  of  the 
descending  canoe,  or  turn  their  green  and  gold 
to  the  light,  as  they  fan  as  it  were  with  their 
purple  wings,  or  repose  in  the  sunbeams  that  find 
their  way  through  the  branches  that  overhang  the 
banks.  .  .  . 

The  glossy  gray  mallard,  the  beautiful  blue 
winged  teal,  the  green  crested  widgeon,  the  littlr 
active  dipper,  the  brilliant  white  diver,  the  soli 
tary  loon  raising  his  lugubrious  and  ill-omene< 
note  in  unsocial  seclusion,  the  stately  swan 
sailing  in  his  pride  and  milky  lustre  slowly 
along  the  stream,  the  tall  sand-hill  crane  looking 
at  a  distance  like  a  miniature  camel,  the  white 
pelican  with  his  immense  pouch  in  front,  innume 
rable  flocks  of  various  species  of  geese — in  short, 
an  unknown  variety  of  water-fowls  with  their  bril- 


TIMOTHY    FLINT. 


155 


liant,  variegated,  and  oiled  vestments,  their  singu 
lar  languages  and  cries,  were  seen  gliding  among 
the  trees,  pattering  their  broad  bills  amidst  the 
grasses  and  weeds  on  the  shores.  .  .  . 

It  would  be  useless  to  think  of  enumerating  the 
strange  and  gay  birds  that  sing,  play,  build,  chide, 
and  flutter  among  the  branches  of  the  huge  syca 
mores  and  peccans.  Among  the  more  conspicu 
ous  is  the  splendid  purple  cardinal,  with  its  glossy 
and  changeable  lustre  of  black  crest,  the  gold- 
coloured  oriole,  looking  down  into  its  long  hanging 
nest,  the  flamingo  darting  up  the  stream  like  an 
arrow  of  flame,  the  little  peacock  of  trees,  the  wa- 
kona,  or  bird  of  paradise,  the  parti-coloured  jay 
screaming  its  harsh  notes,  the  red-winged  wood 
pecker  "  tapping  the  hollow  tree,"  the  ortolan,  in 
countless  flocks,  in  plumage  of  the  most  exquisite 
softness,  deep,  shining  black — the  paroquets  with 
their  shrill  screams  and  their  splendour  of  green 
and  gold,  numberless  humming-birds  plunging 
their  needle-shaped  bills  into  the  bignoriia,  grouse, 
turkies,  partridges,  in  a  word  an  infinite  variety  of 
those  beautiful  and  happy  tenants  of  the  forest  and 
the  prairie,  that  are  formed  to  sing  through  their 
transient  but  happy  day. 

The  mountains  on  either  side  of  the  valley 
tower  into  a  countless  variety  of  peaks,  cones,  and 
inaccessible  elevations,  from  six  to  ten  thousand 
feet  high.  More  than  half  of  them  are  covered 
with  the  accumulated  snows  and  ices  of  centuries, 
which,  glittering  in  mid  air,  show  in  the  sunbeams 
in  awful  contrast  with  the  black  and  rugged  pre 
cipices  that  arrest  the  clouds.  .  .  .  The  rocks,  cliffs, 
and  boulders,  partly  of  granite  and  partly  of  vol 
canic  character,  black  and  rugged  in  some  places, 
in  others  porphyritic,  needle  or  spire-shaped,  shoot 
up  into  pinnacles,  domes,  and  towers,  and  in  other 
places  lie  heaped  in  huge  masses  as  though  shook 
by  earthquakes  from  the  summits  where  they  had 
originally  defied  the  storms.  .  .  .  Yet  between  these 
savage  and  terrific  peaks,  unvisitcd  except  by  the 
screaming  eagle,  are  seen  the  most  secluded  and 
sweet  valleys  in  the  world.  Here  and  there  ap 
pear  circular  clumps  of  hemlocks,  mountain  cedars, 
silver  firs,  and  above  all  the  glorious  Norwegian 
pines.  .  .  .  The  breeze  that  is  borne  down  from  the 
mountains  always  sighs  through  these  evergreen 
thickets,  playing  as  it  were  the  deep  and  incessant 
voluntary  of  nature  to  the  Divinity.  ...  In  nume 
rous  little  lakes  and  ponds,  where  the  trout  spring 
up  and  dart  upon  the  fly  and  grasshopper,  the  ver 
dure  of  the  shores  is  charmingly  repainted  in  con 
trast  with  the  threatening  and  savage  sublimity  of 
the  mountains,  whose  summits  shoot  down  as  deep 
in  the  abyss  as  they  stand  high  in  the  air.  As 
you  turn  your  eyes  from  the  landscape  so  faith 
fully  pencilled  on  the  sleeping  waters,  to  see  the 
substance  of  these  shadows,  the  eye,  dazzled  with 
the  radiance  of  the  sunbeams  playing  on  the  per 
petual  snows  in  the  regions  of  mid  air,  reposes 
with  solace  and  delight  on  the  deep  blue  of  the 
sky  that  is  seen  between,  undimmed  except  by 
the  occasional  passing  of  the  bald  eagle  or  fal 
con-hawks,  sailing  slowly  from  the  summit  of  one 
mountain  to  another. 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  BAPTISTE. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

BAPTISTE,  always  a  standing  lover  and  gallant 
for  all  the  undistinguished  Indian  girls  of  the  na 
tion,  had  been  observed  in  earnest  dialogue  writh 
T'selle'nee,  or  the  Piony,  the  pretty  daughter  of 
Mon-son-sah,  or  the  Spotted  Panther,  a  proud 
and  fierce  Shienne  warrior,  who  doted  on  this  his 
only  child.  What  injury  or  insult  was  offered  the 
belle  of  round  and  vermillion  rouged  cheek,  does 
not  appear ;  but  next  morning  it  was  the  current 
gossip  among  the  fair  of  the  nation  that  T'selle'nee 
had  had  a  "medicine  dream."  At  any  rate,  she 
was  reported  to  be  in  tears,  shut  up  under  the  cus 
tomary  and  severest  interdiction  of  Indian  usage. . . . 
There  was  a  great  trouble  in  the  wigwam.  The 
fierce  father  forced  his  daughter  to  confession. 
The  smooth-tongued  and  voluble  Canadian  had 
vague  intimations  that  this  affair  was  likely  to 
bring  no  good  to  him.  Truth  was,  as  a  general 
lover,  he  had  the  reputation  of  being  particularly 
slippery  and  unworthy  of  confidence.  Various 
girls  had  made  calculation  upon  him  for  a  hus 
band.  But  Baptistehad  a  manifest  preference  for 
being  a  general  lover,  and  a  specific  aversion  to 
matrimony  in  particular. 

Whoever  among  this  people  has  had  a  dream 
of  sufficient  import  to  cause  the  dreamer  to  wear 
black  paint  and  to  proclaim  an  interdict,  becomes 
for  the  time  a  subject  of  universal  speculation  and 
remark.  The  general  whisper,  especially  among 
the  women,  was,  What  has  Baptiste  done  1  and 
What  has  caused  the  interdict  of  T'selle'nee  ? 

Mon-son-sah,  meanwhile,  was  not  idle.  The 
deepest  indignation  of  his  burning  spirit  was  called 
forth.  The  frequent  amours  and  infidelities  oi 
Baptiste  were  circulated,  and  generally  not  at  all 
to  his  advantage.  An  affair  of  his,  touching  a 
Shoshonee  girl,  was  blazoned  with  many  a  mi 
nute  circumstance  of  wanton  cruelty.  "  What 
right,"  they  said,  "  had  the  proud  and  babbling 
pale  face  to  conduct  after  this  fashion  toward  the 
red  skin  girls  ?  They  would  learn  him  to  repent 
such  courses."  The  cunning  young  T'selle'nee, 
though  interdicted,  and  of  course  supposed  to  be 
unable  to  see  or  converse  with  any  one,  was  in 
fact  at  the  bottom  of  all  this. 

The  result  of  the  long-brooded  mischief  was  at 
length  disclosed.  Hatch  was  the  envoy  of  Mon- 
son-sah  to  Baptiste  Dettier,  to  make  known  to 
him  the  purposes  that  were  settled  in  respect  to 
his  case.  Hatch,  Dutch  though  he  was,  enjoyed 
a  comfortable  broad  joke. .  .  .  Baptiste  in  passing 
heard  him  call  to  him  to  stop,  with  a  pale  face 
and  palpitating  heart.  He  seemed  disposed  to 
walk  on. 

"  Will  you  stop,  Mynheer  Baptiste?"  said  the 
Dutchman,  with  a  visage  of  mysterious  import 
ance  :  «  Perhaps  you  will  find  it  your  interest  to 
hear  what  I  have  to  say  to  you." 

«  Veil,  sare,"  said  Baptiste,  stopping  and  squar 
ing  himself,  «  suppose  you  tell  me  vat  for  you  stop 
me  from  mine  promenade.  Is  it  von  mighty  dem 
big  ting  dat  you  hab  to  tell  me  1" 


156 


TIMOTHY    FLINT. 


"  Oh  no,  Mynheer  Baptiste,  it  is  no  great  mat 
ter.  It  only  conzarns  your  life." 

"  Sacre  !  Monsieur  Dutchman,"  cried  Baptiste, 
shrugging  and  turning  pale,  "  spose  you  tink  it 
von  mighty  dcm  leet  ting  to  concern  my  life. 
Monsieur  Dutchman,  vat  for  make  you  look  so 
dem  big  ?  I  pray  you,  sare,  speak  out  vat  for  you 
stop  me  ?" 

The  Dutchman  continued  to  economize  the 
luxury  of  his  joke  as  long  as  possible,  and  pro 
ceeded  in  his  customary  dialect,  and  with  the  most 
perfect  sang  froid,  to  ask  him  if  he  had  ever 
known  such  an  Indian  demoiselle  as  T'selle'nee  1 

11  Sare,  vat  for  you  axe  me  dat  ]  Tis  mine  own 
affair,  sare !" 

"  Well,  Baptiste,  they  say  she  has  had  a  dream, 
and  that  her  face  is  painted  as  black  as  a  thunder 
cloud.  It  is  common  report  that  the  matter  closely 
concerns  you.  At  any  rate,  the  Spotted  Panther 
is  not  to  be  trifled  with,  and  he  takes  a  deep  inte 
rest  in  the  business.  You  know  the  Spotted 
Panther]" 

"  Yes,  sare,  dat  gargon  is  one  dem  farouche 
villain." 

"  Perhaps  you  like  his  daughter  better?" 

"  Sacre  !  no.  She  is  von  dem — what  you  call 
him  in  Hinglees  1" 

"  Never  mind.  She  will  make  you  the  better 
wife  for  that.  I  have  an  errand  to  you  from  the 
Spotted  Panther." 

"  You  make  me  frissonne  all  over  my  body," 
said  Baptiste,  looking  deadly  pale. 

"  I  have  it  in  charge  from  the  Spotted  Panther 
to  ask  you,  Baptiste,  if  you  are  disposed  to  marry 
T'selle'nee  as  soon  as  she  is  out  of  her  black  paint 
and  her  dream  ?  They  say  she  loves  you  to  dis 
traction." 

"  Sez  bien,"  replied  Baptiste,  giving  his  wonted 
shrug  of  self-complacency ;  "  so  do  twentee  oder 
demoiselles  of  dese  dcm  sauvages.  Dat  all  for  vat 
you  stop  me  1" 

"  No.  I  am  commissioned  only  to  propose  to 
you  the  simple  question,  Do  you  choose  to  marry 
T'selle'nee,  or  not  1  and  you  are  to  let  me  report 
an  immediate  answer." 

"  Parbleu !  Monsieur  Dutchman.  Spose  I  say 
no?" 

"  You  will  hear  the  consequences,  and  then  I 
will  say  him  no,  if  you  wish  it." 

«  Veil,  sare,  vat  are  de  big  consequence  if  I  say 
no  1  Tis  von  dem  farouche  affair,  ca !" 

«  He  proposes  you  one  of  two  alternatives — to 
marry  his  daughter,  or  be  roasted  alive  at  a  slow 
fire.  It  is  no  great  matter,  after  all.  The  beau 
tiful  T'selle'nee,  or  a  roasting,  that's  the  alterna 
tive." 

«  Tis  von  dem — what  you  call  him,  alternateeve  1 
O  mon  Dieu  !  Mon  Dieu !"  cried  Baptiste,  cross 
ing  himself,  and  seeming  in  an  agony — "  You 
dem  Dutchman  have  no  heart  on  your  body,  or 
you  no  tell  me  dat  dem  word,  and  half  grin  your 
teeth  all  the  time,  sacre !  You  call  him  leet  mat 
ter  to  roast  von  Christian  like  a  pig,  sacre !" 

"  Why,  certainly,  you  don't  think  it  so  great  a 
thing  to  be  roasted  1  You  know,  Baptiste,  that 


an  Indian  smokes  his  pipe,  and  sings  songs,  and 
tells  stories,  and  provokes  his  roasters,  and  thinks 
it  little  more  than  a  comfort  to  be  roasted." 

"  O  ciel !"  cried  the  Canadian,  apparently  feel 
ing  faint  at  the  horror  of  the  idea.  "  You  are  von 
dem  hard  heart  Dutchman,  to  make  sport  of  dis 
farouche  affair!" 

"  Still,  Baptiste,  something  must  be  done.  You 
know  the  Spotted  Panther  is  not  a  personage  to 
be  trifled  with.  Have  you  made  up  your  mind 
for  your  answer  ]" 

"  Tis  von  dem  sommaire  business,  ca  !  O  mon 
Dieu,  aidez  moi.  Oui,  oui.  I  vill  marree  dis  dem 
crapeau.  Spose — how  like  dem  fool  you  talk  ! — 
that  it  be  von  leet  ting  to  be  roast?  Certainment, 
me  no  make  experimong." 

"  Very  good,"  answered  Hatch,  with  the  same 
unmoved  calmness.  "  Then  we  need  not  discuss 
the  matter  of  roasting  at  all.  I  thought  you  would 
prefer  the  wife.  But  you  will  please  tell  me  the 
very  words  I  am  to  report  to  the  Spotted  Panther." 

"  O  mon  Dieu  !  Tis  trop  dur,  a  ting  tres  mise 
rable.  Me  love  all  de  demoiselles.  Dey  all  love 
me.  Tis  ver.hard  affair,  to  tie  me  up  to  von  dem 
crapeau,  like  un  chien  in  a  string." 

"  Are  these  the  words  you  wish  me  to  carry 
back  to  the  Spotted  Panther  ?" 

"  No,  certainment,  no.  You  tell  that  sauvage 
gentilhomme,  vid  my  best  complimens,  that  I  am 
trop  sensible  of  de  great  honneur  which  his  belle 
fille  have  don  me.  Spose  his  belle  fille  no  say 
that  word  to  me  fuss,  den  I  tell  her  I  offer  my 
love  and  my  devotions  and  my  heart  wid  von 
satisfaction  infini,  and  dat  I  lead  her  to  the  altare 
with  great  plaisir,  sacre  !" 

Hatch  omitted  the  last  word,  and  reported  .all 
the  rest  with  great  fidelity.  The  invincible  solem 
nity  of  the  Dutchman's  narrative  gave  greater  zest 
to  the  enjoyment  of  the  Indians,  who  all  knew, 
amidst  these  forced  compliments,  what  a  bitter  pill 
matrimony  was  to  such  an  indiscriminate  gallant. 


HEROISM  OF  THE  INDIAN. 

FROM  THE    ART   OF    BEING  HAPPY. 

THE  timid  and  effeminate  white  man  shivers 
and  scarcely  credits  his  senses,  as  he  sees  the 
young  Indian  warrior  smoking  his  pipe,  singing 
his  songs,  boasting  of  his  victories  and  uttering  his 
menaces,  when  enveloped  in  a  slow  fire,  appa 
rently  as  unmoved,  as  reckless,  and  unconscious 
of  pain  as  if  sitting  at  his  ease  in  his  own  cabin. 
All  that  has  been  found  necessary  by  this  strange 
people  to  procure  this  heroism,  is,  that  the  child 
ren  from  boyhood  should  be  constantly  under  a 
discipline,  every  part  and  every  step  of  which 
tends  directly  to  shame  and  contempt  at  the  least 
manifestation  of  cowardice  in  view  of  any  danger, 
or  of  a  shrinking  consciousness  of  pain  in  the  en 
durance  of  any  suffering.  The  males,  so  trained, 
never  fail  to  evidence  the  fruit  of  their  discipline 
Sentenced  to  death,  they  almost  invariably  scorn 
to  fly  from  their  sentence,  when  escape  is  in  their 


TIMOTHY    FLINT. 


157 


power.  If  in  debt,  they  desire  a  reprieve,  that 
they  may  hunt  until  their  debts  are  paid.  They 
then  voluntarily  return  and  surrender  themselves 
to  the  executioner.  Nothing  is  more  common 
than  for  a  friend  to  propose  to  suffer  for  his  friend, 
a  parent  for  a  child,  or  a  child  for  a  parent.  When 
the  sufferer  receives  the  blow,  there  is  an  un- 
blenching  look  which  manifests  the  presence  of 
the  same  spirit  that  smokes  with  apparent  uncon 
cern  amidst  the  crackling  flames. 

A  proof  that  this  is  the  fruit  of  training  and  not 
of  native  insensibility,  as  others  have  thought,  and 
as  I  formerly  thought  myself,  is,  that  this  contempt 
of  pain  and  death  is  considered  a  desirable  trait 
only  in  the  males.  To  fly  like  a  woman,  like  her 
to  laugh,  and  weep,  and  groan,  are  expressions  of 
contempt,  which  they  apply  to  their  enemies  with 
ineffable  scorn.  The  females,  almost  excluded 
from  witnessing  the  process  of  Spartan  discipline 
by  which  the  males  acquire  their  mental  hardihood, 
partake  not  of  the  fruits  of  it,  and,  with  some  few 
exceptions,  are  shrinking  and  timid  like  the  child 
ren  of  civilization. 

I  know  that  there  will  not  be  wanting  those 
who  will  condemn  alike  the  training  and  the  hero 
ism  as  harsh,  savage,  unfeeling,  stoical,  and  un- 
'  worthy  to  be  admitted  as  an  adjunct  to  civilization. 
But  no  one  will  offer  to  deny  that  the  primitive 
Christian  put  in  conflict  with  a  hungry  lion,  that 
Rogers  at  the  Smithfield  stake,  that  the  young 
captive  warrior,  exulting  and  chanting  his  songs 
while  enduring  the  bitterest  agonies  that  man  can 
inflict,  in  the  serene  and  sublime  triumph  of  mind 
over  matter,  and  spirit  over  the  body,  is  the  most 
imposing  spectacle  we  can  witness,  the  clearest 
proof  we  can  contemplate,  that  we  have  that  within 
us  which  is  not  all  of  clay,  nor  all  mortal ;  or  doubt 
that  these  persons  endure  infinitely  less  physical 
pain,  in  consequence  of  their  heroic  self-possession, 
than  they  would  have  suffered  had  they  met  their 
torture  in  paroxysms  of  terror,  shrinking,  and  self- 
abandonment. 


THE  MISSISSIPPI. 

FROM   HISTORY   AND   GEOGRAPHY   OF   MISSISSIPPI   VALLEY. 

BELOW  the  mouth  of  Ohio,  in  the  season  of  in 
undation,  to  an  observing  spectator  a  very  striking 
spectacle  is  presented.  The  river  sweeps  along, 
in  curves  or  sections  of  circles,  of  an  extent  of 
from  six  to  twelve  miles,  measured  from  point  to 
point.  The  sheet  of  water  that  is  visible  between 
the  forests  on  either  side,  is  not  far  from  the  me 
dial  width  of  a  mile.  On  a  calm  spring  morning, 
and  under  a  bright  sun,  this,  to  an  eye  that  takes 
in  its  gentle  descending,  shines  like  a  mass  of  bur 
nished  silver.  Its  edges  are  distinctly  marked  by 
a  magnificent  outline  of  cotton-wood  trees,  gene 
rally  of  great  size,  and  at  this  time  of  the  year  of 
the  brightest  verdure.  On  the  convex,  or  bar  side 
of  the  bend,  there  is  generally  a  vigorous  growth 
of  willows,  or  young  cot  ton- wood  trees  of  such 
astonishing  regularity  of  appearance,  that  it  always 
seems  to  the  unpractised  spectator  a  work  of  art. 
The  water  stands  among  these  trees  from  ten  to 


fifteen  feet  in  height.  Those  brilliant  birds,  the 
black  and  red  bird  of  this  country,  seem  to  delight 
to  flit  among  these  young  groves,  that  are  inun 
dated  to  half  their  height.  Nature  is  carrying  on 
her  most  vigorous  efforts  of  vegetation  below.  It 
there  be  wind  or  storm,  the  descending  flat  and 
keel  boats  immediately  make  for  these  groves,  and 
plunge  fearlessly  with  all  the  headway  they  can 
command  among  the  trees.  Should  they  be  of 
half  the  size  of  the  human  body,  struck  fifteen  feet 
from  the  ground  they  readily  bend,  before  even  a 
frail  boat.  You  descend  the  whole  distance  of  a 
thousand  miles  to  New  Orleans,  landing  at  night  in 
fifteen  feet  water  among  the  trees ;  but,  probably,  in 
no  instance  within  twenty  miles  of  the  real  shore, 
which  is  a  bluff.  The  whole  spectacle  is  that  of 
a  vast  and  magnificent  forest  emerging  from  a 
lake,  with  its  waters,  indeed  in  a  thousand  places, 
in  descending  motion.  The  experienced  savage, 
or  solitary  voyager,  paddles  his  canoe  through  the 
deep  forests,  from  one  bluff  to  the  other.  He  finds 
bayous,  by  which  one  river  communicates  with 
the  other.  He  moves  perhaps  along  the  Missis 
sippi  forest  into  the  mouth  of  White  river.  He 
ascends  that  river  a  few  miles,  and  by  the  Grand 
Cut  off  moves  down  the  forest  into  the  Arkansas. 
From  that  river  he  finds  many  bayous  which  com 
municate  readily  with  Washita  arid  Red  river; 
and  from  that  river,  by  some  one  of  its  hundred 
bayous,  he  finds  his  way  into  the  Atchafalaya  and 
the  Tcche;  and  by  that  stream  to  the  Gulf  of 
Mexico,  reaching  it  more  than  twenty  leagues 
west  of  the  Mississippi.  At  that  time,  this  is  a 
river  from  thirty  to  an  hundred  miles  wide,  all 
overshadowed  with  forests,  except  an  interior  strip 
of  little  more  than  a  mile  in  width,  where  the  eye 
reposes  on  the  open  expanse  of  waters,  visible  be 
tween  the  trees.  .  .  . 

No  person  who  descends  this  river  for  the  first 
time,  receives  clear  and  adequate  ideas  of  its  gran 
deur,  and  the  amount  of  water  which  it  carries. 
If  it  be  in  the  spring,  when  the  river  below  the 
mouth  of  Ohio  is  generally  over  its  banks,  although 
the  sheet  of  water  that  is  making  its  way  to  the 
gulf  is  perhaps  thirty  miles  wide,  yet  finding  its 
way  through  deep  forests  and  swamps  that  con 
ceal  all  from  the  eye,  no  expanse  of  water  is  seen 
but  the  width,  that  is  curved  out  between  the  out 
line  of  woods  on  either  bank ;  and  it  seldom  ex 
ceeds,  and  oftener  falls  short  of  a  mile.  But  when 
he  sees,  in  descending  the  falls  of  St.  Anthony, 
that  it  swallows  up  one  river  after  another,  with 
mouths  as  wide  as  itself,  without  affecting  its  width 
at  all ;  when  he  sees  it  receiving  in  succession  the 
mighty  Missouri,  the  broad  Ohio,  St.  Francis, 
White,  Arkansas,  and  Red  rivers,  all  of  them  of 
great  depth,  length,  and  volume  of  water ;  swal 
lowing  up  all  and  retaining  a  volume,  apparently 

|  unchanged,  he  begins  to  estimate  rightly  the  in 
creasing  depths  of  current  that  must  roll  on  in  its 

i  deep  channel  to  the  sea.     Carried  out  of  the  Ba- 

1  lize,  and  sailing  with  a  good  breeze  for  hours,  he 
sees  nothing  on  any  side  but  the  white  and  turbid 
waters  of  the  Mississippi,  long  after  he  is  out  of 

i  sight  of  land 

O 


WILLIAM  ELLERY  CHANNING. 


[Born  1780.    Died  1842.] 


THIS  eminent  man  was  born  at  Newport  in 
Rhode  Island  on  the  seventh  of  April,  1780. 
His  great-grandfather,  John  Channing,  the 
first  of  the  name  who  came  to  America,  was 
a  native  of  Dorsetshire  in  England ;  his  grand 
father,  John  Channing,  was  a  merchant  in 
Newport;  and  his  father,  William  Channing, 
after  graduating  at  Princeton  College  in  1767, 
became  a  lawyer,  and  was  for  many  years 
Attorney  General  of  Rhode  Island.  His  mo 
ther,  to  whose  piety,  gentleness,  and  faithful 
ness  he  bore  affectionate  and  grateful  testi 
mony,  was  a  daughter  of  William  Ellery,  one 
of  the  signers  of  the  Declaration  of  Indepen 
dence,  and  afterward  a  member  of  Congress, 
and  Chief  Justice  of  his  state.  Through  her 
he  was  descended  from  Anne  Brad  street,  the 
wife  of  Governor  Bradstreet  and  daughter  of 
Governor  Dudley,  who  two  hundred  years  ago 
was  styled  by  one  of  the  most  learned  and  dis 
tinguished  of  the  Puritans  "  the  mirror  of  her 
age,  and  glory  of  her  sex." 

In  1780  Newport  was  the  residence  of  two 
of  the  most  remarkable  men  who  have  ever 
lived  in  New  England,  the  Reverend  Doctor 
Hopkins,  whose  writings  had  so  great  an  in 
fluence  upon  theological  opinions  in  the  last 
century,  and  the  Reverend  Doctor  Stiles,  fa 
mous  for  profound  and  various  learning,  and 
"  virtues  proportioned  to  his  intellectual  ac 
quisitions,"  who  was  afterward  President  of 
Yale  College.  They  were  ministers  of  the 
two  Congregational  churches  in  the  town,  and 
though  in  many  respects  very  different  from 
each  other,  and  representatives  of  rival  parties, 
they  were  both  friends  of  the  Attorney  Gene 
ral,  and  often  at  his  house.  Doctor  Channing 
states  that  when  a  child  he  regarded  Doctor 
Stiles  with  more  reverence  than  any  other  hu 
man  being,  and  to  the  influence  of  that  extra 
ordinary  man  in  the  circle  in  which  he  was 
brought  up,  he  attributes  a  part  of  the  indig 
nation  which  he  felt  toward  every  invasion  of 
human  rights.  He  was  also  much  attached 
to  Doctor  Hopkins,  whom  he  used  to  see  rid 
ing  on  horseback  through  the  streets,  "  in  a 
plaid  gown  fastened  by  a  girdle  round  the 

158 


waist,  and  with  a  study  cap  on  his  head," 
appearing  like  a  man  who  had  nothing  to  do 
with  the  world.  In  a  sermon  which  he 
preached  at  Newport,  when  he  was  himself 
an  old  man,  he  presented  an  interesting  pic 
ture  of  those  peculiar  and  venerable  persons, 
around  whom  clung  so  many  recollections  of 
his  early  life. 

Washington  Allston,  who  was  but  one  year 
his  senior,  went  to  Newport  in  1787,  and  con 
tracted  an  intimacy  with  him  which  continued 
through  youth,  the  strength  of  manhood,  and 
old  age.  They  roamed  together  through  the 
picturesque  scenery,  which  still  attracts  an 
nual  crowds  of  strangers,  and  "  amid  this  glo 
rious  nature"  received  impressions  of  the  great 
and  beautiful  which  had  an  influence  in  deter 
mining  their  modes  of  thought  and  habits  of 
life.  Richard  H.  Dana,  acousin  of  Channing, 
and  afterward  a  brother-in-law  of  Allston,  in 
a  few  years  wandered,  an  inspired  boy,  over 
the  same  fields,  and  on  the  rocky  coast  lis 
tened  to  the  roar  and  dashing  of  the  waters 
of  that  ocean,  which  he  was  to  describe  with 
such  effect  in  his  noble  poetry.  Allston, 
Channing,  and  Dana  were  thus  connected  in 
childhood.  In  old  age  they  often  visited,  from 
their  neighbouring  homes  in  Boston,  these 
scenes  of  their  earliest  inspiration.  Two  of 
them,  in  the  order  of  their  ages,  have  gone  to 
the  world  in  whose  atmosphere  they  almost 
seemed  to  live  while  here  among  us. 

Channing  entered  Harvard  College  when 
but  fourteen  years  of  age.  Among  his  class 
mates  here  were  the  late  Judge  Story,  and 
Doctor  Tuckerman,  with  whom,  until  the  death 
of  that  most  amiable  man — a  period  of  forty- 
seven  years — he  lived  as  a  brother,  giving 
and  receiving  "thoughts,  feelings,  reproofs, 
encouragements,  with  a  faithfulness  not  often 
surpassed."  He  had  been  through  the  cus 
tomary  range  of  study  in  the  Latin  and  Greek 
authors  before  he  went  to  Cambridge,  and  for 
a  year  or  two  he  continued  to  exhibit  a  predi 
lection  for  classical  studies,  but  before  the  end 
of  his  term  he  became  comparatively  indiffer 
ent  to  them,  and  devoted  his  chief  attention 


WILLIAM    ELLERY    CHANNING. 


159 


to  moral  philosophy,  history,  and  general  lite 
rature.  His  views  of  life  were  serious,  his 
plans  determined,  and  his  studies  were  already 
made  to  bend  in  some  degree  to  his  prospec 
tive  pursuits.  Yet  the  highest  honours  of 
his  class  were  awarded  to  him  when  he  gra 
duated,  in  1798. 

Soon  after  leaving  Cambridge  C banning 
became  a  private  tutor  in  a  family  of  Virginia, 
and  went  to  reside  in  that  state.  His  health 
hitherto  had  been  remarkably  good,  but  now 
it  failed,  and  he  was  to  the  end  of  his  life 
an  invalid.  After  his  return  to  Newport  he 
pursued,  without  any  professor  or  teacher  to 
guide  him,  his  studies  in  theology.  When 
in  the  fulness  of  his  years  and  fame  he  stood 
to  instruct  where  in  his  youth  he  had  been  a 
learner,  he  reminded  his  hearers  of  this  period 
in  his  life,  in  a  manner  equally  graphic  and 
beautiful :  "I  had  two  noble  places  of  study," 
he  said,  "  one  the  edifice  now  so  frequented 
and  useful  as  a  public  library,  then  so  deserted 
t'i.at  I  spent  day  after  day  and  sometimes  week 
after  week  amidst  its  dusty  volumes,  without 
interruption  from  a  single  visiter ; ...  the  other, 
the  beach, . . .  my  daily  resort,  dear  to  me  in 
the  sunshine,  still  more  attractive  in  the  storm. 
Seldom  do  I  visit  it  now  without  thinking  of  the 
work,  which  there,  in  the  sight  of  that  beauty, 
in  the  sound  of  those  waves,  was  carried  on 
in  my  soul.  No  spot  on  earth  has  helped  to 
form  me  so  much  as  that  beach.  There  I  lifted 
up  my  voice  in  praise  am  id  the  tempest.  There, 
softened  by  beauty,  I  poured  out  my  thanks 
giving  and  contrite  confessions.  There,  in 
reverential  sympathy  with  the  mighty  power 
around  me,  I  became  conscious  of  power 
within.  There  struggling  thoughts  and  emo 
tions  broke  forth,  as  if  moved  to  utterance  by 
nature's  eloquence  of  the  winds  and  waves. 
There  began  a  happiness  surpassing  all  worldly 
pleasures,  all  gifts  of  fortune :  the  happiness  of 
communing  with  the  works  of  God."  Here 
is  an  index  to  his  character.  A  mild,  con 
templative  enthusiast,  with  a  mind  imbued 
with  taste,  and  stored  with  the  best  learning, 
and  an  ardent  desire  that  he  might  be  useful, 
he  went  into  the  world,  proposing  to  himself 
as  his  mission  the  elevation  of  men  to  his  own 
kindness,  serenity,  and  dignity,  and  the  bring 
ing  of  them  into  the  same  converse  with  nature 
and  God. 

Soon  after  he  began  to  preach  he  received 
and  accepted  an  invitation  to  become  the  pas 


tor  of  the  church  in  Federal  street  in  Boston, 
and  was  ordained  on  the  first  of  June,  1803. 
The  congregation  worshipping  there  was  then 
small,  but  on  this  account  the  situation  was 
preferred  to  another  which  was  offered  to  him, 
for  the  slendewiess  and  debility  of  his  frame 
would  not  allow  him  to  labour  much  as  a  pa 
rochial  minister.  His  countenance  was  beau 
tiful,  his  voice,  always  tremulous,  was  vari 
ably  musical,  and  his  articulation  slow  and 
distinct.  His  manner  altogether  was  natural, 
persuasive,  and  earnest.  He  immediately  be 
came  popular,  and  the  increase  of  his  society 
soon  rendered  necessary  the  erection  of  a  new 
and  larger  place  of  worship.  A  visit  to  Eu 
rope  much  improved  his  health,  and  filled  his 
mind  and  heart  with  new  purposes.  He  re 
tained  his  connection  with  the  society  until 
his  death,  though  in  1824  a  colleague  was 
associated  with  him,  and  in  1840  he  was  re 
lieved  from  the  obligation  of  performing  any 
public  duties. 

Doctor  Channing's  earliest  publications 
were  on  controversial  theology.  His  sermon 
on  the  Unitarian  Belief,  preached  at  the  ordi 
nation  of  the  Reverend  Jared  Sparks,  in  Balti 
more,  in  1819,  is  perhaps  the  most  ingenious 
and  polished  of  his  dogmatical  essays.  It 
excited  an  extraordinary  degree  of  attention, 
and  several  of  the  ablest  Trinitarian  writers  in 
the  country  replied  to  it.  In  1820  he  printed 
in  the  Christian  Disciple  a  paper  on  the  same 
subject,  entitled  The  Moral  Argument  against 
Calvinism.  But  though  he  continued  to  feel 
a  deep  interest  in  this  and  other  religious  con 
troversies,  they  could  not  have  been  congenial 
to  one  who  was  so  sensitively  alive  to  the 
beautiful ;  and  notwithstanding  the  reputation 
he  acquired  by  these  writings,  he  was  by  no 
means  fitted  by  his  intellectual  constitution  for 
a  pursuit  of  which  the  main  element  is  logic. 

He  was  brought  more  directly  into  notice 
as  a  literary  rnan  by  his  essay  on  National 
Literature,  published  in  1823,  and  his  Re 
marks  on  the  Character  and  Writings  of  John 
Milton,  which  appeared  in  the  Christian  Ex 
aminer  for  182G.  This  article  was  written 
very  hastily,  and  somewhat  unwillingly,  to 
oblige  a  friend  who  felt  an  interest  in  the  sale 
of  an  edition  of  Milton's  Treatise  on  Christian 
Doctrine,  then  just  published  in  Boston.  On 
reading  it  in  print  he  concluded  not  to  avow 
himself  its  author,  which  he  might  well  do, 
for  however  creditable  it  would  have  been  to 


160 


WILLIAM    ELLERY    CHANNING. 


a  writer  of  inferior  powers,  it  was  below  the 
level  of  his  own,  and  had  in  it  very  little  that 
was  original  or  distinctive.  It  was  supposed 
by  his  more  judicious  friends,  who  were  not 
in  the  secret,  to  be  an  imitation  of  his  style,  by 
some  clever  young  man  of  the  university,  and 
one,  who  has  since  become  eminent  as  a  cler 
gyman,  being  accused  of  it,  thought  it  worth 
while  to  advise  Dr.  Channing  of  his  inno 
cence,  as  he  considered  the  essay  a  poor  one. 
The  surprise  of  the  author  at  the  reputation  to 
which  it  attained  was  never  concealed.  It  is 
but  justice  to  him  to  state  that  his  own  esti 
mate  of  it  was  perfectly  proper.  The  Edin 
burgh  reviewer's  criticism  of  it  was  perhaps 
just,  though  it  was  not  fair  to  judge  of  the  me 
rits  of  an  author  by  one  of  his  poorest  works. 
His  Remarks  on  the  Life  and  Character  of 
Napoleon  Bonaparte  have  not  been  assigned 
their  proper  rank  among  his  writings.  This 
article  is  more  able  than  that  on  Milton ;  un 
doubtedly  it  was  written  with  care,  and  con 
tained  his  deliberately-formed  opinions ;  but 
much  of  its  celebrity  was  owing  to  adventi 
tious  circumstances,  by  which  it  cannot  be 
sustained.  Its  merits  are  in  its  generalities: 
it  has  none  as  a  delineation  of  the  character 
of  that  great  man,  whose  name,  given  to  the 
winds  at  Toulon,  became  an  undying  sound. 
In  the  period  of  his  captivity,  men  held  their 
'breath  at  the  stupendous  crime,  but  when  he 
died,  one  universal  hiss  from  all  the  quarters  of 
the  globe  poured  upon  England,  so  that  every 
cheek  was  flushed  in  the  scorching  breath  of 
human  indignation.  An  attack  upon  the  vic 
tim  was  a  cosmetic  for  the  festering  faces  of 
the  criminals,  all  the  better  for  being  import 
ed  from  a  nation  that  was  deemed  less  friendly 
to  Britain  than  to  France.  This  state  of  feel 
ing  was  the  secret  of  the  temporary  success 
of  Scott's  libel  on  Bonaparte,  and  it  occa 
sioned  the  republication  of  Channing's  essay 
in  every  conceivable  form.  The  republican 
is  a  candid  judge,  it  was  said,  and  if  his 
portraiture  is  correct,  it  was  right  to  violate 
every  law  to  rid  the  world  of  such  a  monster. 
This  is  Doctor  Channing's  position:  he  as 
sumes  that  Napoleon  was  resolved  to  make 
the  earth  a  slaughter-house,  and  to  crush  every 
will  adverse  to  his  own,  and  denies  that  against 
such  a  person  mankind  should  proceed  by  writ 
ten  laws  and  precedents.  This  is  a  doctrine 
which  sanctions  almost  every  mob  and  mas 
sacre  since  the  conspiracy  against  Christ,  for 


it  makes  men  in  all  cases  the  judges  of  the 
necessity  and  justice  of  their  own  actions.  It 
is  one  of  the  instances  in  which  passion  ob 
tained  a  mastery  over  his  usually  serene  under 
standing.  He  was  too  sagacious  a  man  not 
to  know  that  obedience  is  the  first  condition 
of  freedom  ;  that  it  is  better  for  a  nation  to 
suffer  any  thing  than  to  do  injustice ;  that  there 
can  be  no  true  liberty  where  the  authority  of 
the  law,  whether  it  be  right  or  wrong,  while 
it  exists,  is  not  superior  to  every  other  pos 
sible  obligation,  contingency,  or  conviction, 
except,  were  such  a  thing  to  be  looked  for, 
the  direct  and  audible  interfering  voice  of  God. 
The  essay  is  full  of  misrepresentation  and  in 
vective,  and  we  are  constantly  reminded  in 
reading  it  that  the  author  was  labouring  to 
make  out  a  case  for  which  he  was  sensible 
that  he  had  inadequate  materials. 

In  1829  Doctor  Channing  published  in  the 
Christian  Examiner  his  Remarks  on  the  Cha 
racter  and  Writings  of  Fenelon ;  a  paper  in 
which  are  developed  with  much  ability  some 
of  his  ethical  views,  particularly  in  reference 
to  the  dignity  of  human  nature. 

There  is  a  perceptible  and  steady  increase 
of  strength  and  beauty  in  Doctor  Channing's 
writings,  and  they  are  more  profound,  origi 
nal,  and  characteristic,  the  more  he  gave  him 
self  up  to  his  true  mission,  which  was,  not  so 
much  to  dispute  about- systems  of  faith,  as  to 
bring  acts,  customs,  and  institutions  to  the 
standard  of  Christian  morality,  and  in  the  spi 
rit  of  a  genuine  philanthropy  to  advocate  the 
cause  of  peace,  gentleness,  and  righteousness. 
Of  peace  he  was  an  early  and  persevering 
friend:  in  1816  he  published  his  first  dis 
course  on  the  subject;  when  there  was  danger 
of  a  rupture  with  France,  in  1835,  he  again 
raised  his  voice  in  remonstrance;  and  in  1839, 
when  there  was  a  prospect  of  a  conflict  with 
Great  Britain,  in  a  lecture  before  the  Ameri 
can  Peace  Society,  he  brought  out  fresh  proofs 
of  the  insensibility  of  the  mass  of  the  com 
munity  to  the  crimes  and  miseries  of  war,  and 
the  general  want  of  Christian  and  philanthro 
pic  views  in  regard  to  this  barbarous  umpirage 
of  right.  He  discussed  the  subject  in  all  its 
bearings,  with  a  faithfulness,  earnestness,  and 
power  of  illustration,  which  showed  a  warm 
personal  sympathy  and  thorough  acquaintance 
with  it ;  and  the  extent  to  which  his  writings 
were  read  and  remarked  upon  proved  that  they 
struck  a  responsive  chord  in  the  national  heart. 


WILLIAM   ELLERY    CHANNING. 


161 


He  was  also  much  interested  in  the  plans  for 
the  suppression  of  intemperance,  and  disclosed 
the  depths  of  its  causes  and  the  essential  re 
medies  which  it  demanded  in  a  discourse 
which  indicates  a  deep  thoughtfulness  up 
on  our  social  relations  and  necessities,  and 
a  true  apprehension  of  the  general  capacity 
for  a  higher  range  of  duties  and  enjoyments. 
This  was  preliminary  to,  and  should  be  con 
sidered  with  his  two  noblest  productions, — 
those  which  bespeak  most  truly  the  nature  of 
his  ambition,  and  are  likely,  from  the  sagacity 
and  rational  views  they  display,  and  their  rare 
adaptation  to  raise  the  mass  of  men  from  the 
degradation  of  mind  and  heart  in  which  they 
are  sunk,  to  be  longest  remembered.  These 
are  the  Address  on  Self-Culture,  delivered  in 
Boston  in  the  fall  of  1838  as  an  introduction 
to  a  course  of  lectures  attended  chiefly  by  me 
chanics,  and  the  Lectures  on  the  Elevation  of 
the  Labouring  Portion  of  the  Community,  de 
livered  before  an  Apprentices'  Library  Associa 
tion  in  that  city  in  the  winter  of  1840.  They 
are  built  upon  the  principles  of  the  absolute 
3ssential  equality  of  all  men,  and  of  the  dignity 
of  human  nature,  which  makes  all  assumption 
of  superiority  on  account  of  outward  privileges 
a  violation  of  the  divine  purposes,  as  well  as 
an  infringement  of  the  fundamental  law  of  our 
social  organization.  He  was  far  from  con 
tending  that  the  mass*  are  competent  to  form 
just  estimates  of  the  great  matters  which  have 
relation  to  their  moral  and  material  interests, 
without  previous  initiation  and  discipline ;  but 
demanded  of  society  the  encouragement  to 
unfold  and  exercise,  and  of  every  individual 
the  development  and  use,  of  the  highest  ca 
pacities.  He  claimed  mutual  respect,  accord 
ing  to  virtue,  intelligence,  and  genius,  without 
regard  to  any  factitious  distinctions  of  birth, 
wealth,  or  position.  But  however  radical  were 
his  views  on  this  subject,  he  was  no  leveller 
in  the  common  acceptation  of  the  term ;  he 
would  take  nothing  from  the  high  but  their 
pride,  reserve,  and  contempt,  and  nothing  from 
the  low  but  their  envy,  hatred,  and  jealousy. 
He  would  not  elevate  the  labourer  above  his 
occupation,  but  in  it ;  he  would  dignify  the 
most  humble  pursuits,  that  are  necessary  to 
human  happiness,  and  persuade  their  followers 
that  if  they  had  the  will  and  the  energy,  there 
was  nothing  to  prevent  their  elevation  to  the 
highest  range  of  cultivation  and  enjoyment. 

Doctor  Channing  was  never  a  member  of 
21 


any  of  the  anti-slavery  societies,  and  is  said  to 
have  doubted  the  wisdom  of  such  associations 
but  he  was  unhesitating  and  uncompromising 
in  his  opposition  to  slavery,  and  his  tracts  on 
the  Annexation  of  Texas  and  the  Duties  of  the 
Free  States,  and  others  of  a  similar  purpose  and 
spirit,  with  the  book  on  Slavery  which  he  pub 
lished  in  1841,  had  a  more  powerful  influence 
on  the  question  than  any  other  writings  that 
have  been  published  in  this  country.  The 
last  public  act  of  his  life  was  an  address  de 
livered  at  Lenox  in  Massachusetts  on  the  first 
of  August,  1842,  in  commemoration  of  Eman 
cipation  in  the  British  West  Indies. 

Doctor  Channing's  discourses  on  The  Evi 
dences  of  Revealed  Religion,  embracing  a  phi 
losophical  and  perspicuous  statement  of  the 
true  principles  upon  which  our  belief  in  hu 
man  testimony  is  regulated,  are  the  most  cre 
ditable  of  his  writings  of  this  description. 
Some  of  his  sermons  inculcating  the  practical 
duties  of  religion  are  of  the  first  order  of  ex 
cellence.  He  had  neither  the  learning  nor 
the  metaphysical  power  to  be  a  great  theolo 
gian.  In  one  volume  he  claims  for  reason 
supremacy,  and  appeals  to  it  as  the  last  um 
pire  ;  and  in  another  derides  the  results  of  the 
most  rigid  induction  as  opposed  to  his  own 
consciousness.  Consciousness  was  the  law 
of  his  belief.  Logic  was  resorted  to,  reluct 
antly,  for  its  defence :  never  for  its  formation. 
Let  no  one  suppose  that  this  excellence  in 
"  practical  preaching"  is  to  be  lightly  esteemed 
even  in  comparison  with  the  far  higher  intel 
lectual  force  of  such  men  as  Edwards.  The 
theory  of  beauty  which  Edwards  taught,  Chan 
ning  understood  and  appreciated,  and  the  pure 
and  ardent  benevolence  which  it  inculcated 
he  practised.  Whether  his  abstract  notions 
were  right  or  wrong,  he  really  loved  virtue 
"  for  its  own  beauty  and  sweetness,"  and  was 
eminently  successful  in  implanting  a  love  of 
it  in  others.  His  mind,  without  being  of  the 
first,  was  of  a  very  high  order,  his  taste  was 
elegant,  but  not  faultless,  and  he  is  justly  ad 
mired  for  his  honesty  and  heroism.  His  works 
will  undoubtedly  fail  to  sustain  his  reputation 
as  a  thinker  and  man  of  letters. 

Dr.  Channing  passed  the  last  few  years  ot 
his  life  in  much  privacy,  at  Boston  in  tht 
winter  and  at  Newport  in  the  summer.  He  was 
seized  with  a  typhus  fever,  while  travelling, 
at  Bennington,  Vermont,  where  he  died,  on  the 

second  of  October,  1842. 
02 


162 


WILLIAM    ELLERY    CHANNING. 


POETRY. 

FROM  AN  ESSAY   ON  THE  WRITINGS  OF   MILTON. 

WE  believe  that  poetry,  far  from  injuring  society, 
is  one  of  the  great  instruments  of  its  refinement 
and  exaltation.  It  lifts  the  mind  above  ordinary 
life,  gives  it  a  respite  from  depressing  cares,  and 
awakens  the  consciousness  of  its  affinity  with  what 
is  pure  and  noble.  In  its  legitimate  and  highest 
efforts,  it  has  the  same  tendency  and  aim  with 
Christianity;  that  is,  to  spiritualize  our  nature. 
True,  poetry  has  been  made  the  instrument  of 
vice,  the  pander  of  bad  passions ;  but,  when  genius 
thus  stoops,  it  dims  its  fires  and  parts  with  much 
of  its  power ;  and,  even  when  poetry  is  enslaved 
to  licentiousness  or  misanthropy,  she  cannot 
wholly  forget  her  true  vocation.  Strains  of  pure 
feeling,  touches  of  tenderness,  images  of  innocent 
happiness,  sympathies  with  suffering  virtue,  bursts 
of  scorn  or  indignation  at  the  hollowness  of  the 
world,  passages  true  to  our  moral  nature,  often 
escape  in  an  immoral  work,  and  show  us  how 
hard  it  is  for  a  gifted  spirit  to  divorce  itself  wholly 
from  what  is  good.  Poetry  has  a  natural  alliance 
with  our  best  affections.  It  delights  in  the  beauty 
and  sublimity  of  the  outward  creation  and  of  the 
soul.  It  indeed  portrays,  with  terrible  energy,  the 
excesses  of  the  passions ;  but  they  are  passions 
which  show  a  mighty  nature,  which  are  full  of 
power,  which  command  awe,  and  excite  a  deep 
though  shuddering  sympathy.  Its  great  tendency 
and  purpose  is  to  carry  the  mind  beyond  and  above 
the  beaten,  dusty,  weary  walks  of  ordinary  life ;  to 
lift  it  into  a  purer  element ;  and  to  breathe  into  it 
more  profound  and  generous  emotion.  It  reveals 
to  us  the  loveliness  of  nature,  brings  back  the 
freshness  of  early  feeling,  revives  the  relish  of  sim 
ple  pleasures,  keeps  unquenched  the  enthusiasm 
which  warmed  the  spring-time  of  our  being,  refines 
youthful  love,  strengthens  our  interest  in  human 
nature  bj  vivid  delineations  of  its  tenderest  and 
loftiest  feelings,  spreads  our  sympathies  over  all 
classes  of  society,  knits  us  by  new  ties  with  uni 
versal  being,  and,  through  the  brightness  of  its 
prophetic  visions,  helps  faith  to  lay  hold  on  the 
future  life. 

We  are  aware  that  it  is  objected  to  poetry,  that 
it  gives  wrong  views  and  excites  false  expectations 
of  life,  peoples  the  mind  with  shadows  and  illu 
sions,  and  builds  up  imagination  on  the  ruins  of 
wisdom.  That  there  is  a  wisdom  against  which 
poetry  wars,  the  wisdom  of  the  senses,  which 
makes  physical  comfort  and  gratification  the  su 
preme  good,  and  wealth  the  chief  interest  of  life, 
we  do  not  deny  ;  nor  do  we  deem  it  the  least  ser 
vice  which  poetry  renders  to  mankind,  that  it  re 
deems  them  from  the  thraldom  of  this  earthborn 
prudence.  But,  passing  over  this  topic,  we  would 
observe,  that  the  complaint  against  poetry,  as 
abounding  in  illusion  and  deception,  is  in  the 
main  groundless.  In  many  poems  there  is  more 
of  truth  th?.n  in  many  histories  and  philosophic 
tl  Dories.  The  fictions  of  genius  are  often  the 
>  chicles  of  the  sublimest  verities,  and  its  flashes 
often  open  new  regions  of  thought,  and  throw  new 


light  on  the  mysteries  of  our  being.  In  poetry, 
when  the  letter  is  falsehood,  the  spirit  is  often  pro- 
foundest  wisdom.  And,  if  truth  thus  dwells  in 
the  boldest  fictions  of  the  poet,  much  more  may  it 
be  expected  in  his  delineations  of  life ;  for  the  pre 
sent  life,  which  is  the  first  stage  of  the  immortal 
mind,  abounds  in  the  materials  of  poetry,  and  it  is 
the  high  office  of  the  bard  to  detect  this  divine 
element  among  the  grosser  labours  and  pleasures 
of  our  earthly  being.  The  present,  life  is  not 
wholly  prosaic,  precise,  tame,  and  finite.  To  the 
gifted  eye  it  abounds  in  the  poetic.  The  affections 
which  spread  beyond  ourselves  and  stretch  far  into 
futurity ;  the  workings  of  mighty  passions,  which 
seem  to  arm  the  soul  with  an  almost  superhuman 
energy ;  the  innocent  and  irrepressible  joy  of  in 
fancy;  the  bloom,  and  buoyancy,  and  dazzling 
hopes  of  youth  ;  the  throbbings  of  the  heart,  when 
it  first  wakes  to  love  and  dreams  of  a  happiness 
too  vast  for  earth ;  woman,  with  her  beauty,  and 
grace,  and  gentleness,  and  fulness  of  feeirng,  and 
depth  of  affection,  and  blushes  of  purity,  and  the 
tones  and  looks  which  only  a  mother's  heart  can 
inspire ; — these  are  all  poetical.  It  is  not  true  that 
the  poet  paints  a  life  which  does  not  exist.  He 
only  extracts  and  concentrates  as  it  were  life's 
ethereal  essence,  arrests  and  condenses  its  volatile 
fragrance,  brings  together  its  scattered  beauties, 
and  prolongs  its  more  refined  but  evanescent  joys. 
And  in  this  he  does  well ;  for  it  is  good  to  feel 
that  life  is  not  wholly  usurped  by  cares  for  subsist 
ence  and  physical  gratifications,  but  admits,  in 
measures  which  may  be  indefinitely  enlarged,  sen 
timents  and  delights  worthy  of  a  higher  being. 
This  power  of  poetry  to  refine  our  views  of  life 
and  happiness,  is  more  and  more  needed  as  society 
advances.  It  is  needed  to  withstand  the  encroach 
ments  of  heartless  and  artificial  manners,  which 
make  civilization  so  tame  and  uninteresting.  It  is 
needed  to  counteract  the  tendency  of  physical  sci 
ence,  which,  being  now  sought,  not,  as  formerly, 
for  intellectual  gratification,  but  for  multiplying 
bodily  comforts,  requires  a  new  development  of 
imagination,  taste,  and  poetry,  to  preserve  men 
from  sinking  into  an  earthly,  material,  Epicurean 
life. 


DANCING. 

FROM  AN  ADDRESS  ON  TEMPERANCE. 

DANCIXG  is  an  amusement  which  has  been  dis 
couraged  in  our  country  by  many  of  the  best  peo 
ple,  and  not  without  reason.  Dancing  is  associated 
in  their  minds  with  balls ;  and  this  is  one  of  the 
worst  forms  of  social  pleasure.  The  time  con 
sumed  in  preparation  for  a  ball,  the  waste  of 
thought  upon  it,  the  extravagance  of  dress,  the 
late  hours,  the  exhaustion  of  strength,  the  exposure 
of  health,  and  the  languor  of  the  succeeding  day, — 
these  and  other  evils  connected  with  this  amuse 
ment  are  strong  reasons  for  banishing  it  from  the 
community.  But  dancing  ought  not  therefore  to 
be  proscribed.  On  the  contrary,  balls  should  be 
discouraged  for  this  among  other  reasons,  that 


WILLIAM    ELLERY    CHANNING. 


163 


dancing,  instead  of  being  a  rare  pleasure,  requiring 
elaborate  preparation,  may  become  an  everyday 
amusement,  and  may  mix  with  our  common  inter 
course.  This  exercise  is  among  the  most  health 
ful.  The  body  as  well  as  the  mind  feels  its  glad 
dening  influence.  No  amusement  seems  more  to 
have  a  foundation  in  our  nature.  The  animation 
of  youth  overflows  spontaneously  in  harmonious 
movements.  The  true  idea  of  dancing  entitles  it 
to  favour.  Its  end  is  to  realize  perfect  grace  in 
motion ;  and  who  does  not  know  that  a  sense  of 
the  graceful  is  one  of  the  higher  faculties  of  our 
nature  1  It  is  to  be  desired,  that  dancing  should 
become  too  common  among  us  to  be  made  the 
object  of  special  preparation  as  in  the  ball ;  that 
members  of  the  same  family,  when  confined  by 
unfavourable  weather,  should  recur  to  it  for  exer 
cise  and  exhilaration ;  that  branches  of  the  same 
family  should  enliven  in  this  way  their  occasional 
meetings  ;  that  it  should  fill  up  an  hour  in  all  the 
assemblages  for  relaxation,  in  which  the  young 
form  a  part.  It  is  to  be  desired  that  this  accom 
plishment  should  be  extended  to  the  labouring 
classes  of  society,  not  only  as  an  innocent  pleasure, 
but  as  a  means  of  improving  the  manners.  Why 
shall  not  gracefulness  be  spread  through  the  whole 
community  1  From  the  French  nation  we  learn 
that  a  degree  of  grace  and  refinement  of  manners 
may  pervade  all  classes.  The  philanthropist  and 
Christian  must  desire  to  break  down  the  partition 
walls  between  human  beings  in  different  condi 
tions  ;  and  one  means  of  doing  this  is,  to  remove 
the  conscious  awkwardness  which  confinement  to 
laborious  occupations  is  apt  to  induce.  An  ac 
complishment,  giving  free  and  graceful  movement, 
though  a  far  weaker  bond  than  intellectual  or 
moral  culture,  still  does  something  to  bring  those 
who  partake  it,  near  each  other. 


THE  THEATRE. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

Ix  its  present  state,  the  theatre  deserves  no  en 
couragement.  It  is  an  accumulation  of  immoral 
influences.  It  has  nourished  intemperance  and 
all  vice.  In  saying  this,  I  do  not  say  that  the 
amusement  is  radically,  essentially  evil.  I  can 
conceive  of  a  theatre  which  would  be  the  noblest 
of  all  amusements,  and  would  take  a  high  rank 
among  the  means  of  refining  the  taste  and  elevat 
ing  the  character  of  a  people.  The  deep  woes, 
the  mighty  and  terrible  passions,  and  the  sublime 
emotions  of  genuine  tragedy,  are  fitted  to  thrill  us 
with  human  sympathies,  with  profound  interest  in 
our  nature,  with  a  consciousness  of  what  man  can 
do  and  dare  and  suffer,  with  an  awed  feeling  of 
the  fearful  mysteries  of  life.  The  soul  of  the  spec 
tator  is  stirred  from  its  depths ;  and  the  lethargy 
in  which  so  many  live  is  roused,  at  least  for  a 
time,  to  some  intenseness  of  thought  and  sensi 
bility.  The  drama  answers  a  high  purpose,  when 
it  places  us  in  the  presence  of  the  most  solemn 
and  striking  events  of  human  history,  and  lays 


bare  to  us  the  human  heart  in  its  most  powerful, 
appalling,  glorious  workings.  But  how  little  does 
the  theatre  accomplish  its  end  ]  How  often  is  it 
disgraced  by  monstrous  distortions  of  human  na 
ture,  and  still  more  disgraced  by  profaneness, 
coarseness,  indelicacy,  low  wit,  such  as  no  woman, 
worthy  of  the  name,  can  hear  without  a  blush,  and 
no  man  can  take  pleasure  in  without  self-degra 
dation.  Is  it  possible  that  a  Christian  and  a  re 
fined  people  can  resort  to  theatres,  where  exhibi 
tions  of  dancing  are  given  fit  only  for  brothels, 
and  where  the  most  licentious  class  in  the  commu 
nity  throng  unconcealed  to  tempt  and  destroy  1 
That  the  theatre  should  be  suffered  to  exist  in  its 
present  degradation  is  a  reproach  to  the  commu 
nity.  Were  it  to  fall,  a  better  drama  might  spring 
up  in  its  place.  In  the  mean  time,  is  there  not 
an  amusement,  having  an  affinity  with  the  drama, 
which  might  be  usefully  introduced  among  us  ] 
I  mean  Recitation.  A  work  of  genius,  recited  by 
a  man  of  fine  taste,  enthusiasm,  and  powers  of 
elocution,  is  a  very  pure  and  high  gratification. 
Were  this  art  cultivated  and  encouraged,  great 
numbers,  now  insensible  to  the  most  beautiful 
compositions,  might  be  waked  up  to  their  excel 
lence  and  power.  It  is  not  easy  to  conceive  of  a 
more  effectual  way  of  spreading  a  refined  taste 
through  a  community.  The  drama  undoubtedly 
appeals  more  strongly  to  the  passions  than  recita 
tion  ;  but  the  latter  brings  out  the  meaning  of  the 
author  more.  Shakspeare,  worthily  recited,  would 
be  better  understood  than  on  the  stage.  Then,  in 
recitation,  we  escape  the  weariness  of  listening  to 
poor  performers,  who,  after  all,  fill  up  most  of  the 
time  at  the  theatre.  Recitation,  sufficiently  varied, 
so  as  to  include  pieces  of  chaste  wit,  as  well  as  of 
pathos,  beauty,  and  sublimity,  is  adapted  to  our 
present  intellectual  progress,  as  much  as  the  drama 
falls  below  it.  Should  this  exhibition  be  intro 
duced  among  us  successfully,  the  result  would  be, 
that  the  power  of  recitation  would  be  extensively 
called  forth,  and  this  would  be  added  to  our  social 
and  domestic  pleasures. 


RELIGION  AND  PLEASURE. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

To  some,  perhaps  to  many,  religion  and  amuse 
ment  seem  mutually  hostile,  and  he  who  pleads 
for  the  one  may  fall  under  suspicion  of  unfaithful 
ness  to  the  other.  But  to  fight  against  our  nature 
is  not  to  serve  the  cause  of  piety  or  sound  morals. 
God,  who  gave  us  our  nature,  who  has  constituted 
body  and  mind  incapable  of  continued  effort,  who 
has  implanted  a  strong  desire  for  recreation  after 
labour,  who  has  made  us  for  smiles  much  more 
than  for  tears,  who  has  made  laughter  the  most 
contagious  of  all  sounds,  whose  Son  hallowed  a 
marriage-feast  by  his  presence  and  sympathy,  who 
has  sent  the  child  fresh  from  his  creating  hand  to 
develope  its  nature  by  active  sports,  and  who  has 
endowed  both  young  and  old  with  a  keen  suscepti 
bility  of  enjoyment  from  wit  and  humour,—  He 


164 


WILLIAM    ELLERY    CHANNING. 


who  has  thus  formed  us,  cannot  have  intended  us 
for  a  dull,  monotonous  life,  and  cannot  frown  on 
pleasures  which  solace  our  fatigue  and  refresh  our 
spirits  for  coming  toils.  It  is  not  only  possible  to 
reconcile  amusement  with  duty,  but  to  make  it  the 
means  of  more  animated  exertion,  more  faithful 
attachments,  more  grateful  piety.  True  religion 
is  at  once  authoritative  and  benign.  It  calls  us  to 
suffer,  to  die,  rather  than  to  swerve  a  hair's  breadth 
from  what  God  enjoins  as  right  and  good ;  but  it 
teaches  us  that  it  is  right  and  good,  in  ordinary 
circumstances,  to  unite  relaxation  with  toil,  to  ac 
cept  God's  gifts  with  cheerfulness,  and  to  lighten 
the  heart,  in  the  intervals  of  exertion,  by  social 
pleasures.  A  religion  giving  dark  views  of  God, 
and  infusing  superstitious  fear  of  innocent  enjoy 
ment,  instead  of  aiding  sober  habits,  will,  by  mak 
ing  men  abject  and  sad,  impair  their  moral  force, 
and  prepare  them  for  intemperance  as  a  refuge 
from  depression  or  despair. 


THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY. 

FROM  SELF-CULTURE. 

BEAUTY  is  an  all-pervading  presence.  It  un 
folds  in  the  numberless  flowers  of  the  spring.  It 
waves  in  the  branches  of  the  trees  and  the  green 
blades  of  grass.  It  haunts  the  depths  of  the  earth 
and  sea,  and  gleams  out  in  the  hues  qf  the  shell 
and  the  precious  stone.  And  not  only  these  mi 
nute  objects,  but  the  ocean,  the  mountains,  the 
clouds,  the  heavens,  the  stars,  the  rising  and  set 
ting  sun,  all  overflow  with  beauty.  The  universe 
is  its  temple ;  and  those  men  who  are  alive  to  it, 
cannot  lift  their  eyes  without  feeling  themselves 
encompassed  with  it  on  every  side.  Now  this 
beauty  is  so  precious,  the  enjoyments  it  gives  are 
so  refined  and  pure,  so  congenial  with  our  tender- 
est  and  noble  feelings,  and  so  akin  to  worship, 
that  it  is  painful  to  think  of  the  multitude  of  men 
as  living  in  the  midst  of  it,  and  living  almost  as 
blind  to  it  as  if,  instead  of  this  fair  earth  and  glo 
rious  sky,  they  were  tenants  of  a  dungeon.  An 
infinite  joy  is  lost  to  the  world  by  the  want  of  cul 
ture  of  this  spiritual  endowment.  Suppose  that  I 
were  to  visit  a  cottage,  and  to  see  its  walls  lined 
with  the  choicest  pictures  of  Raphael,  and  every 
spare  nook  filled  with  statues  of  the  most  exquisite 
workmanship,  and  that  I  were  to  learn  that  neither 
man,  woman,  nor  child  ever  cast  an  eye  at  these 
miracles  of  art,  how  should  I  feel  their  privation ; 
how  should  I  want  to  open  their  eyes,  and  to  help 
them  to  comprehend  and  feel  the  loveliness  and 
grandeur  which  in  vain  courted  their  notice !  But 
every  husbandman  is  living  in  sight  of  the  works 
of  a  diviner  Artist ;  and  how  much  would  his  ex 
istence  be  elevated,  could  he  see  the  glory  which 
shines  forth  in  their  forms,  hues,  proportions,  and 
moral  expression !  I  have  spoken  only  of  the 
beauty  of  nature,  but  how  much  of  this  mysterious 
charm  is  found  in  the  elegant  arts,  and  especially 
in  literature  1  The  best  books  have  most  beauty. 
The  greatest  truths  are  wronged  if  not  linked  with 


beauty,  and  they  win  their  way  most  surely  and 
deeply  into  the  soul  when  arrayed  in  this  their 
natural  and  fit  attire.  Now  no  man  receives  the 
true  culture  of  a  man,  in  whom  the  sensibility  to 
the  beautiful  is  not  cherished ;  and  I  know  of  no 
condition  in  life  from  which  it  should  be  excluded. 
Of  all  luxuries  this  is  the  cheapest  and  most  at 
hand ;  and  it  seems  to  me  to  be  most  important 
to  those  conditions,  where  coarse  labour  tends  to 
give  a  grossness  to  the  mind.  From  the  diffusion 
of  the  sense  of  beauty  in  ancient  Greece,  and  of 
the  taste  for  music  in  modern  Germany,  we  learn 
that  the  people  at  large  may  partake  of  refined 
gratifications,  which  have  hitherto  been  thought 
to  be  necessarily  restricted  to  a  few. 


BOOKS. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

IT  is  chiefly  through  books  that  we  enjoy  inter 
course  with  superior  minds,  and  these  invaluable 
means  of  communication  are  in  the  reach  of  all. 
In  the  best  books  great  men  talk  to  us,  give  us 
their  most  precious  thoughts,  and  pour  their  souls 
into  ours.  God  be  thanked  for  books.  They  are 
the  voices  of  the  distant  and  the  dead,  and  make 
us  heirs  of  the  spiritual  life  of  past  ages.  Books 
are  the  true  levellers.  They  give  to  all,  who  will 
faithfully  use  them,  the  society,  the  spiritual  pre 
sence  of  the  best  and  greatest  of  our  race.  No 
matter  how  poor  I  am.  No  matter  though  the 
prosperous  of  my  own  time  will  not  enter  my  ob 
scure  dwelling.  If  the  Sacred  Writers  will  enter 
and  take  up  their  abode  under  my  roof,  if  Milton 
will  cross  my  threshold  to  sing  to  me  of  Paradise, 
and  Shakspeare  to  open  to  me  the  worlds  of  ima 
gination  and  the  workings  of  the  human  heart, 
and  Franklin  to  enrich  me  with  his  practical  wis 
dom,  I  shall  not  pine  for  want  of  intellectual  com 
panionship,  and  I  may  become  a  cultivated  man 
though  excluded  from  what  is  called  the  best  so 
ciety  in  the  place  where  I  live. 


THE  BOOK  OF  BOOKS. 

FROM  THE  MINISTRY   FOR    THE  POOR. 

THE  poor  might  enjoy  the  most  important  ad 
vantages  of  the  rich,  had  they  the  moral  and  reli 
gious  cultivation  consistent  with  their  lot.  Books 
find  their  way  into  every  house,  however  mean ; 
and  especially  that  book  which  contains  more  nu 
triment  for  the  intellect,  imagination,  and  heart, 
than  all  others;  I  mean,  of  course,  the  Bible. 
And  I  am  confident  that  among  the  poor  are  those 
who  find  in  that  one  book  more  enjoyment,  more 
awakening  truth,  more  lofty  and  beautiful  imagery, 
more  culture  to  the  whole  soul,  than  thousands  of 
the  educated  find  in  their  general  studies,  and 
vastly  more  than  millions  among  the  rich  find  in 
that  superficial,  transitory  literature  which  con 
sumes  all  their  reading  hours. 


WILLIAM   ELLERY    CHANNING. 


165 


SPIRITUAL  FREEDOM. 

FROM  A  DISCOURSE  PREACHED   AT  THE  ANNUAL  ELECTION  IN 
1830. 


I  MAY  be  asked  what  I  mean  by  "  inward  spi 
ritual  freedom  !"  The  common  and  true  answer 
is,  that  it  is  freedom  from  sin.  I  apprehend,  how 
ever,  that  to  many,  if  not  to  most,  these  words  are 
too  vague  to  convey  a  full  and  deep  sense  of  the 
greatness  of  the  blessing.  Let  me  then  offer  a 
brief  explanation  ;  and  the  most  important  remark 
in  illustrating  this  freedom  is,  that  it  is  not  a  nega 
tive  state,  not  the  mere  absence  of  sin ;  for  such  a 
freedom  may  be  ascribed  to  inferior  animals,  or  to 
children  before  becoming  moral  agents.  Spiritual 
freedom  is  the  attribute  of  a  mind  in  which  reason 
and  conscience  have  begun  to  act,  and  which  is 
free  through  its  own  energy,  through  fidelity  to 
the  truth,  through  resistance  of  temptation.  I 
cannot  therefore  better  give  my  views  of  spiritual 
freedom  than  by  saying,  that  it  is  moral  energy, 
or  force  of  holy  purpose,  put  forth  against  the 
senses,  against  the  passions,  against  the  world,  and 
thus  liberating  the  intellect,  conscience,  and  will, 
so  that  they  may  act  with  strength  and  unfold 
themselves  for  ever.  The  essence  of  spiritual  free 
dom  is  power.  A  man  liberated  from  sensual 
lusts  by  palsy,  would  not  therefore  be  inwardly 
free.  He  only  is  free  who,  through  self-conflict 
and  moral  resolution,  sustained  by  trust  in  God, 
subdues  the  passions  which  have  debased  him, 
and,  escaping  the  thraldom  of  low  objects,  binds 
himself  to  pure  and  lofty  ones.  That  mind  alone 
is  free,  which,  looking  to  God  as  the  inspirer  and 
rewarder  of  virtue,  adopts  his  law,  written  on  the 
heart  and  in  his  word,  as  its  supreme  rule,  and 
which,  in  obedience  to  this,  governs  itself,  reveres 
itself,  exerts  faithfully  its  best  powers,  and  unfolds 
itself  by  well  doing  in  whatever  sphere  God's  pro 
vidence  assigns. 

It  has  pleased  the  all-wise  Disposer  to  encom 
pass  us  from  our  birth  with  difficulty  and  allure 
ment,  to  place  us  in  a  world  where  wrong  doing 
is  often  gainful,  and  duty  rough  and  perilous, 
where  many  voices  oppose  the  dictates  of  the  in 
ward  monitor,  where  the  body  presses  as  a  weight 
on  the  mind,  and  matter,  by  its  perpetual  agency 
on  the  senses,  becomes  a  barrier  between  us  and 
the  spiritual  world.  We  are  in  the  midst  of  influ 
ences  which  menace  the  intellect  and  heart,  and  to 
be  free  is  to  withstand  and  conquer  these. 

I  call  that  mind  free,  which  masters  the  senses, 
which  protects  itself  against  animal  appetites, 
which  contemns  pleasure  and  pain  in  comparison 
with  its  own  energy,  which  penetrates  beneath 
the  body  and  recognises  its  own  reality  and  great 
ness,  which  passes  life,  not  in  asking  what  it  shall 
eat  or  drink,  but  in  hungering,  thirsting,  and  seek 
ing  after  righteousness. 

I  call  that  mind  free,  which  escapes  the  bondage 
of  matter,  which,  instead  of  stopping  at  the  mate 
rial  universe  and  making  it  a  prison-wall,  passes 
beyond  it  to  its  Author,  and  finds,  in  the  radiant 
signatures  which  it  everywhere  bears  of  the  In 
finite  Spirit,  helps  to  its  own  spiritual  enlarge 
ment. 


I  call  that  mind  free,  which  jealously  guards  its 
intellectual  rights  and  powers,  which  calls  no  man 
master,  which  does  not  content  itself  with  a  pas 
sive  or  hereditary  faith,  which  opens  itself  to  light 
whencesoever  it  may  come,  which  receives  new 
truth  as  an  angel  from  heaven,  which,  while  con 
sulting  others,  inquires  still  more  of  the  oracle 
within  itself,  and  uses  instruction  from  abroad, 
not  to  supersede,  but  to  quicken  and  exalt  its  own 
energies. 

I  call  that  mind  free,  which  sets  no  bounds  to 
its  love,  which  is  not  imprisoned  in  itself  or  in  a 
sect,  which  recognises  in  all  human  beings  the 
image  of  God  and  the  rights  of  his  children,  which 
delights  in  virtue  and  sympathizes  with  suffering 
wherever  they  are  seen,  which  conquers  pride, 
anger,  and  sloth,  and  offers  itself  up  a  willing  vic 
tim  to  the  cause  of  mankind. 

I  call  that  mind  free,  which  is  not  passively 
framed  by  outward  circumstances,  which  is  not 
swept  away  by  the  torrents  of  events,  which  is  not 
the  creature  of  accidental  impulse,  but  which 
bends  events  to  its  own  improvement,  and  acts 
from  an  inward  spring,  from  immutable  principles 
which  it  has  deliberately  espoused. 

I  call  that  mind  free,  which  protects  itself  against 
the  usurpations  of  society,  which  does  not  cower 
to  human  opinion,  which  feels  itself  accountable 
to  a  higher  tribunal  than  man's,  which  respects  a 
higher  law  than  fashion,  which  respects  itself  too 
much  to  be  the  slave  or  tool  of  the  many  or  the 
few. 

I  call  that  mind  free,  which,  through  confidence 
in  God,  and  in  the  power  of  virtue,  has  cast  off  all 
fear  but  that  of  wrong  doing,  which  no  menace  or 
peril  can  enthral,  which  is  calm  in  the  midst  of 
tumults,  and  possesses  itself,  though  all  else  be 
lost. 

I  call  that  mind  free,  which  resists  the  bondage 
of  habit,  which  does  not  mechanically  repeat  itself 
and  copy  the  past,  which  does  not  live  on  its  old 
virtues,  which  does  not  enslave  itself  to  precise 
rules,  but  which  forgets  what  is  behind,  listens 
for  new  and  higher  monitions  of  conscience,  and 
rejoices  to  pour  itself  forth  in  fresh  and  higher 
exertions. 

I  call  that  mind  free,  which  is  jealous  of  its  own 
freedom,  which  guards  itself  from  being  merged  in 
others,  which  guards  its  empire  over  itself  as  no 
bler  than  the  empire  of  the  world. 

In  fine,  I  call  that  mind  free,  which,  conscious 
of  its  affinity  with  God,  and  confiding  in  his  pro 
mises  by  Jesus  Christ,  devotes  itself  faithfully  to 
the  unfolding  of  all  its  powers,  which  passes  the 
bounds  of  time  and  death,  which  hopes  to  advance 
for  ever,  and  which  finds  inexhaustible  power,  both 
for  action  and  suffering,  in  the  prospect  of  immor 
tality. 

Such  is  the  spiritual  freedom  which  Christ 
came  to  give.  It  consists  in  moral  force,  in  self- 
control,  in  the  enlargement  of  thought  and  affec 
tion,  and  in  the  unrestrained  action  of  our  best 
powers.  This  is  the  great  good  of  Christianity  ; 
nor  can  we  conceive  a  greater  within  the  gift  of 
God. 


166 


WILLIAM   ELLERY    CHANNING. 


FREEDOM. 

FROM  AN  ESSAY   ON   NATIONAL  LITERATURE. 

THE  question  which  we  most  solicitously  ask 
about  this  country  is,  what  race  of  men  it  is  likely 
to  produce.  We  consider  its  liberty  of  value  only 
as  far  as  it  favours  the  growth  of  men.  What  is 
liberty]  The  removal  of  restraint  from  human 
powers.  Its  benefit  is,  that  it  opens  new  fields  .for 
action,  and  a  wider  range  for  the  mind.  The 
only  freedom  worth  possessing  is  that  which  gives 
enlargement  to  a  people's  energy,  intellect,  and 
virtues.  The  savage  makes  his  boast  of  freedom. 
But  what  is  its  worth  1  Free  as  he  is,  he  con 
tinues  for  ages  in  the  same  ignorance,  leads  the 
same  comfortless  life,  sees  the  same  untamed  wil 
derness  spread  around  him.  He  is  indeed  free 
from  what  he  calls  the  yoke  of  civil  institutions. 
But  other  and  worse  chains  bind  him.  The  very 
privation  of  civil  government  is  in  effect  a  chain ; 
for,  by  withholding  protection  from  property,  it 
virtually  shackles  the  arm  of  industry,  and  forbids 
exertion  for  the  melioration  of  his  lot.  Progress, 
the  growth  of  power,  is  the  end  and  boon  of  liberty; 
and,  without  this,  a  people  may  have  the  name,  but 
want  the  substance  and  spirit  of  freedom. 


PEACE. 

FROM   AN   ESSAY   ON  THE   WRITINGS  OF   FENELON. 

THERE  is  a  twofold  peace.  The  first  is  nega 
tive.  It  is  relief  from  disquiet  and  corroding  care. 
It  is  repose  after  conflict  and  storms.  But  there 
is  another  and  a  higher  peace,  to  which  this  is  but 
the  prelude,  "  a  peace  of  God  which  passeth  all 
understanding,"  and  properly  called  "  the  kingdom 
of  heaven  within  us."  This  state  is  any  thing 
but  negative.  It  is  the  highest  and  most  strenu 
ous  action  of  the  soul,  but  an  entirely  harmonious 
action,  in  which  all  our  powers  and  affections  are 
blended  in  a  beautiful  proportion,  and  sustain  and 
perfect  one  another.  It  is  more  than  silence  after 
storms.  It  is  as  the  concord  of  all  melodious 
sounds.  Has  the  reader  never  known  a  season 
when,  in  the  fullest  flow  of  thought  and  feeling, 
in  the  universal  action  of  the  soul,  an  inward  calm, 
profound  as  midnight  silence,  yet  bright  as  the 
still  summer  noon,  full  of  joy,  but  unbroken  by 
one  throb  of  tumultuous  passion,  has  been  breathed 
through  his  spirit,  and  given  him  a  glimpse  and 
presage  of  the  serenity  of  a  happier  world  1  Of 
this  character  is  the  peace  of  religion.  It  is  a  con 
scious  harmony  with  God  and  the  creation,  an 
alliance  of  love  with  all  beings,  a  sympathy  with 
all  that  is  pure  and  happy,  a  surrender  of  every 
separate  will  and  interest,  a  participation  of  the 
spirit  and  life  of  the  universe,  an  entire  concord  of 
purpose  with  its  Infinite  Original.  This  is  peace, 
and  the  true  happiness  of  man  ;  and  we  think  that 
human  nature  has  never  entirely  lost  sight  of  this 
its  great  end.  It  has  always  sighed  for  a  repose, 
in  which  energy  of  thought  and  will  might  be 
tempered  with  an  all-pervading  tranquillity.  We 
seem  to  discover  aspirations  after  this  good,  a  dim 
consciousnos*  of  it  in  all  ages  of  the  world.  We 
thiiik  we  see  it  in  those  systems  of  Oriental  and 


Grecian  philosophy,  which  proposed,  as  the  con 
summation  of  present  virtue,  a  release  from  all 
disquiet,  and  an  intimate  union  and  harmony  with 
the  Divine  Mind.  We  even  think  that  we  trace 
this  consciousness,  this  aspiration,  in  the  works  of 
ancient  art  which  time  has  spared  to  us,  in  which 
the  sculptor,  aiming  to  imbody  his  deepest  thoughts 
of  human  perfection,  has  joined  with  the  fulness 
of  life  and  strength,  a  repose  which  breathes  into 
the  spectator  an  admiration  as  calm  as  it  is  exalted. 
Man,  we  believe,  never  wholly  loses  the  sentiment 
of  his  true  good.  There  are  yearnings,  sighings 
which  he  does  not  himself  comprehend,  which 
break  forth  alike  in  his  prosperous  and  adverse 
seasons,  which  betray  a  deep,  indestructible  faith 
in  a  good  that  he  has  not  found,  and  which,  in 
proportion  as  they  grow  distinct,  rise  to  God  and 
concentrate  the  soul  in  him,  as  at  once  its  life  and 
rest,  the  fountain  at  once  of  energy  and  of  peace. 

DEATH  OF  A  TRUE  WIFE. 

FROM  THE   LIFE  AND   CHARACTER   OF   DR.   TUCKERMAN. 


HER  reserve  and  shrinking  delicacy  threw  a  veil 
over  her  beautiful  character.  She  was  little  known 
beyond  her  home ;  but  there  she  silently  spread 
around  her  that  soft,  pure  light,  the  preciousness  of 
which  is  never  fully  understood  till  it  is  quenched. 
Her  calm,  gentle  wisdom,  her  sweet  humility,  her 
sympathy,  which,  though  tender,  was  too  serene  to 
disturb  her  clear  perceptions,  fitted  her  to  act  in 
stinctively,  and  without  the  consciousness  of  either 
party,  on  his  more  sanguine,  ardent  mind.  She 
was  truly  a  spirit  of  good,  diffusing  a  tranquillizing 
influence  too  mildly  to  be  thought  of,  and  there 
fore  more  sure.  The  blow  which  took  her  from 
him  left  a  wound  which  time  could  not  heal.  Had 
his  strength  been  continued  so  that  he  could  have 
gone  from  the  house  of  mourning  to  the  haunts  of 
poverty,  he  would  have  escaped,  for  a  good  part 
of  the  day,  the  sense  of  his  bereavement.  But  a 
few  minutes'  walk  in  the  street  now  sent  him 
wearied  home.  There  the  loving  eye  which  had 
so  long  brightened  at  his  entrance  was  to  shed  its 
mild  beam  on  him  no  more.  There  the  voice  that 
had  daily  inquired  into  his  labours,  and  like  an 
other  conscience  had  whispered  a  sweet  approval, 
was  still.  There  the  sympathy  which  had  pressed 
with  tender  hand  his  aching  head,  and  by  its  nurs 
ing  care  had  postponed  the  hour  of  exhaustion 
and  disease,  was  gone.  He  was  not  indeed  left 
alone ;  for  filial  love  and  reverence  spared  no  sooth 
ing  offices ;  but  these,  though  felt  and  spoken  of 
as  most  precious,  could  not  take  the  place  of  what 
had  been  removed.  This  great  loss  produced  no 
burst  of  grief.  It  was  a  still,  deep  sorrow,  the 
feeling  of  a  mighty  void,  the  last  burden  which 
the  spirit  can  cast  off.  His  attachment  to  life 
from  this  moment  sensibly  declined.  In  seasons 
of  peculiar  sensibility  he  wished  to  be  gone.  He 
kept  near  him  the  likeness  of  his  departed  friend, 
and  spoke  to  me  more  than  once  of  the  solace 
which  he  had  found  in  it....He  heard  her  voice  from 
another  world,  and  his  anticipations  of  that  world, 
always  strong,  became  now  more  vivid  and  touching 


WILLIAM    ELLERY    CHANNING. 


167 


THE  PRESENT  AGE. 

FROM   AN  ADDRESS   DELIVERED   IN  PHILADELPHIA. 

THE  grand  idea  of  humanity,  of  the  importance 

of  man  as  man,  is  spreading  silently,  but  surely 

Even  the  most  abject  portions  of  society  are  -visited 
by  some  dreams  of  a  better  condition  for  which 
they  were  designed.  The  grand  doctrine,  that 
every  human  being  should  have  the  means  of  self- 
culture,  of  progress  in  knowledge  and  virtue,  of 
health,  comfort,  and  happiness,  of  exercising  the 
powers  and  affections  of  a  man,  this  is  slowly  tak 
ing  its  place  as  the  highest  social  truth.  That  the 
world  was  made  for  all,  and  not  for  a  few ;  that 
society  is  to  care  for  all;  that  no  human  being 
shall  perish  but  through  his  own  fault ;  that  the 
great  end  of  government  is  to  spread  a  shield  over  the 
rights  of  all, — these  propositions  are  growing  into 
axioms,  and  the  spirit  of  them  is  coming  forth  in 
all  the  departments  of  life.  .  .  . 

The  Present  Age  !  In  these  brief  words  what 
a  world  of  thought  is  comprehended  !  what  infi 
nite  movements !  what  joys  and  sorrows !  what 
hope  and  despair!  what  faith  and  doubt!  what 
silent  grief  and  loud  lament !  what  fierce  conflicts 
and  subtle  schemes  of  policy !  what  private  and 
public  revolutions !  In  the  period  through  which 
many  of  us  have  passed  what  thrones  have  been 
shaken!  what  hearts  have  bled!  what  millions 
have  been  butchered  by  their  fellow-creatures ! 
what  hopes  of  philanthropy  have  been  blighted ! 
And  at  the  same  time  what  magnificent  enter 
prises  have  been  achieved!  what  new  provinces 
won  to  science  and  art !  what  rights  and  liberties 
secured  to  nations !  It  is  a  privilege  to  have  lived 
in  an  age  so  stirring,  so  pregnant,  so  eventful. 
It  is  an  age  never  to  be  forgotten.  Its  voice  of 
warning  and  encouragement  is  never  to  die.  Its 
impression  on  history  is  indelible.  Amidst  its 
events,  the  American  Revolution,  the  first  distinct, 
solemn  assertion  of  the  rights  of  men,  and  the 
French  Revolution,  that  volcanic  force  which 
shook  the  earth  to  its  centre,  are  never  to  pass 
from  men's  minds.  Over  this  age  the  night  will 
indeed  gather  more  and  more  as  time  rolls  away ; 
but  in  that  night  two  forms  will  appear,  Washing- 
tori  and  Napoleon,  the  one  a  lurid  meteor,  the 
other  a  benign,  serene,  and  undecaying  star.  An 
other  American  name  will  live  in  history,  your 
Franklin ;  and  the  kite  which  brought  lightning 
from  heaven  will  be  seen  sailing  in  the  clouds  by 
remote  posterity,  when  the  city  where  he  dwelt 
may  be  known  only  by  its  ruins.  There  is,  how 
ever,  something  greater  in  the  age  than  in  its 
greatest  men ;  it  is  the  appearance  of  a  new  power 
in  the  world,  the  appearance  of  the  multitude  of 
men  on  that  stage  where  as  yet  the  few  have  acted 
their  parts  alone.  This  influence  is  to  endure  to 
the  end  of  time.  What  more  of  the  present  is  to 
survive  1  Perhaps  much,  of  which  we  now  take 
no  note.  The  glory  of  an  age  is  often  hidden 
from  itself.  Perhaps  some  word  has  been  spoken 
in  our  day  which  we  have  not  deigned  to  hear, 
but  which  is  to  grow  clearer  and  louder  through 


all  ages.  Perhaps  some  silent  thinker  among  us 
is  at  work  in  his  closet  whose  name  is  to  fill  the 
earth.  Perhaps  there  sleeps  in  his  cradle  some 
reformer  who  is  to  move  the  church  and  the  world, 
who  is  to  open  a  new  era  in  history,  who  is  to  fire 
the  human  soul  with  new  hope  and  new  daring 
What  else  is  to  survive  the  age  ?  That  which 
the  age  has  little  thought  of,  but  which  is  living 
in  us  all ;  I  mean  the  Soul,  the  Immortal  Spirit. 
Of  this  all  ages  are  the  unfoldings,  and  it  is  greater 
than  all.  We  must  not  feel,  in  the  contemplation 
of  the  vast  movements  of  our  own  and  former 
times,  as  if  we  ourselves  were  nothing.  I  repeat 
it,  we  are  greater  than  all.  We  are  to  survive 
our  age,  to  comprehend  it,  and  to  pronounce  its 
sentence.  As  yet,  however,  we  are  encompassed 
with  darkness.  The  issues  of  our  time  how  ob 
scure  !  The  future  into  which  it  opens  who  of  us 
can  foresee  ?  To  the  Father  of  all  Ages  I  commit 
this  future  with  humble,  yet  courageous  and  un 
faltering  hope. 


LITERATURE  OF  THE  PRESENT  AGE. 

FROM  THE  DEMANDS  OF  THE  AGE  ON  THE  MIMSTRY. 

THE  character  of  the  age  is  stamped  very 
strongly  on  its  literary  productions.  Who,  that 
can  compare  the  present  with  the  past,  is  not 
struck  with  the  bold  and  earnest  spirit  of  the  lite 
rature  of  our  times.  It  refuses  to  waste  itself  on 
trifles,  or  to  minister  to  mere  gratification.  Almost 
all  that  is  written  has  now  some  bearing  on  great 
interests  of  human  nature.  Fiction  is  no  longer 
a  mere  amusement ;  but  transcendent  genius,  ac 
commodating  itself  to  the  character  of  the  age,  has 
seized  upon  this  province  of  literature,  and  turned 
fiction  from  a  toy  into  a  mighty  engine,  and,  under 
the  light  tale,  is  breathing  through  the  community 
either  its  reverence  for  the  old  or  its  thirst  for  the 
new,  communicates  the  spirit  and  lessons  of  his 
tory,  unfolds  the  operations  of  religious  and  civil 
institutions,  and  defends  or  assails  new  theories  of 
education  or  morals  by  exhibiting  them  in  life  and 
action.  The  poetry  of  the  age  is  equally  charac 
teristic.  It  has  a  deeper  and  more  impressive  tone 
than  comes  to  us  from  what  has  been  called  the 
Augustan  age  of  English  literature.  The  regu 
lar,  elaborate,  harmonious  strains  which  delighted 
a  former  generation,  are  now  accused,  I  say  not 
how  justly,  of  playing  too  much  on  the  surface  of 
nature  and  of  the  heart.  Men  want  and  demand 
a  more  thrilling  note,  a  poetry  which  pierces  beneath 
the  exterior  of  life  to  the  depths  of  the  soul,  and 
which  lays  open  its  mysterious  workings,  borrow 
ing  from  the  whole  outward  creation  fresh  images 
and  correspondences  with  which  to  illuminate  the 
secrets  of  the  world  within  us.  So  keen  is  this 
appetite,  that  extravagancies  of  imagination,  and 
gross  violations  both  of  taste  and  moral  sentiment, 
are  forgiven  when  conjoined  with  what  awakens 
strong  emotion ;  and  unhappily  the  most  stirring 
is  the  most  popular  poetry,  even  though  it  issue 
from  the  desolate  soul  of  a  misanthrope  and  a 
libertine,  and  exhale  poison  and  death. 


168 


WILLIAM    ELLERY    CHANNING. 


THE  DISTINCTION  OF  RANKS. 

FROM   ESSAYS  ON   ELEVATION   OF  THE   LABOURING   CLASSES. 

IT  is  objected  that  the  distinction  of  ranks  is 
essential  to  social  order,  and  that  this  will  be  swept 
away  by  calling  forth  energy  of  thought  in  all  men. 
This  objection,  indeed,  though  exceedingly  insisted 
on  in  Europe,  has  nearly  died  out  here ;  but  still 
enough  of  it  lingers  among  us  to  deserve  con 
sideration.  I  reply,  then,  that  it  is  a  libel  on  so 
cial  order  to  suppose  that  it  requires  for  its  support 
the  reduction  of  the  multitude  of  human  beings  to 
ignorance  and  servility ;  and  that  it  is  a  libel  on 
the  Creator  to  suppose  that  he  requires,  as  the 
foundation  of  communities,  the  systematic  depres 
sion  of  the  majority  of  his  intelligent  offspring. 
The  supposition  is  too  grossly  \mreasonable,  too 
monstrous  to  require  laboured  refutation.  I  see 
no  need  of  ranks,  either  for  social  order,  or  for 
any  other  purpose.  A  great  variety  of  pursuits 
and  conditions  is  indeed  to  be  desired.  Men  ought 
to  follow  their  genius,  and  to  put  forth  their  pow 
ers  in  every  useful  and  lawful  way.  I  do  not  ask 
for  a  monotonous  world.  We  are  far  too  monoto 
nous  now.  The  vassalage  of  fashion,  which  is  a 
part  of  rank,  prevents  continually  the  free  expan 
sion  of  men's  powers.  Let  us  have  the  greatest 
diversity  of  occupations.  But  this  does  not  imply 
that  there  is  a  need  of  splitting  society  into  castes 
or  ranks,  or  that  a  certain  number  should  arrogate 
superiority,  and  stand  apart  from  the  rest  of  men 
as  a  separate  race.  Men  may  work  in  different 
departments  of  life,  and  yet  recognise  their  bro 
therly  relation,  and  honour  one  another,  and  hold 
friendly  communion  with  one  another.  Un 
doubtedly,  men  will  prefer  as  friends  and  common 
associates,  those  with  whom  they  sympathize  most. 
But  this  is  not  to  form  a  rank  or  caste.  For  ex 
ample,  the  intelligent  seek  out  the  intelligent ;  the 
pious  those  who  reverence  God.  But  suppose  the 
intellectual  and  the  religious  to  cut  themselves  off 
by  some  broad,  visible  distinction  from  the  rest  of 
society,  to  form  a  clan  of  their  own,  to  refuse  ad 
mission  into  their  houses  to  people  of  inferior 
knowledge  and  virtue,  and  to  diminish  as  far  as 
possible  the  occasions  of  intercourse  with  them ; 
would  not  society  rise  up  as  one  man  against  this 
arrogant  exclusiveness  1  And  if  intelligence  and 
piety  may  not  be  the  foundations  of  a  caste,  on 
what  ground  shall  they,  who  have  no  distinction 
but  wealth,  superior  costume,  richer  equipages, 
finer  houses,  draw  lines  around  themselves  and 
constitute  themselves  a  higher  class  1  That  some 
should  be  richer  than  others  is  natural,  and  is  ne 
cessary,  and  could  only  be  prevented  by  gross  vio 
lations  of  right.  Leave  men  to  the  free  use  of 
their  powers,  and  some  will  accumulate  more  than 
their  neighbours.  But  to  be  prosperous  is  not  to 
be  superior,  and  should  form  no  barrier  between 
men.  Wealth  ought  not  to  secure  to  the  prosper 
ous  the  slightest  consideration.  The  only  distinc 
tions  which  should  be  recognised  are  those  of  the 
soul,  of  strong  principle,  of  incorruptible  integrity, 
of  usefulness,  of  cultivated  intellect,  of  fidelity  in 
seeking  for  truth.  A  man,  in  proportion  as  he 


has  these  claims,  should  be  honoured  and  wel 
comed  everywhere.  I  see  not  why  such  a  man, 
however  coarsely  if  neatly  dressed,  should  not  be 
a  respected  guest  in  the  most  splendid  mansions, 
and  at  the  most  brilliant  meetings.  A  man  is 
worth  infinitely  more  than  the  saloons,  and  the 
costumes,  and  the  show  of  the  universe.  He  was 
made  to  tread  all  these  beneath  his  feet.  What 
an  insult  to  humanity  is  the  present  deference  to 
dress  and  upholstery,  as  if  silkworms,  and  looms, 
and  scissors,  and  needles  could  produce  something 
nobler  than  a  man !  Every  good  man  should 
protest  against  a  caste  founded  on  outward  pros 
perity,  because  it  exalts  the  outward  above  the  in 
ward,  the  material  above  the  spiritual ;  because  it 
springs  from  and  cherishes  a  contemptible  pride 
in  superficial  and  transitory  distinctions ;  because 
it  alienates  man  from  his  brother,  breaks  the  tie 
of  common  humanity,  and  breeds  jealousy,  scorn, 
and  mutual  ill-will.  Can  this  be  needed  to  social 
order  ? 


CHRISTIANITY. 

FROM  THE   EVIDENCES   OF   REVEALED   RELIGION. 


SINCE  its  introduction,  human  nature  has  made 
great  progress,  and  society  experienced  great 
changes;  and  in  this  advanced  condition  of  the 
world,  Christianity,  instead  of  losing  its  application 
and  importance,  is  found  to  be  more  and  more 
congenial  and  adapted  to  man's  nature  and  wants. 
Men  have  outgrown  the  other  institutions  of  that 
period  when  Christianity  appeared,  its  philosophy, 
its  modes  of  warfare,  its  policy,  its  public  and  pri 
vate  economy  ;  but  Christianity  has  never  shrunk 
as  intellect  has  opened,  but  has  always  kept  in 
advance  of  men's  faculties,  and  unfolded  nobler 
views  in  proportion  as  they  have  ascended.  The 
highest  powers  and  affections  which  our  nature 
has  developed,  find  more  than  adequate  objects  in 
this  religion.  Christianity  is  indeed  peculiarly 
fitted  to  the  more  improved  stages  of  society,  to 
the  more  delicate  sensibilities  of  refined  minds, 
and  especially  to  that  dissatisfaction  with  the  pre 
sent  state,  which  always  grows  with  the  growth  of 
our  moral  powers  and  affections.  As  men  ad 
vance  in  civilization,  they  become  susceptible  of 
mental  sufferings,  to  which  ruder  ages  are  strangers ; 
and  these  Christianity  is  fitted  to  assuage.  Ima 
gination  and  intellect  become  more  restless ;  and 
Christianity  brings  them  tranquillity  by  the  eter 
nal  and  magnificent  truths,  the  solemn  and  un 
bounded  prospects  which  it  unfolds.  This  fitness 
of  our  religion  to  more  advanced  stages  of  society 
than  that  in  which  it  was  introduced,  to  wants  of 
human  nature  not  then  developed,  seems  to  me 
very  striking.  The  religion  bears  the  marks  of 
having  come  from  a  being  who  perfectly  under 
stood  the  human  mind,  and  had  power  to  provide 
for  its  progress.  This  feature  of  Christianity  is 
of  the  nature  of  prophecy.  It  was  an  anticipa 
tion  of  future  and  distant  ages,  and,  when  we 
consider  among  whom  our  religion  sprung,  where, 
but  in  God,  can  we  find  an  explanation  of  this 
peculiarity  ? 


HENRY  WHEATON. 


[Born  1785.  Died  1848.] 


THIS  eminent  scholar  and  statesman  is  a 
native  of  Providence,  Rhode  Island.  He  gra 
duated  at  Brown  University  in  that  city  in 
1802,  and  having  been  admitted  to  the  bar, 
passed  about  two  years  in  Europe,  principally 
on  the  continent,  where  he  acquired  that  fluen 
cy  in  the  use  of  the  French  language,  and 
that  knowledge  of  the  civil  law,  which  have 
been  so  useful  to  him  in  his  subsequent  career. 
Soon  after  his  return  to  America  he  took  up 
his  residence  in  the  city  of  New  York,  where 
in  the  winter  of  1812  he  became  editor  of  the 
National  Advocate,  at  the  head  of  which  his 
name  appeared  the  last  time  on  the  fifteenth 
of  May,  1815.  His  experience  as  a  journalist 
was  during  the  stormy  period  of  the  war, 
when  the  best  talents  and  soundest  discretion 
were  demanded  in  that  responsible  profession. 
The  National  Advocate  was  of  the  first  class 
of  journals  for  ability  and  decorum,  and  had 
much  influence  on  public  opinion  and  action. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Mr.  Wheaton 
became  one  of  the  justices  of  the  Marine 
Court,  a  tribunal  of  limited  jurisdiction,  which 
of  late  years  has  lost  much  of  the  considera 
tion  wn'ich  attached  to  it  in  former  times.  It 
was  in  presiding  here  that  Jones,  Wells,  and 
several  of  those  who  subsequently  attained  to 
the  highest  rank  at  the  bar  and  on  the  bench  of 
the  superior  courts  of  New  York,  passed  some 
of  the  early  years  of  their  professional  life. 

In  1815  Mr.  Wheaton  published  A  Digest 
of  the  Law  of  Maritime  Captures  and  Prizes, 
which  may  be  regarded  as  in  some  respects 
the  basis  of  his  work  on  The  Elements  of 
International  Law  ;  and  in  1820  he  delivered 
before  the  New  York  Historical  Society  an 
address  in  which  we  see  the  germ  of  his  his 
tory  of  this  science.  In  1824  he  pronounced 
a  discourse  at  the  opening  of  the  New  York 
Athenseum,  in  which  he  took  a  rapid  survey 
of  what  had  been  accomplished  in  American 
literature;  and,  pointing  out  the  connection 
between  the  principles  on  which  the  ancient 
republics  were  founded  and  the  rapid  growth 
of  the  arts  and  sciences  to  which  they  gave 


encouragement — tracing  analogies  and  causes 
in  a  manner  which  indicated  deep  reflection 
on  the  nature,  spirit  and  tendencies  of  our 
government — presented  an  interesting  view  of 
the  intellectual  prospects  of  the  country.  In 
1825  he  published  An  Account  of  the  Life, 
Writings  and  Speeches  of  William  Pinkney, 
and  in  1827  the  last  volume  of  his  Reports 
of  Cases  Argued  and  Determined  in  the  Su 
preme  Court  of  the  United  States,  which  he 
had  commenced  in  1816. 

Mr.  Wheaton  rose  rapidly  in  the  public  esti 
mation  as  a  man  of  letters,  as  a  statesman, 
and  as  a  civilian.  In  1819  he  received  the 
degree  of  Doctor  of  Laws  from  Harvard  Col 
lege,  and  in  the  following  year  the  same  dis 
tinction  was  conferred  upon  him  by  his  own 
university.  In  1821  he  held  a  seat  in  the 
convention  at  Albany  for  revising  the  consti 
tution  of  New  York,  and  he  was  several 
years  a  prominent  member  of  the  legislature 
of  that  state.  He  was  repeatedly  looked  to 
as  a  justice  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the 
United  States,  and  was  so  especially  in  the 
year  1823,  on  the  death  of  Judge  Livingston, 
when  Judge  Thompson  was  appointed  to  that 
office.  In  1825  he  was  selected  to  be  one  of  a 
commission  to  revise  the  laws  of  New  York, 
but  resigned  this  place  in  1826  to  accept  that 
of  Charge  d'Affaires  to  the  Court  of  Denmark, 
then  offered  to  him  by  President  John  Quincy 
Adams. 

Before  leaving  the  United  States,  in  addi 
tion  to  his  contributions  to  the  daily  press, 
while  editor  of  the  Advocate,  and  the  publica 
tion  of  his  Treatise  on  Captures,  and  his  Re 
ports,  and  Addresses,  he  had  written  largely 
for  the  North  American  Review',  and  edited 
several  foreign  law  books,  adding  numerous 
and  valuable  notes,  adapting  them  to  the  use 
of  the  legal  profession  in  this  country. 

Soon  after  the  commencement  of  his  resi 
dence  at  Copenhagen,  availing  himself  of  lei 
sure  from  his  diplomatic  duties,  Mr.  Wheaton 
entered  heartily  upon  historical  and  literary 
studies,  the  first  fruit  of  which  was  a  His- 

P  169 


170 


HENRY   WHEATON. 


tory  of  the  Northmen,  or  Danes  and  Nor 
mans,  from  the  Earliest  Times  to  the  Con 
quest  of  England  by  William  of  Normandy, 
published  in  London  in  1831.  As  a  speci 
men  of  historical  composition  this  work  h^s 
slight  pretensions ;  but  it  is  interesting  as  a 
series  of  sketches  of  the  ancient  mythology, 
chivalry,  literature  and  manners  of  a  remarka 
ble  people,  of  whom  little  had  been  written 
in  the  English  language.  In  1838  he  united 
with  Mr.  Crichton  of  Edinburgh,  in  writing 
a  work  under  the  title  of  Scandinavia,  em 
bracing  the  ancient  and  modern  history  of 
Denmark,  Sweden  and  Norway,  with  an  ac 
count  of  the  geographical  features  of  these 
countries,  and  information  respecting  the  su 
perstitions,  customs,  and  institutions  of  their 
inhabitants ;  and  aided  by  the  materials  brought 
together  for  this  purpose,  and  especially  by 
the  Antiquitates  American®  of  Professor  Rafn, 
he  enlarged  and  very  much  improved  his  His 
tory  of  the  Northmen,  which  was  then  trans 
lated  into  French  and  published  in  an  octavo 
volume  of  nearly  six  hundred  pages  in  Paris.* 

In  1834  he  was  transferred  by  President 
Jackson  to  Prussia,  and  on  the  election  of  Mr. 
Van  Buren  to  the  presidency  was  promoted  to 
the  rank  of  Minister  Plenipotentiary  at  the 
court  of  Berlin.  , 

In  1836  Mr.  Wheaton  published  his  most 
important  work,  his  Elements  of  International 
Law,  which,  in  a  much  enlarged  form,  was  re 
printed  by  Messrs.  Lea  and  Blanchard  of  Phi 
ladelphia  in  1846.  This  was  the  first  work 
of  any  importance  upon  the  principles  of  the 
jurisprudence  of  nations  in  our  language.  It 
is  divided  into  four  parts,  which  treat  respec 
tively  of  the  sources  and  objects  of  interna 
tional  law,  of  the  absolute  international  rights 
of  states,  of  the  international  rights  of  states  in 
their  pacific  relations,  and  of  the  international 
rights  of  states  in  their  hostile  relations.  An 
analysis  of  this  treatise  is  not  within  the 
scope  of  the  present  sketch  of  Mr.  Wheaton's 
labours.  It  is  founded  upon  the  best  pre 
ceding  works  on  the  subject,  particularly  the 
Precis  du  Droit  des  Gens  Moderne  de  P  Europe 
and  Cours  Diplomatique  of  G.  F.  Martens,  and 
Kliiber's  Droit  des  Gens  Moderne  de  P  Europe; 

*  Histoire  des  Peuples  du  Nord,  ou  des  Danois  et  des  Nor- 
mands,  depuis  Us  Temps  ks  plus  recules  jusqu1  &  la  Conqu&te 
de  V Angkterre.  Par  Henri  Wheaton.  Edition  revue  et  aug- 
mentee  per  VAuteur,  avec  Cartes,  Inscriptions,  et  Alphabet 
Rumques,  etc.  Traduit  de  V Anglais,  par  Paul  Guillot. 


but  the  author  makes  large  additions,  and 
infuses  into  the  whole  the  liberal  spirit  which 
prevails  in  the  institutions  and  government  of 
his  own  country.  Connected  in  its  best  days 
with  the  highest  tribunal  of  the  United  States, 
the  province  of  which  is  not  only  to  expound 
constitutional  and  municipal  law,  but  to  inter 
pret  treaty  obligations  and  the  laws  of  nations, 
and  subsequently  long  employed  in  diplomatic 
services,  his  whole  experience  seems  to  have 
been  a  preparation  for  writing  such  a  work, 
and  the  ability,  learning  and  candour  which 
characterize  the  entire  performance  leave  little 
or  nothing  in  respect  to  it  to  be  desired. 

Mr.  Wheaton's  History  of  the  Law  of  Na 
tions  in  Europe  and  America  from  the  Earliest 
Times  to  the  Treaty  of  Washington,  appeared 
originally  in  French,  at  Leipsic,  in  1841,  un 
der  the  title  of  Histoire  du  Progres  du  Droit 
des  Gens  en  Europe  depuis  la  Paix  de  Westpha- 
lie  jusqu'au  Congres  de  Fienne,  avec  un  precis 
historique  du  Droit  des  Gens  Europcen  avant  la 
Paixde  Westphalie,  in  answer  to  a  prize  ques 
tion  proposed  by  the  Academy  of  Moral  and 
Political  Sciences  of  the  Institute  of  France. 
It  was  much  augmented  by  the  author,  and 
published  in  the  English  language  in  an  oc 
tavo  volume  of  eight  hundred  pages  in  New 
York  in  1845.  The  nature  of  this  elaborate 
and  learned  work  is  sufficiently  indicated  by 
its  title.  Of  its  great  merits  all  competent 
critics  have  given  the  same  testimony.* 

During  the  discussion  growing  out  of  the 
right  of  visit  claimed  by  England  on  the  coast 
of  Africa,  Mr.  Wheaton  published  an  Inquiry 
into  the  Validity  of  the  Right  of  Visitation 
and  Search.  Many  of  his  despatches,  parti 
cularly  those  which  relate  to  the  negotiations 
in  Denmark  terminating  with  the  treaty  of 
indemnity  for  spoliations  on  our  commerce 
during  the  European  wars,  and  the  recent  dis 
cussions  at  Berlin  as  to  the  Zoll  Verein  treaty, 
will  be  found  in  the  diplomatic  papers  pub 
lished  by  Congress. 

Besides  the  writings  of  Mr.  W'heaton  which 
have  been  mentioned,  are  a  series  of  letters, 

*That  eminent  jurist  and  political  economist,  Profes 
sor  i^enior,  in  an  article  which  he  wrote  for  the  156th 
number  of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  on  the  appearance  of 
the  French  version  of  this  work,  declares  that  few  men 
are  better  qualified  to.  write  the  history  of  the  law  of 
nations  than  Mr.  Wheaton ;  that  whatever  may  be  the 
defects  of  his  work,  he  "  has  made  as  much  as  was  to 
be  made  of  his  materials;"  and  that  it  is  "an  excellent 
supplement  to  his  great  work  on  International  Law." 


HENRY    WHEATON. 


171 


upon  subjects  connected  with  economy,  lite 
rature  and  art,  addressed  within  a  few  years 
to  the  secretary  of  the  National  Institution  at 
Washington,  and  published  in  the  National  In 
telligencer  of  that  city.  They  are  honourable 
exhibitions  of  his  taste,  research,  and  erudition. 

He  is  a  corresponding  member  of  the  Insti 
tute  of  France,  and  of  several  other  distin 
guished  scientific  and  literary  societies  abroad, 
and  is  held  in  the  highest  respect  by  the  scho 
lars  and  statesmen  of  all  countries. 

On  the  twenty-second  of  July,  1846,  Mr. 


Wheaton  had  his  final  audience  with  the 
King  of  Prussia,  having  been  recalled  by 
President  Polk ;  and,  after  a  short  residence 
at  Paris,  he  returned  to  the  United  States. 

— Since  these  pages  were  first  published,  Mr. 
Wheaton  has  been  added  to  the  company  of  our 
illustrious  dead.  He  died  suddenly  on  the  ele 
venth  of  March,  1848,  at  Roxbury,  near  Bos 
ton,  having  taken  up  his  residence  there  with 
a  view  to  enter  upon  the  professorship  of  Inter 
national  Law,  in  Harvard  College,  to  wnicn, 
he  had  a  short  time  previously  been  elected. 


SCANDINAVIAN   MANNERS. 

FROM  THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  NORTHMEN. 

RELIGIOX  had  its  influence  in  promoting  this 
spirit  of  adventurous  enterprise.  That  professed 
by  the  people  of  the  north  bore  the  impress  of  a 
wild  and  audacious  spirit,  such  as,  according  to  tra 
dition,  marked  the  character  of  its  founder.  What 
ever  distinction  of  sects  may  have  existed  among 
the  Northern  pagans,  and  however  various  the 
objects  of  their  worship,  the  favourite  god  of  the 
Vikingar  was  a  Mars  and  a  Moloch.  The  religion 
of  Odin  stimulated  the  desire  of  martial  renown 
and  the  thirst  of  blood,  by  promising  the  joys  of 
Valhall  as  the  reward  of  those  who  fell  gloriously 
in  battle.  His  ministering  spirits,  the  Valkyrur, 
hovered  over  the  bloody  field,  watched  the  fortune 
of  battle,  and  snatching  the  souls  of  those  who  were 
doomed  to  fall,  bore  them  away  to  the  blissful  pre 
sence  of  the  god  of  war.  Those  who  adhered  to 
the  more  ancient  deities  of  the  North,  or  rejected 
indiscriminately  all  the  national  objects  of  religious 
worship,  were  animated  by  a  still  wilder  and  more 
lawless  spirit.  Some  of  these  chieftains  carried 
their  audacity  so  far  as  to  defy  the  gods  themselves. 

Their  national  freedom,  and  that  proud  and  in 
dependent  bearing  which  always  marks  the  barba 
rian  character,  contributed  to  swell  this  lofty  spirit, 
which  was  always  fomented  by  the  songs  extem 
porized  or  recited  by  the  Skalds  in  praise  of  mar 
tial  renown,  or  the  glorious  exploits  of  their  an 
cestors.  The  kings  and  other  chieftains  were 
surrounded  by  champions  who  were  devoted  to 
their  fortunes,  and  dependent  upon  their  favour 
for  advancement.  These  warriors  were  some 
times  seized  with  a  sort  of  phrensy — a  furor 
Martis, — produced  by  their  excited  imaginations 
dwelling  upon  the  images  of  war  and  glory, — and 
perhaps  increased  by  those  potations  of  stimulating 
liquors,  in  which  the  people  of  the  north,  like 
other  uncivilized  tribes,  indulged  to  great  excess. 
When  this  madness  was  upon  them',  these  Orlan- 
dos  committed  the  wildest  extravagancies,  attacked 
indiscriminately  friends  and  foes,  and  even  waged 
war  against  inanimate  nature — the  rocks  and  trees. 
At  other  times,  they  defied  each  other  to  mortal 
combat  in  some  lonely  and  desert  isle.  The  an 
cient  language  of  the  north  had  a  particular  term 


appropriated  to  distinguish  the  champions  who 
were  subject  to  this  species  of  martial  insanity. 
They  were  called  Eers&rker,  and  the  name  occurs 
so  frequently  in  the  Sagas,  that  we  must  conclude 
that  this  disease  prevailed  generally  among  the 
Vikingar,  who  passed  their  lives  in  roving  the  seas 
in  search  of  spoil  and  adventures. 

Even  the  female  sex  did  not  escape  this  wide 
spread  contagion  of  martial  fury,  and  the  love  of 
wild  and  perilous  adventure.  Women  of  illustrious 
birth  sometimes  became  pirates  and  roved  the  seas. 
More  frequently,  however, 'they  shared  the  toils 
and  dangers  of  land-battles.  These  Amazons  were 
called  Skjold-meyar,  or  virgins  of  the  shield.  The 
romantic  Sagas  are  filled  with  the  most  striking 
traits  of  their  heroic  bearing.  In  the  Volsunga- 
saga  we  have  the  romantic  tale  of  Alf  hilda,  daugh 
ter  of  Sigurdr,  king  of  the  Ostrogoths,  who  was 
chaste,  brave,  and  fair.  She  was  always  veiled 
from  the  gaze  of  vulgar  curiosity,  and  lived  in  a 
secluded  bower,  where  she  was  guarded  by  two 
champions  of  prodigious  strength  and  valour. 
Sigurdr  had  proclaimed  that  whoever  aspired  to 
his  daughter's  hand,  must  vanquish  the  two  gigan 
tic  champions, — his  own  life  to  be  the  forfeit  if  he 
failed  in  the  perilous  enterprise.  Alf,  a  young 
sea-king,  who  had  already  signalized  himself  by 
his  heroic  exploits,  encountered  and  slew  the  two 
champions ;  but  Alf  hilda  herself  was  not  disposed 
to  surrender  tamely.  She  boldly  put  to  sea  with 
her  female  companions,  all  clothed,  like  herself,  in 
male  attire,  and  completely  armed  for  war.  They 
fell  in  with  a  fleet  of  Vikingar,  who  having  just 
lost  their  chieftain,  elected  the  intrepid  heroine  for 
his  successor.  She  continued  thus  to  rove  the 
Baltic  sea,  at  the  head  of  this  band  of  pirates,  until 
the  wide-spread  fame  of  her  exploits  came  to  the 
ear  of  Alf,  her  suitor,  who  gave  chase  to  her  squad 
ron,  and  pursued  it  into  the  Gulf  of  Finland.  The 
brave  A  If  hilda  gave  battle.  Alf  boarded  the  bark 
of  the  princess,  who  made  a  gallant  and  obstinate 
resistance,  until  her  helmet  being  cloven  open  by 
one  of  his  champions,  disclosed  to  their  astonished 
view  the  fair  face  and  lovely  locks  of  his  coy  mis 
tress,  who,  being  thus  vanquished  by  her  magnani 
mous  lover,  no  longer  refuses  him  the  hand  he 
had  sought,  whilst  his  gallant  champion  espouses 
one  of  her  fair  companions. 


JOHN  CALDWELL  CALHOUN. 


[Born  1782.    D  ed  1850.] 


JOHN  CALDWELL  CALHOUN  was  born  in  Ab 
beville,  South  Carolina,  on  the  eighteenth  of 
March,  1782.  His  grandfather,  who  had  emi 
grated  from  Ireland  to  Pennsylvania  in  1733, 
was  one  of  the  first  settlers  of  that  district,  and 
his  father,  a  man  of  ability  and  daring  energy 
of  character,  represented  it  in  the  colonial  and 
state  legislatures  more  than  thirty  years. 

In  his  thirteenth  year,  Mr.  Calhoun  was 
placed  at  an  academy  in  Georgia,  of  which 
Mr.  Wad  dell,  a  Presbyterian  clergyman  who 
had  married  his  sister,  was  principal.  But  the 
death  of  his  father,  in  1796,  caused  an  interrup 
tion  of  his  studies,  which  were  not  resumed 
until  he  was  nearly  nineteen  years  of  age.  Hav 
ing  determined  to  be  a  planter,  he  had  abandoned 
all  thoughts  of  a  classical  education ;  but  an 
elder  brother  at  this  period  persuaded  him  to  pur 
sue  one  of  the  liberal  professions,  and  he  entered 
so  earnestly  upon  the  business  of  preparation, 
that  within  two  years  from  his  commence 
ment  of  the  Latin  grammar  he  was  received 
into  the  junior  class  of  Yale  College.  It  is 
related  that  after  an  animated  controversy  with 
the  student,  which  arose  during  a  class  recita 
tion  from  Paley,  the  eminent  head  of  the  col 
lege  remarked  to  a  friend  that  "the  young 
man  had  talents  enough  to  be  President  of 
the  United  States,  and  would  one  day  attain 
to  that  station."  The  aim  of  his  ambition 
was  shown  in  the  selection  of  his  commence 
ment  thesis,  which  was,  "  The  qualifications 
necessary  to  constitute  a  perfect  statesman." 
He  graduated  in  September,  1804,  and  imme 
diately  began  the  study  of  the  law,  in  the 
well-known  school  of  Litchfield,  where  he 
remained  nearly  two  years.  He  afterward 
passed  several  months  in  the  office  of  the 
Chancellor  De  Saussure  in  Charleston,  and 
was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  Abbeville  in  1807. 
He  at  once  took  a  high  rank  in  the  courts, 
and  in  1809  was  elected  by  a  large  majority 
*o  the  state  legislature,  where  he  so  distin 
guished  himself  that  at  the  end  of  his  second 
session  he  was  transferred  to  the  national 
House  of  Representatives,  in  which  he  made 
his  first  appearance  in  the  autumn  of  1811. 

172 


From  this  time  Mr.  Calhoun's  history  is  so 
closely  identified  with  that  of  political  con 
troversies,  of  which  no  intelligible  account 
can  be  given  in  the  limits  which  I  here  pre 
scribe  to  myself,  that  I  shall  do  little  more 
than  mention  the  periods  during  which  he  has 
held  the  various  high  offices  to  which  he  has 
been  called  under  different  administrations. 

From  his  entrance  into  the  House  of  Repre 
sentatives  until  1817,  when  he  was  made 
Secretary  of  War,  he  was  the  acknowledged 
leader  and  most  powerful  champion  of  the 
democratic  party  in  that  body,  though  in  this 
period  the  supporter  of  a  protective  tariff  and 
of  a  national  bank.  His  services  in  the  War 
Department  during  the  eight  years  of  Mr. 
Monroe's  administration  are  universally  ad 
mitted  to  have  been  of  vast  importance  to  the 
country,  and  the  estimation  in  which  they 
were  held  at  the  time  is  shown  in  the  large 
majority  by  which  he  was  chosen  Vice  Pre 
sident  in  the  celebrated  contest  of  1824,  when 
there  was  no  choice  by  the  people  of  Presi 
dent.  He  was  again  elected  Vice  President 
in  1828,  but  a  rupture  occurring  between  him 
self  and  General  Jackson,  he  was  thrown  into 
the  ranks  of  the  opposition ;  and  South  Caro 
lina  soon  after  declaring  the  tariff  law  of  that 
year  unconstitutional,  and  threatening  forcible 
resistance  of  its  execution,  he  resigned  the 
vice  presidency  to  accept  a  place  on  the  floor 
of  the  Senate  as  the  special  apologist  and  vin 
dicator  of  his  state  in  that  memorable  crisis 
of  its  affairs.  His  speeches  on  the  Force  Bill, 
on  the  Federative  Principle  of  the  Constitu 
tion,  and  on  the  Removal  of  the  Deposits,  in 
the  sessions  of  1833  and  1834,  are  among  the 
most  earnest,  able,  and  characteristic  that  he 
has  made  since  his  first  appearance  in  Con 
gress.  He  remained  in  the  Senate  until  the 
death  of  Mr.  Secretary  Upshur  in  1844,  when 
he  accepted  the  place  of  that  gentleman  in  the 
Department  of  State,  which  he  held  until  the 
close  of  Mr.  Tyler's  administration.  For  the 
first  time  in  many  years  he  was  without  office, 
but  he  was  soon  called  from  his  retirement  to 
resume  his  place  in  the  Senate,  where  he  ap- 


CALDWELL    CALHOUN. 


173 


peared  immediately  after  the  great  southern 
and  western  convention  at  Memphis,  of  which 
he  was  president,  near  the  close  of  1845. 

A  collection  of  Mr.  Calhoun's  speeches  from 
1811  to  1843  was  published  in  New  York  in 
1844.  It  is  incomplete,  but  perhaps  contains 
every  thing1  he  had  written  in  illustration  or  de 
fence  of  the  principles  he  held  at  the  time  of  its 
appearance.  His  subsequent  speeches  and  re 
ports,  especially  his  speech  on  the  Oregon  ques 
tion  and  report  on  the  memorial  of  the  Mem 
phis  Convention,  are  not  inferior  in  terseness 
and  clearness  of  expression,  or  in  argumenta 
tive  power,  to  any  of  his  earlier  productions. 

The  doctrines  for  the  defence  of  which  he 
is  chiefly  distinguished  are  those  of  free  trade 
and  the  sovereignty  of  the  individual  states. 
He  holds  that  the  union  is  a  league  for  spe 
cial  purposes  between  the  governments,  and  not 
between  the  people,  of  the  states  which  "ac 
ceded"  to  the  Constitution,  and  that  under  cer 
tain  contingencies  each  state  may  decide  and 
act  for  itself  upon  the  laws  of  Congress,  and, 
holding  them  unconstitutional,  may  oppose  its 
own  force  to  their  execution.  But  "state  rights 
are  no  more  !''  he  exclaims  in  his  speech  on 
the  removal  of  the  deposits:  "The  bill  which 
vested  in  the  central  government  the  privilege 
of  judging  of  the  extent  of  its  powers,  and 
authorized  it  to  enforce  its  judgments  by  the 
sword,  prostrated  the  states  as  helpless  corpo 
rations  at  its  feet."  And  since  the  defeat  of 
his  party  on  this  question  he  has  generally 
acted  with  the  one  under  whose  auspices  he 
first  came  into  Congress. 

It  has  been  stated  that  he  has  devoted  his 
leisure  for  several  years  to  the  composition  of 
a  work  on  the  Principles  of  Government,  in 
which  his  peculiar  views  will  be  more  me 
thodically  defined  and  vindicated. 

Mr.  Calhoun  is  in  many  respects  one  of 
the  most  extraordinary  men  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  and  is  undoubtedly  one  of  the  few 
for  whom  this  period  will  be  memorable  in 
after  times.  His  eloquence  is  altogether  un 
like  that  which  is  supposed  to  belong  to  a 
new  country,  or  to  a  democracy,  which  is  the 
eloquence  of  passion.  Its  power  is  from  an 
excessive  refinement  and  compactness  of  rea 
son,  which  requires  the  perfect  submission  of 
the  mind,  and  carries  it  forward  with  irresist 
ible  force ;  and  its  glow  from  the  vehement 
energy  and  rapidity  with  which  his  argument 
is  conducted.  In  his  intellectual  constitution 


he  more  than  any  other  statesman  resembles 
Jonathan  Edwards.  His  mind  has  the  same 
quickness  of  perception,  subtle  sharpness  of 
discrimination,  and  comprehensive  grasp. 
He  has  the  same  sincerity  of  conviction,  fer 
vour  of  tone,  and  heartiness  of  purpose.  One 
of  the  differences  between  him  and  Edwards 
is  in  the  manner  of  approaching  a  point  of 
controversy.  The  great  divine  who  gave  to 
metaphysics  so  much  of  the  exactness  and 
certainty  of  mathematics,  assailed  the  central 
proposition  of  his  antagonist  cautiously,  and 
by  various  trains  of  reasoning,  each  of  which 
seemed  conclusive,  but  all  of  which,  starting 
at  different  points  and  ending  in  the  same  re 
sult,  were  overwhelming.  Mr.  Calhoun,  on 
the  contrary,  fixes  his  eye  at  once  upon  the 
essential  issue,  and  upon  this  expends  his 
whole  force ;  and  his  clear  and  skilful  analy 
sis  and  rapid  generalization  are  not  unworthy 
of  that  great  master  of  logic,  to  whom  in  per- 
spicuousness  of  arrangement  and  in  the  hard 
polish  of  his  diction  he  is  frequently  superior. 
In  the  Senate  Mr.  Calhoun's  countenance  is 
always  serious. 

Deep  on  his  front  engraven 
Deliberation  sits  and  public  care. 

It  has  been  said  that  when  speaking  here  he  has 
no  action  and  exhibits  no  emotion.  This  may 
be  true,  generally,  but  it  is  not  so  always.  He 
was  very  much  excited  during  the  remarkable 
scene  of  the  declaration  of  war  against  Mexico 
in  a  preamble  to  a  bill  of  supplies.  I  sat  near 
him  during  one  of  his  speeches  on  that  occa 
sion.  He  stood  erect  and  motionless  at  first, 
but  as  he  proceeded  his  head  turned  from  side 
to  side,  and  his  eyes  glowed,  and  his  words 
came  fast  and  faster,  and  when  he  declared 
with  vehement  earnestness  of  tone  that  he 
would  sooner  stab  himself  to  the  heart  than 
vote  for  that  lying  clause,  he  flung  the  back 
of  his  skeletonlike  hand  upon  the  desk  before 
him  with  such  energy,  that  men  looked  from 
all  parts  of  the  hall  as  if  to  see  whether  it 
had  not  been  shattered  to  atoms  by  the  blow. 
Yet  this  is  not  often  his  manner.  He  speaks 
rapidly  indeed,  but  calmly,  with  the  most 
judicious  emphasis,  and  with  perfect  distinct 
ness. 

—Mr.  Calhoun  died  in  Washington  on  the 
thirty-first  day  of  March,  1850;  in  what 
seemed  the  most  important  period  of  his 
political  life ;  reverenced  for  wisdom  by  his 
party,  and  for  virtue  by  all  the  nation. 


174 


JOHN    CALDWELL    CALHOUN. 


ECONOMY  AND  HONOUR. 

FROM  A  'SPEECH  IN  REPLY  TO  JOHN  RANDOLPH,  IN  1811. 

IF  taxes  should  become  necessary,  I  do  not  hesi 
tate  to  say  the  people  will  pay  cheerfully.  It  is 
for  their  government  and  their  cause,  and  it  would 
be  their  interest  and  duty  to  pay.  But  it  may  be, 
and  1  believe  was  said,  that  the  people  will  not 
pay  taxes,  because  the  rights  violated  are  not 
worth  defending,  or  that  the  defence  will  cost 
more  than  the  gain.  Sir,  I  here  enter  my  solemn 
protest  against  this  low  and  "  calculating  avarice" 
entering  this  hall  of  legislation.  It  is  only  tit  for 
shops  and  counting-houses,  and  ought  not  to  dis 
grace  the  seat  of  power  by  its  squalid  aspect. 
Whenever  it  touches  sovereign  power,  the  nation 
is  ruined.  It  is  too  short-sighted  to  defend  itself. 
It  is  a  compromising  spirit,  always  ready  to  yield 
a  part  to  save  the  residue.  It  is  too  timid  to  have 
in  itself  the  laws  of  self-preservation.  It  is  never 
safe  but  under  the  shield  of  honour.  There  is, 
sir,  one  principle  necessary  to  make  us  a  great 
people — to  produce,  not  the  form,  but  real  spirit 
of  union,  and  that  is  to  protect  every  citizen  in  the 
lawful  pursuit  of  his  business.  He  will  then  feel 
that  he  is  backed  by  the  government — that  its  arm 
is  his  arm.  He  then  will  rejoice  in  its  increased 
strength  and  prosperity.  Protection  and  patriot 
ism  are  reciprocal.  This  is  the  way  which  has 
led  nations  to  greatness.  Sir,  I  am  not  versed  in 
this  calculating  policy,  and  will  not,  therefore,  pre 
tend  to  estimate  in  dollars  and  cents  the  value  of 
national  independence.  I  cannot  measure  in  shil 
lings  and  pence  the  misery,  the  stripes,  and  the 
slavery  of  our  impressed  seamen ;  not  even  the 
value  of  our  shipping,  commercial  and  agricultu 
ral  losses,  under  the  orders  in  council  and  the 
British  system  of  blockade.  In  thus  expressing 
myself,  I  do  not  intend  to  condemn  any  prudent 
estimate  of  the  means  of  a  country  before  it  enters 
on  a  war.  That  is  wisdom,  the  other  folly. 


REBELLION  AND  REVOLUTION. 

FROM   A   SPEECH   ON   THE    BILL   FOR    THE    ADMISSION  OF 
MICHIGAN  INTO    THE  UNION. 

I  SHALL  resist  all  encroachments  on  the  Consti 
tution,  whether  it  be  the  encroachment  of  this 
government  on  the  states,  or  the  opposite — the 
executive  on  Congress,  or  Congress  on  the  execu 
tive.  My  creed  is  to  hold  both  governments,  and 
all  the  departments  of  each,  to  their  proper  sphere, 
and  to  maintain  the  authority  of  the  laws  and  the 
Constitution  against  all  revolutionary  movements. 
I  believe  the  means  which  our  system  furnishes 
to  preserve  itself  are  ample,  if  fairly  understood 
and  applied ;  and  I  shall  resort  to  them,  however 
corrupt  and  disordered  the  times,  so  long  as  there 
is  hope  of  reforming  the  government.  The  result 
is  in  the  hands  of  the  Disposer  of  events.  It  is 
my  part  to  do  my  duty.  Yet,  while  I  thus  openly 
avow  myself  a  cunsseivative,  God  forbid  I  should 
ever  deny  the  glorious  right  of  rebellion  and  revo 
lution.  Should  corruption  and  oppression  become 


intolerable,  and  cannot  otherwise  be  thrown  off — 
if  liberty  must  perish,  or  the  government  be  over 
thrown,  I  would  not  hesitate,  at  the  hazard  of  life, 
to  resort  to  revolution,  and  to  tear  down  a  corrupt 
government,  that  could  neither  be  reformed  nor 
borne  by  freemen ;  but  I  trust  in  God  things  will 
never  come  to  that  pass.  I  trust  never  to  see  such 
fearful  times ;  for  fearful  indeed  they  would  be  if 
they  should  ever  befall  us.  It  is  the  last  remedy, 
and  not  to  be  thought  of  till  common  sense  and 
the  voice  of  mankind  would  justify  the  resort. 


FORMATION  OF  THE  CONSTITUTION. 

FROM  A  SPEECH  ON  THE  FORCE  BILL. 

THERE  never  existed  an  example  before  of  a 
free  community  spreading  over  such  an  extent  of 
territory;  and  the  ablest  and  profoundest  thinkers, 
at  the  time,  believed  it  to  be  utterly  impracticable 
that  there  should  be.  Yet  this  difficult  problem 
was  solved — successfully  solved,  by  the  wise  and 
sagacious  men  who  framed  our  Constitution.  No : 
it  was  above  unaided  human  wisdom — above  the 
sagacity  of  the  most  enlightened.  It  was  the  re 
sult  of  a  fortunate  combination  of  circumstances 
co-operating  and  leading  the  way  to  its  formation ; 
directed  by  that  kind  Providence  whicn  has  so  of 
ten  and  so  signally  disposed  events  i»i  our  favour. 


THE  OLD   PARTIES. 

FROM    THE    SAME. 

I  AVAIL  myself  of  the  occasion  to  avow  my  high 
respect  for  both  of  the  great  parties  which  divided 
the  country  in  its  early  history.  They  were  both 
eminently  honest  and  patriotic,  and  the  preference 
which  each  gave  to  its  respective  views  resulted 
from  a  zealous  attachment  to  the  public  interest. 
At  that  early  period,,  before  there  was  any  expe 
rience  as  to  the  operation  of  the  system,  it  is  not 
surprising  that  one  should  believe  that  the  danger 
was  a  tendency  to  anarchy,  while  the  other  be 
lieved  it  to  be  towards  despotism,  and  that  these 
different  theoretical  views  should  honestly  have  a 
decided  influence  on  their  public  conduct. 


THE  DANGER  OF  SUBSERVIENCY. 

FROM  A  SPEECH  OX  THE   PUBLIC  DEPOSITS. 

PIRACY,  robbery,  and  violence  of  every  descrip 
tion  may,  as  history  proves,  be  followed  by  virtue, 
patriotism,  and  national  greatness;  but  where  is 
the  example  to  be  found  of  a  degenerate,  corrupt, 
and  subservient  people,  who  have  ever  recovered 
their  virtue  and  patriotism  ?  Their  doom  has 
ever  been  the  lowest  state  of  wretchedness  and 
misery :  scorned,  trodden  down,  and  obliterated 
for  ever  from  the  list  of  nations.  May  Heaven 
grant  that  such  may  never  be  our  doom  ! 


DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

[Born  1782.    Died  1852.] 


A  NOTICE  of  the  great  statesman  of  the  south 
is  naturally  followed  by  one  of  the  illustrious 
New  Englandsr  who  sat  opposite  to  him  in 
the  senate,  and  who  from  their  first  entrance 
into  Congress  had  been  his  most  powerful  and 
most  constant  antagonist.  Daniel  Webster  and 
John  Caldwell  Calhoun  were  born  in  the  same 
year.  One  was  the  son  of  a  respectable  northern 
farmer,  who  emigrated  into  New  Hampshire 
when  it  was  a  wilderness,  and  served  as  an 
officer  in  the  old  French  war  and  the  Revo 
lution;  and  the  other  of  a  southern  planter, 
of  similar  circumstances,  who  was  a  pioneer 
in  the  forests  of  Carolina,  and,  with  the  same 
rank,  fought  the  Cherokees  and  the  British. 
The  fathers  of  both,  after  distinguishing  them 
selves  in  the  field,  were  called  to  honourable 
civil  stations,  but  they  continued  to  be  culti 
vators  of  the  soil,  and  their  sons,  after  partially 
acquiring  their  education,  decided  to  follow 
their  inherited  occupations,  and  passed  some 
three  years  in  the  quiet  pursuits  of  agriculture. 
What  changed  the  purpose  of  Webster  is  un 
known,  but  Calhoun  was  led  to  study  his  pro 
fession  by  the  just  appreciation  of  an  elder 
brother.  When  Christopher  Gore  presented 
his  pupil,  young  Daniel  Webster,  for  admis 
sion  to  the  bar  of  Boston,  he  ventured  a  pre 
diction  of  his  future  eminence,  which  all  his 
present  fame  has  not  more  than  fulfilled  ;  and 
Doctor  Dwight,  about  the  same  time,  at  the 
close  of  a  class  examination  at  Yale  College, 
foretold  that  his  southern  student,  John  Cald 
well  Calhoun,  would  one  day  be  President  of 
the  United  States.  For  a  while,  they  lingered 
about  the  northern  and  southern  horizons,  and 
then  simultaneously  shot  up  into  mid-heaven, 
with  a  steady,  but  different  lustre,  to  fix  the 
gaze,  not  of  their  admiring  countrymen  only, 
but  of  mankind.  Whatever  may  now  or  here 
after  be  the  estimation  in  which  any  man  or 
men  engaged  in  our  public  affairs  may  be  held, 
Daniel  Webster  and  John  Caldwell  Calhoun 
will  continue  to  be  regarded  as  the  representa 
tives  of  the  genius  and  of  the  leading  opinions 
m  political  philosophy,  held  by  the  northern 
anJ  southern  states  of  the  confederacy  in  the 
firat  half  ot  the  nineteenth  century. 


Mr.  Webster  was  born  in  Salisbury,  a  rural 
town  on  the  headwaters  of  the  Merrimack  river, 
in  New  Hampshire,  in  1782,  and  after  an  im 
perfect  preparation,  in  the  common  schools, 
entered  Dartmouth  College,  where  he  was 
graduated  when  about  twenty  years  of  age. 
He  soon  after  turned  his  attention  to  the  law, 
but  the  necessity  of  exerting  himself  for  his 
support  interrupted  and  finally  induced  the 
abandonment  of  his  studies.  The  pursuit  of 
business  however  led  him  to  Boston,  and 
while  there  into  the  office  of  Mr.  Gore,  who 
discerned  his  genius,  cultivated  his  acquaint 
ance,  and  became  his  instructor.  Here  he 
finished  the  study  of  his  profession,  and  was 
admitted  an  attorney  and  counsellor,  in  1805. 
He  then  opened  an  office  at  Boscowen,  a  small 
village  near  his  birth  place,  but  in  1807  removed 
to  Portsmouth,  where  a  larger  field  was  opened 
to  him,  and  there,  in  constant  competition  with 
the  best  lawyers  of  New  Hampshire,  he  rose 
rapidly  until  he  was  acknowledged  to  be  se 
cond  to  no  one  at  the  bar  in  the  state. 

Among  the  earliest,  perhaps  the  first  of  all 
Mr.  Webster's  published  writings,  was  an 
oration  "  delivered  before  the  Federal  gentle 
men  of  Concord  and  its  vicinity"  on  the  fourth 
of  July,  1806.  He  was  then  but  twenty-four 
years  of  age,  and  the  performance  is  interest 
ing  for  its  subject  and  its  style.  He  discusses 
the  question  whether  it  be  possible  to  preserve 
the  Constitution.  He  saw  thus  early  the  dan 
gers  to  which  it  was  exposed,  and  enlisted  for 
life  in  its  defence. 

Soon  after  the  declaration  of  war,  in  1812, 
he  was  elected  a  member  of  the  national  House 
of  Representatives,  in  which,  during  four  ses 
sions,  he  greatly  distinguished  himself  by  his 
eloquence,  extensive  knowledge,  and  indepen 
dent  action.  Although  opposed  to  the  war, 
he  advocated  such  measures  as  were  essential 
to  the  honour  and  safety  of  the  country,  and 
particularly  an  increase  of  the  Navy.  "  Even 
our  party  divisions  cease  at  the  water's  edge," 
he  said  :  "  They  are  lost  in  attachment  to  the 
national  character,  where  that  character  is  made 
respectable."  We  were  contending  on  land 
for  maritime  rights.  "  In  time,"  he  continued, 

175 


176 


DANIEL    WEBSTER. 


"you  may  be  enabled  to  redress  injuries  in 
the  places  where  they  are  offered,  and,  if  need 
be  to  accompany  your  own  flag  throughout 
the  world  with  the  protection  of  your  own 
cannon."  But  his  most  important  services 
in  this  period  were  rendered  to  the  finances. 
In  1815  a  bill  had  passed  the  Senate  and  was 
expected  to  pass  the  House,  for  the  establish 
ment  of  a  bank,  with  a  capital  of  fifty  millions, 
nine  tenths  of  which  were  to  consist  of  depre 
ciated  government  securities,  and  it  was  owing 
principally  to  his  efforts  that  it  was  defeated. 
In  the  following  year  he  introduced  and  se 
cured  the  adoption  of  a  resolution  requiring  the 
payment  of  revenue  in  specie  or  convertible  pa 
per.  When  he  retired  from  Congress,  in  1817, 
his  course  on  these  questions  had  secured  to  him 
the  reputation  of  being  one  of  the  most  practi 
cal  and  sagacious  statesmen  of  the  country. 

He  now  removed  to  Boston,  and  for  five 
years,  except  during  the  period  in  which  he 
held  a  seat  in  the  convention  for  revising  the 
Constitution  of  Massachusetts,  devoted  him 
self  exclusively  and  assiduously  to  his  pro 
fession.  A  few  masterly  arguments  in  the 
Supreme  Court  confirmed  in  the  general  judg 
ment  the  opinion  of  his  friends,  that  as  a  law 
yer  he  had  no  superior  in  the  United  States. 

In  this  time  Mr.  Webster  wrote  several  ar 
ticles  for  the  North  American  Review.*  And 
on  the  twenty-second  of  December,  1820,  the 
second  centennial  anniversary  of  the  landing 
of  the  Pilgrims,  he  delivered  at  Plymouth  his 
splendid  oration  on  the  first  settlement  of 
New  England ;  on  the  seventeenth  of  June, 

1825,  fifty  years  after  the  battle,  his  address  at 
the  laying  of  the  corner-stone  of  the  Bunker 
Hill  Monument ;  and  on  the  second  of  August, 

1826,  in  Faneuil  Hall,  his  Discourse  in  com 
memoration  of  the  Lives  and  Services  of  Ad 
ams  and  Jefferson. 

In  December,  1823,  Mr.  Webster  again  took 
his  seat  in  the  House  of  Representatives,  and 
in  the  following  month  delivered  his  celebrated 
speech  in  behalf  of  the  Greeks.  He  remained 
in  the  House  until  1827,  distinguishing  him 
self  by  his  speeches  on  the  Panama  mission, 
the  tariff,  and  internal  improvements,  and  by 
preparing  and  securing  the  passage  of  the 
Crimes  Act,  of  1825. 

In  1826  he  was  elected  almost  unanimously 
to  represent  the  city  of  Boston  in  the  House 

*  With  others,  that  on  the  Battle  of  Bunker  Hill,  in  1818, 
and  that  on  the  Laws  of  Debtor  and  Creditor  in  1821. 


of  Representatives,  but  before  the  new  Con 
gress  assembled  a  vacancy  occurred  in  the 
Senate,  and  the  Legislature  chose  him  by  ac 
clamation  to  fill  it.     He  was  regularly  returned 
to  this  body  until  he  resigned  the  senatorial 
dignity  to  become  Secretary  of  State,  in  1840. 
Near  the  close  of  December,   1829,   Mr. 
Foot  introduced  his  celebrated  resolutions  on 
the  Public  Lands.     They  were  the  subject  of 
occasional  and  desultory  debate  until  the  nine 
teenth  of  January,  when  General  Hayne,  of 
South  Carolina,  in  a  vehement  speech  accused 
New  England  of  a  selfish  opposition  to  the  in 
terests  of  the  western  states.     While  he  was 
speaking  Mr.  Webster  entered  the  Senate,  from 
the  Supreme  Court,  where  he  had  been  en 
gaged  in  an  important  case,  and  he  would 
have  replied  as  soon  as  General  Hayne  sat 
down,  but  that  the  Senate  then  adjourned. 
The  next  day  he  delivered  one  of  the  most 
powerful  and  brilliant  speeches  that  have  been 
heard  in  modern  times.     The  debate  was  con 
tinued  until  the  twenty-third  of  January,  on 
both  sides  with  extraordinary  ability,  but  on 
that  of  Mr.  Webster  with  a  force  of  logic  and 
splendour  of  eloquence  that  had  never  been 
equalled  in  the  Senate,  that  have  rarely  been 
equalled  in  the  world.     In  this  famous  con 
troversy  the  doctrine  of  nullification  was  first 
avowed  in  the  Congress,  and  its  triumphant 
overthrow  by  Mr.  Webster  won  for  him  more 
honourable  triumphs  tharrever  rewarded  the 
victories  of  the  field.     With  its  praise  the  na 
tion  "  rung  from  side  to  side."    At  the  banquet 
given  to  him  soon  after  in  NewYork,  the  great 
Chancellor  of  that  state  said  that  the  discus 
sion  had  rescued  constitutional  law  from  ar 
chives  and  libraries,  and  placed  it  "under  the 
eye,  and  submitted  it  to  the  judgment  of  the 
American  people."     In  1838  another  attempt 
was  made  by  an  abler  champion  to  enforce  the 
same  doctrines  in  the  Senate,  but  Mr.  Web 
ster's  victory  over  Mr.  Calhoun  was  not  less 
decisive  than  that  he  had  achieved  over  Gene 
ral  Hayne. 

In  1839  Mr.  Webster  visited  England, 
where  he  was  received  with  the  honours  due 
to  his  genius,  acquirements,  and  illustrious 
character.  When  the  whig  party  came  into 
power,  in  1841,  he  was  made  Secretary  of 
State,  and  the  extraordinary  ability  which  he 
displayed  in  negotiating  the  Treaty  of  Wash 
ington,  and  in  other  cases,  crowned  his  name 
with  a  new  glory.  He  returned  to  the  Senate 


Drawn  from  .life ..anA ..Ettfr.iv.4  In- Janiw  B.  I.o 


DANIEL    WEBSTER. 


177 


in  1845,  where  he  remained  until  1851.  At  a 
magnificent  banquet,  attended  by  five  hun 
dred  gentlemen,  which  was  given  to  him 
in  Philadelphia  on  the  second  of  December, 
1846,  he  delivered  a  speech  of  nearly  four 
hours,  which  showed  that  at  sixty-five  he  re 
tains  in  perfection  his  remarkable  powers. 
This  is  not  a  place  in  which  it  is  proper  to 
speak  at  length  of  his  course  in  regard  to  pub 
lic  affairs ;  but "  peace  has  its  victories  as  well 
as  war,"  and  he  is  not  moved  by  the  spirit  of 
this  age  or  of  this  nation,  who  does  not  look 
upon  a  statesman  who  prevents  an  appeal  to 
arms  as  more  deserving  of  applause  than  a 
soldier  who  wins  a  hundred  battles. 

Of  Daniel  Webster  as  an  author,  we  may 
speak  in  every  presence  with  unhesitating  free 
dom.  By  whatever  circumstances  educed,  his 
works  are  "  vital  in  every  part."  His  mind 
is  of  the  foremost  rank,  and  in  that  rank  will 
unquestionably  always  hold  a  distinguished 
place.  It  cannot  be  doubted  that  he  will  be 
remembered  with  Franklin,  Hamilton,  and 
Marshall,  those  illustrious  countrymen  of  ours, 
upon  whose  intellectual  calibre  the  world  has 
set  the  seal  of  its  high  and  final  judgment. 

Of  Mr.  Webster's  State  Papers  no  collec 
tions  have  been  published.  For  wise  appre 
hension  and  dialectic  skill  they  are  among  the 
finest  monuments  of  his  genius.  Of  his  foren 
sic  arguments  we  have  but  a  few  meagre  out 
lines,  sufficient  to  justify  the  measure  of  his  logi 
cal  endowments  which  they  occasioned,  but  not 
sufficient  to  account  for  the  extraordinary  effects 
which  they  produced  upon  the  mixed  multitude 
who  heard  them.  A  few  of  his  historical  ad 
dresses  and  congressional  speeches  we  possess 
as  they  came  from  his  hand,  with  the  antique 
simplicity  and  strength  which  are  character 
istics  of  the  highest  order  of  such  productions. 

The  first  volume  of  his  Speeches  and  Foren 
sic  Arguments  was  published  in  Boston  in 
1830,  the  second  in  1838,  and  a  third  in  1843  : 
the  last  ending  with  his  Remarks  in  the  Senate 
a  few  days  before  he  resigned  his  seat  to  enter 
the  cabinet.  Since  he  went  back  to  the  Senate, 
the  most  important  of  his  speeches  that  have 
been  published  are  one  on  the  Treaty  of  Wash 
ington,  and  the  one  delivered  in  Philadelphia. 

His  attention  has  generally  been  directed  to 
home  subjects.  He  is  in  every  sense  American. 
But  in  a  few  of  his  speeches  he  has  shown  a 
comprehensive  and  particular  familiarity  with 
European  history  and  politics.  All  his  works 


bear  the  deeply  impressed  stamp  of  nationality : 
But  in  his  luminous  expositions  of  constitu 
tional  law,  his  discerning  examinations  of  the 
origin,  nature,  and  influences  of  our  liberty  and 
institutions,  his  powerful  discussions  of  our 
policy,  and  his  masterly  portraitures  of  those 
great  men  whose  fame  is  one  of  the  choicest 
inheritances  of  the  nation,  are  shown  most 
clearly  his  love  of  country  and  the  joint  action 
and  fusion  of  his  own  with  the  national  mind. 

He  speaks  always  with  a  manifest  sincerity, 
and  a  consciousness  of  strength.  His  object 
is  the  conviction  of  the  understanding,  and  he 
proceeds  in  effecting  it  with  a  simplicity  and 
directness,  and  a  skill  in  analysis  and  generali 
zation,  which  make  his  advance  like  that  of  the 
sunlight  in  the  track  of  night.  At  times  the 
action  of  the  Reason  is  so  intense  as  to  warm 
into  life  the  Imagination,  which  follows,  with 
bright-eyed  Patriotism,  its  impetuous  and  re 
sistless  march,  to  grace  and  crown  its  triumph. 

Mr.  Webster's  style  is  generally  plain,  sen 
tentious,  and  earnest, — sometimes  solemn  and 
imposing, — and  at  rare  intervals  brilliant  with 
the  play  of  wit,  and  keen  with  sarcasm  and 
invective.  The  greatest  variety  to  be  found 
in  any  one  of  his  speeches  is  in  the  reply  to 
Hayne,  and  the  most  withering  resentment 
and  scorn  in  his  merciless  arraignment  and 
exposure  of  Ingersoll  and  others  who  assailed 
the  Washington  Treaty,  and  went  out  of  their 
way  to  attack  its  author.  He  is  thoroughly  fur 
nished  with  all  solid  learning  that  can  be  turned 
to  account  in  the  service  of  the  state.  He  is  a 
classical  scholar  of  the  first  order,  as  familiar 
with  the  poets  as  with  the  historians  and  pub 
licists,  and  has  a  perfect  mastery  of  his  native 
tongue,  which  has  been  acquired  by  a  careful 
study  of  the  Saxon,  and  the  best  English  litera 
ture,  particularly  the  common  version  of  the 
Bible,-  and  Bacon,  Shakspeare,  and  Milton. 

— In  June,  1852,  the  Whig  Convention  met  to 
nominate  a  candidate  for  the  Presidency.  Mr. 
Webster  failed  to  get  the  nomination.  On  his 
return  to  Boston,  July  9th,  the  citizens  gave 
him  a  grand  public  reception.  He  retired  to 
his  farm  at  Marshfield,  where  he  died  Sunday, 
Oct.  24, 1852.  His  collected  works,  consisting 
chiefly  of  Orations,  Speeches,' and  Essays,  with 
a  beautiful  and  carefully  written  life  by  Edward 
Everett,  were  published  in  1851,  in  six  volumes, 
8vo.  His  life  and  letters  by  Geo.  T.  Curtis,  ono 
of  his  literary  executors,  in  two  volumes,  8vo.t 
was  published  in  1870. 


178 


DANIEL    WEBSTER. 


PRIDE  OF  ANCESTRY. 

FROM   A   DISCOURSE    IN    COMMEMORATION    OF   THE   FIRST 
SETTLEMENT    OF  NEW   ENGLAND. 

IT  is  a  noble  faculty  of  our  nature  which  enables 
us  to  connect  our  thoughts,  our  sympathies,  and 
our  happiness  with  what  is  distant  in  place  or 
time ;  and,  looking  before  and  after,  to  hold  com 
munion  at  once  with  our  ancestors  and  our  pos 
terity.  Human  and  mortal  although  we  are,  we 
are  nevertheless  not  mere  insulated  beings,  with 
out  relation  to  the  past  or  the  future.  Neither 
the  point  of  time  nor  the  spot  of  earth  in  which 
we  physically  live,  bounds  our  rational  and  intel 
lectual  enjoyments.  We  live  in  the  past  by  a 
knowledge  of  its  history,  and  in  the  future  by  hope 
and  anticipation.  By  ascending  to  an  association 
with  our  ancestors ;  by  contemplating  their  ex 
ample  and  studying  their  character;  by  partaking 
their  sentiments,  and  imbibing  their  spirit ;  by  ac 
companying  them  in  their  toils ;  by  sympathizing 
in  their  sufferings,  and  rejoicing  in  their  successes 
and  their  triumphs, — we  mingle  our  ow.n  existence 
with  theirs,  and  seem  to  belong  to  their  age.  We 
become  their  con  temporaries,  live  the  lives  which 
they  lived,  endure  what  they  endured,  and  partake 
in  the  rewards  which  they  enjoyed.  And  in  like 
manner,  by  running  along  the  line  of  future  time ; 
by  contemplating  the  probable  fortunes  of  those 
who  are  coming  after  us;  by  attempting  something 
which  may  promote  their  happiness,  and  leave 
some  not  dishonourable  memorial  of  ourselves  for 
their  regard  when  we  shall  sleep  with  the  fathers, 
— we  protract  our  own  earthly  being,  and  seem 
to  crowd  whatever  is  future,  as  well  as  all  that  is 
past,  into  the  narrow  compass  of  our  earthly  exist 
ence.  As  it  is  not  a  vain  and  false,  but  an  exalted 
and  religious  imagination  which  leads  us  to  raise 
our  thoughts  from  the  orb  which,  amidst  this  uni 
verse  of  worlds,  the  Creator  has  given  us  to  inha 
bit,  and  to  send  them  with  something  of  the  feel 
ing  which  nature  prompts,  and  teaches  to  be  proper 
among  children  of  the  same  Eternal  Parent,  to  the 
contemplation  of  the  myriads  of  fellow-beings  with 
which  his  goodness  has  peopled  the  infinite  of 
space;  so  neither  is  it  false  or  vain  to  consider 
ourselves  as  interested  or  connected  with  our 
whole  race  through  all  time ;  allied  to  our  ances 
tors  ;  allied  to  our  posterity ;  closely  compacted  on 
all  sides  with  others ;  ourselves  being  but  links  in 
the  great  chain  of  being,  which  begins  with  the 
origin  of  our  race,  runs  onward  through  its  suc 
cessive  generations,  binding  together  the  past,  the 
present,  and  the  future,  and  terminating  at  last 
with  the  consummation  of  all  things  earthly  at 
the  throne  of  God. 

There  may  be,  and  there  often  is,  indeed,  a  re 
gard  for  ancestry,  which  nourishes  only  a  weak 
pride ;  as  there  is  also  a  care  for  posterity,  which 
only  disguises  an  habitual  avarice,  or  hides  the 
workings  of  a  low  and  grovelling  vanity.  But 
there  is  also  a  moral  and  philosophical  respect  for 
our  ancestors,  which  elevates  the  character  and 
improves  the  heart.  Next  to  the  sense  of  religious 
duty  and  moral  feeling,  I  hardly  know  what  should 


bear  with  stronger  obligation  on  a  liberal  and  en 
lightened  mind,  than  a  consciousness  of  alliance 
with  excellence  which  is  departed ;  and  a  con 
sciousness,  too,  that  in  its  acts  and  conduct,  and 
even  in  its  sentiments,  it  may  be  actively  operat 
ing  on  the  happiness  of  those  who  come  after 
it.  Poetry  is  found  to  have  few  stronger  concep 
tions,  by  which  it  would  affect  or  overwhelm  the 
mind,  than  those  in  which  it  presents  the  moving 
and  speaking  image  of  the  departed  dead  to  the 
senses  of  the  living.  This  belongs  to  poetry  only 
because  it  is  congenial  to  our  nature.  Poetry  is, 
in  this  respect,  but  the  handmaid  of  true  philoso 
phy  and  morality.  It  deals  with  us  as  human 
beings,  naturally  reverencing  those  whose  visible 
connection  with  this  state  of  being  is  severed,  and 
who  may  yet  exercise  we  know  not  what  sympa 
thy  with  ourselves ; — and  when  it  carries  us  for 
ward,  also,  and  shows  us  the  long-continued  result 
of  all  the  good  we  do  in  the  prosperity  of  those 
who  follow  us,  till  it  bears  us  from  ourselves,  and 
absorbs  us  in  an  intense  interest  for  what  shall 
happen  to  the  generations  after  us,  it  speaks  only 
in  the  language  of  our  nature,  and  affects  us  with 
sentiments  which  belong  to  us  as  human  beings. 


INFLUENCE  OF  GREAT  ACTIONS. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

GREAT  actions  and  striking  occurrences,  having 
excited  a  temporary  admiration,  often  pass  away 
and  are  forgotten,  because  they  leave  no  lasting 
results,  affecting  the  prosperity  of  communities. 
Such  is  frequently  the  fortune  of  the  most  brilliant 
military  achievements.  Of  the  ten  thousand  bat 
tles  which  have  been  fought;  of  all  the  fields  fer 
tilized  with  carnage ;  of  the  banners  which  hav% 
been  bathed  in  blood ;  of  the  warriors  who  have 
hoped  that  they  had  risen  from  the  field  of  con 
quest  to  a  glory  as  bright  and  as  durable  as  the 
stars,  how  few  that  continue  long  to  interest  man 
kind!  The  victory  of  yesterday  is  reversed  by 
the  defeat  of  to-day ;  the  star  of  military  glory, 
rising  like  a  meteor,  like  a  meteor  has  fallen ;  dis 
grace  and  disaster  hang  on  the  heels  of  conquest 
and  renown ;  victor  and  vanquished  presently  pass 
away  to  oblivion,  and  the  world  holds  on  its 
course,  with  the  loss  only  of  so  many  lives  and  so 
much  treasure. 

But  if  this  is  frequently,  or  generally,  the  for 
tune  of  military  achievements,  it  is  not  always  so. 
There  are  enterprises,  military  as  well  as  civil, 
that  sometimes  check  the  current  of  events,  give  a 
new  turn  to  human  affairs,  and  transmit  their  con 
sequences  through  ages.  We  sec  their  import 
ance  in  their  results  and  call  them  great,  because 
great  things  follow.  There  have  been  battles 
which  have  fixed  the  fate  of  nations.  -These  come 
down  to  us  in  history  with  a  solid  and  perma 
nent  influence,  not  created  by  a  display  of  glitter 
ing  armour,  the  rush  of  adverse  battalions,  the 
sinking  and  rising  of  pennons,  the  flight,  the  pur 
suit,  and  the  victory  ;  but  by  their  effect  in  ad- 


DANIEL    WEBSTER. 


179 


vancing  or  retarding  human  knowledge,  in  over 
throwing  or  establishing  despotism,  in  extending 
or  destroying  human  happiness.  When  the  tra 
veller  pauses  on  the  plains  of  Marathon,  what  are 
the  emotions  which  strongly  agitate  his  breast; 
what  is  that  glorious  recollection  that  thrills  through 
his  frame,  and  suffuses  his  eyes  ]  Not,  I  imagine, 
that  Grecian  skill  and  Grecian  valour  were  here 
most  signally  displayed ;  but  that  Greece  herself 
was  saved.  It  is  because  to  this  spot,  and  to  the 
event  which  has  rendered  it  immortal,  he  refers  all 
the  succeeding  glories  of  the  republic.  It  is  be 
cause,  if  that  day  had  gone  otherwise,  Greece  had 
perished.  It  is  because  he  perceives  that  her  phi 
losophers  and  orators,  her  poets  and  painters,  her 
sculptors  and  architects,  her  government  and  free 
institutions  point  backward  to  Marathon,  and  that 
their  future  existence  seems  to  have  been  sus 
pended  on  the  contingency,  whether  the  Persian 
or  Grecian  banner  should  wave  victorious  in  the 
beams  of  that  day's  setting  sun.  And  as  his  ima 
gination  kindles  at  the  retrospect,  he  is  transported 
back  to  the  interesting  moment:  he  counts  the 
fearful  odds  of  the  contending  hosts ;  his  interest 
for  the  result  overwhelms  him ;  he  trembles  as  if 
it  was  still  uncertain,  arul  seems  to  doubt  whether 
he  may  consider  Socrates  and  Plato,  Demosthenes, 
Sophocles,  and  Phidias,  as  secure,  yet,  to  himself 
and  to  the  world. 


THE  SETTLEMENT   OF  PLYMOUTH. 

FROM  THE   SAME. 

OUR  fathers  came  hither  to  a  land  from  which 
.they  were  never  to  return.  Hither  they  had 
brought,  and  here  they  were  to  fix  their  hopes, 
their  attachments,  and  their  objects.  Some  natu 
ral  tears  they  shed  as  they  left  the  pleasant  abodes 
of  their  fathers,  and  some  emotions  they  suppressed 
when  the  white  cliffs  of  their  native  country,  now 
seen  for  the  last  time,  grew  dim  to  their  sight. 
They  were  acting  however  upon  a  resolution  not 
to  be  changed.  With  whatever  stifled  regrets, 
with  whatever  occasional  hesitation,  with  whatever 
appalling  apprehensions,  which  must  sometimes 
arise  with  force  to  shake  the  firmest  purpose,  they 
had  yet  committed  themselves  to  heaven  and  the 
elements ;  and  a  thousand  leagues  of  water  soon 
interposed  to  separate  them  for  ever  from  the  re 
gion  which  gave  them  birth.  A  new  existence 
awaited  them  here ;  and  when  they  saw  these 
shores,  rough,  cold,  barbarous,  and  barren  as  then 
the)  were,  they  beheld  their  country.  That  mixed 
and  strong  feeling,  which  we  call  love  of  country, 
and  which  is  in  general  never  extinguished  in  the 
heart  of  man,  grasped  and  embraced  its  proper 
object  here.  Whatever  constitutes  country,  except 
the  earth  and  the  sun,  all  the  moral  causes  of  affec 
tion  and  attachment  which  operate  upon  the  heart, 
they  had  brought  with  them  to  their  new  abode. 
Here  were  now  their  families  and  friends,  their 
homes,  and  their  property.  Before  they  reached 
the  shore,  they  had  established  the  elements  of  a 
social  system,  and  at  a  much  earlier  period  had 


settled  their  forms  of  religious  worship.  At  the 
moment  of  their  landing,  therefore,  they  possessed 
institutions  of  government,  and  institutions  of  re 
ligion  :  and  friends  and  families,  and  social  and 
religious  institutions,  established  by  consent,  found 
ed  on  choice  and  preference,  how  nearly  do  these 
fill  up  our  whole  idea  of  country ! — The  morning 
that  beamed  on  the  first  night  of  their  repose  saw 
the  Pilgrims  already  established  in  their  country. 
There  were  political  institutions,  and  civil  liberty, 
and  religious  worship.  Poetry  has  fancied  nothing 
in  the  wanderings  of  heroes  so  distinct  and  charac 
teristic.  Here  was  man  indeed  unprotected,  and 
unprovided  for,  on  the  shore  of  a  rude  and  fearful 
wilderness;  but  it  was  politic, intelligent, and  edu 
cated  man.  Every  thing  was  civilized  but  the 
physical  world.  Institutions  containing  in  sub 
stance  all  that  ages  had  done  for  human  govern 
ment  were  established  in  a  forest.  Cultivated 
mind  was  to  act  on  uncultivated  nature;  and, 
more  than  all,  a  government  and  a  country  were 
to  commence  with  the  very  first  foundations  laid 
under  the  divine  light  of  the  Christian  religion. 
Happy  auspices  of  a  happy  futurity  !  Who  would 
wish  that  his  country's  existence  had  otherwise 
begun  ? — Who  would  desire  the  power  of  going 
back  to  the  ages  of  fable  1  Who  would  wish  for 
an  origin  obscured  in  the  darkness  of  antiquity? — 
Who  would  wish  for  other  emblazoning  of  his 
country's  heraldry,  or  other  ornaments  of  her  ge 
nealogy,  than  to  be  able  to  say  that  her  first  exist 
ence  was  with  intelligence;  her  first  breath  the 
inspirations  of  liberty ;  her  first  principle  the  truth 
of  divine  religion  ! 


BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT. 

FROM    AN  ADDRESS   ON  LAYING  ITS  CORNER-STONE. 

WE  know  that  the  record  of  illustrious  actions 
is  most  safely  deposited  in  the  universal  remem 
brance  of  mankind.  We  know  that  if  we  could 
cause  this  structure  to  ascend,  not  only  till  it 
reached  the  skies,  but  till  it  pierced  them,  its  broad 
surface  could  still  contain  but  part  of  that,  which, 
in  an  age  of  knowledge,  hath  already  been  spread 
over  the  earth,  and  which  history  charges  herself 
with  making  known  to  all  .future  times.  We 
know  that  no  inscription  on  entablatures  less  broad 
than  the  earth  itself,  can  carry  information  of  the 
events  we  commemorate  where  it  has  not  already 
gone ;  and  that  no  structure  which  shall  not  out 
live  the  duration  of  letters  and  knowledge  among 
men,  can  prolong  the  memorial.  But  our  object 
is,  by  this  edifice,  to  show  our  cleep  sense  of  the 
value  and  importance  of  the  achievements  of  our 
ancestors ;  and  by  presenting  this  work  of  grati 
tude  to  the  eye,  to  keep  alive  similar  sentiments, 
and  to  foster  a  similar  regard  to  the  principles  of 
the  Revolution.  Human  beings  are  composed  not 
of  reason  only,  but  of  imagination  also,  and  senti 
ment  ;  and  that  is  neither  wasted  nor  misapplied 
which  is  appropriated  to  the  purpose  of  giving 
right  direction  to  sentiments,  and  opening  proper 
springs  of  feeling  in  the  heart. 


180 


DANIEL    WEBSTER. 


Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  our  object  is  to  per 
petuate  national  hostility,  or  even  to  cherish  a 
mere  military  spirit.  It  is  higher,  purer,  nobler. 
We  consecrate  our  work  to  the  spirit  of  national 
independence,  and  we  wish  that  the  light  of  peace 
may  rest  upon  it  for  ever.  We  rear  a  memorial 
of  our  conviction  of  the  unmeasured  benefit  which 
has  been  conferred  on  our  land,  and  of  the  happy 
influences  which  have  been  produced,  by  the  same 
events,  on  the  general  interests  of  mankind.  We 
come  as  Americans  to  mark  a  spot  which  must  be 
for  ever  dear  to  us  and  our  posterity.  We  wish 
that  whosoever,  in  all  coming  time,  shall  turn  his 
eyes  hither,  may  behold  that  the  place  is  not  un 
distinguished  where  the  first  great  battle  of  the 
Revolution  was  fought.  We  wish  that  this  struc 
ture  may  proclaim  the  magnitude  and  importance 
of  that  event  to  every  class  and  every  age.  We 
wish  that  infancy  may  learn  the  purpose  of  its 
erection  from  maternal  lips,  and  that  weary  and 
withered  age  may  behold  it,  and  be  solaced  by  the 
recollections  which  it  suggests.  We  wish  that 
labour  may  look  up  here,  and  be  proud  in  the 
midst  of  its  toil.  We  wish  that,  in  those  days  of 
disaster  which,  as  they  come  upon  all  nations,  must 
be  expected  to  come  on  us  also,  desponding  patriot 
ism  may  turn  its  eyes  hither,  and  be  assured  that 
the  foundations  of  our  national  power  still  stand 
strong.  We  wish  that  this  column,  rising  toward 
heaven  among  the  pointed  spires  of  so  many  tem 
ples  dedicated  to  God,  may  contribute  also  to  pro 
duce,  in  all  minds,  a  pious  feeling  of  dependence 
and  gratitude.  We  wish,  finally  that  the  last  ob 
ject  on  the  sight  of  him  who  leaves  his  native 
shore,  and  the  first  to  gladden  him  who  revisits  it, 
may  be  something  which  shall  remind  him  of  the 
liberty  and  glory  of  his  country.  Let  it  rise  till  it 
meet  the  sun  in  his  coming ;  let  the  earliest  light 
of  morning  gild  it,  and  parting  day  linger  and 
play  upon  its  summit. 


TO  THE  SURVIVORS  OF  THE  BATTLE 
OF  BUNKER  HILL. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

VENERABLE  men  !  you  have  come  down  to  us 
from  a  former  generation.  Heaven  has  bounte 
ously  lengthened  out  your  lives  that  you  might 
behold  this  joyous  day.  You  are  now  where  you 
stood  fifty  years  ago,  this  very  hour,  with  your 
brothers  and  your  neighbours,  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
in  the  strife  of  your  country.  Behold  how  altered  ! 
The  same  heavens  are  indeed  over  your  heads; 
the  same  ocean  rolls  at  your  feet;  but  all  else, 
how  changed  !  You  hear  now  no  roar  of  hostile 
cannon,  you  see  no  mixed  volumes  of  smoke  and 
flame  rising  from  burning  Charlestown.  The 
ground  strewed  with  the  dead  and  the  dying ;  the 
impetuous  charge ;  the  steady  and  successful  re 
pulse;  the  loud  call  to  repeated  assault;  the  sum 
moning  of  all  that  is  manly  to  repeated  resistance; 
a  thousand  bosoms  freely  and  fearlessly  bared  in 
an  instant  to  whatever  of  terror  there  may  be  in 
war  and  death ; — all  these  you  have  witnessed, 


but  you  witness  them  no  more.  All  is  peace. 
The  heights  of  yonder  metropolis,  its  towers  and 
roofs,  which  you  then  saw  filled  with  wives  and 
children  and  countrymen  in  distress  and  terror, 
and  looking  with  unutterable  emotions  for  the  issue 
of  the  combat,  have  presented  you  to-day  with  the 
sight  of  its  whole  happy  population,  come  out  to 
welcome  and  greet  you  with  a  universal  jubilee. 
Yonder  proud  ships,  by  a  felicity  of  position  ap 
propriately  lying  at  the  foot  of  this  mount,  and 
seeming  fondly  to  cling  around  it,  are  not  means  of 
annoyance  to  you,  but  your  country's  own  means 
of  distinction  and  defence.  All  is  peace ;  and 
God  has  granted  you  this  sight  of  your  country's 
happiness,  ere  you  slumber  in  the  grave  for  ever. 
He  has  allowed  you  to  behold  and  to  partake  the 
reward  of  your  patriotic  toils ;  and  he  has  allowed 
us,  your  sons  and  countrymen,  to  meet  you  here, 
and  in  the  name  of  the  present  generation,  in  the 
name  of  your  country,  in  the  name  of  liberty,  to 
thank  you ! 

But,  alas !  you  are  not  all  here !  Time  and 
the  sword  have  thinned  your  ranks.  Prescott, 
Putnam,  Stark,  Brooks,  Read,  Pomeroy,  Bridge ! 
our  eyes  seek  for  you  in  vain  amidst  this  broken 
band.  You  are  gathered  to  your  fathers,  and  live 
only  to  your  country  in  her  grateful  remembrance 
and  your  own  bright  example.  But  let  us  not 
too  much  grieve  that  you  have  met  the  common 
fate  of  men.  You  lived  at  least  long  enough  to 
know  that  your  work  had  been  nobly  and  success 
fully  accomplished.  You  lived  to  see  your  coun 
try's  independence  established,  and  to  sheathe 
your  swords  from  war.  On  the  light  of  liberty 
you  saw  arise  the  light  of  Peace,  like 

"  another  morn, 
Risen  on  mid-noon;" — 

and  the  sky  on  which  you  closed  your  eyes  was 
cloudless. 

But — ah  ! — Him  !  the  first  great  martyr  in  this 
great  cause !  Him !  the  premature  victim  of 
his  own  self-devoting  heart !  Him  !  the  Jiead  of 
our  civil  councils,  and  the  destined  leader  of  our 
military  bands ;  whom  nothing  brought  hither  but 
the  unquenchable  fire  of  his  own  spirit ;  him  !  cut 
off  by  Providence  in  the  hour  of  overwhelming 
anxiety  and  thick  gloom ;  falling  ere  he  saw  the 
star  of  his  country  rise ;  pouring  out  his  generous 
blood  like  water  before  he  knew  whether  it  would 
fertilize  a  land  of  freedom  or  of  bondage !  how 
shall  I  struggle  with  the  emotions  that  stifle  the 
utterance  of  thy  name ! — Our  poor  work  may  pe 
rish  ;  but  thine  shall  endure !  This  monument 
may  moulder  away :  the  solid  ground  it  rests  upon 
may  sink  down  to  a  level  with  the  sea ;  but  thy 
memory  shall  not  fail !  Wheresoever  among  men 
a  heart  shall  be  found  that  beats  to  the  transports 
of  patriotism  and  liberty,  its  aspirations  shall  be  to 
claim  kindred  with  thy  spirit !  .  .  . 

Veterans  !  you  are  the  remnant  of  many  a  well- 
fought  field.  You  bring  with  you  marks  of  honour 
from  Trenton  and  Monmouth,  from  Yorktown, 

amden,  Bennington,  and  Saratoga.  Veterans  of 
half  a  century  !  when  in  your  youthful1  days  you 
put  every  thing  at  hazard  in  your  country's  cause, 


DANIEL    WEBSTER. 


181 


good  as  that  cause  was,  and  sanguine  as  youth  is, 
still  your  fondest  hopes  did  not  stretch  onward  to 
an  hour  like  this !  At  a  period  to  which  you 
could  not  reasonably  have  expected  to  arrive ;  at 
a  moment  of  national  prosperity,  such  as  you  could 
never  have  foreseen,  you  are  now  met  here  to  en 
joy  the  fellowship  of  old  soldiers,  and  to  receive 
the  overflowings  of  a  universal  gratitude. 

But  your  agitated  countenances  and  your  heav 
ing  breasts  inform  me  that  even  this  is  not  an  un 
mixed  joy.  I  perceive  that  a  tumult  of  contending 
feelings  rushes  upon  you.  The  images  of  the 
dead,  as  well  as  the  persons  of  the  living,  throng 
to  your  embraces.  The  scene  overwhelms  you, 
and  I  turn  from  it.  May  the  Father  of  all  mercies 
smile  upon  your  declining  years  and  bless  them ! 
And  when  you  shall  here  have  exchanged  your 
embraces ;  when  you  shall  once  more  have  pressed 
*:he  hands  which  have  been  so  often  extended  to 
trive  succour  in  adversity,  or  grasped  in  the  exulta 
tion  of  victory ;  then  look  abroad  into  this  lovely 
land,  which  your  young  valour  defended,  and  mark 
the  happiness  with  which  it  is  filled ;  yea,  look 
abroad  into  the  whole  earth  and  see  what  a  name 
you  have  contributed  to  give  to  your  country,  and 
what  a  praise  you  have  added  to  freedom,  and  then 
rejoice  in  the  sympathy  and  gratitude  which  beam 
upon  your  last  days  from  the  improved  condition 
of  mankind. 


LITERARY    CHARACTER  OF  ADAMS 
AND  JEFFERSON. 

FROM  A  EULOGY  ON  ADAMS  AND  JEFFERSON. 

THE  last  public  labour  of  Mr.  Jefferson  naturally 
suggests  the  expression  of  the  high  praise  which 
is  due,  both  to  him  and  to  Mr.  Adams,  for  their 
uniform  and  zealous  attachment  to  learning,  and 
to  the  cause  of  general  knowledge.  Of  the  ad 
vantages  of  learning,  indeed,  and  of  literary  accom 
plishments,  their  own  characters  were  striking 
recommendations  and  illustrations.  They  were 
scholars,  ripe  and  good  scholars ;  widely  acquainted 
with  ancient  as  well  as  modern  literature,  and  not 
altogether  uninstructed  in  the  deeper  sciences. 
Their  acquirements  doubtless  were  different,  and 
so  were  the  particular  objects  of  their  literary  pur 
suits  ;  as  their  tastes  and  characters  in  these  re 
spects  differed  like  those  of  other  men.  Being 
also  men  of  busy  lives,  with  great  objects  requiring 
action  constantly  before  them,  their  attainments  in 
letters  did  not  become  showy  or  obtrusive.  Yet  I 
would  hazard  the  opinion,  that,  if  we  could  now 
ascertain  all  the  causes  which  gave  them  eminence 
and  distinction  in  the  midst  of  the  great  men  with 
whom  they  acted,  we  should  find  not  among  the 
least  their  early  acquisition  in  literature,  the  re 
sources  which  it  furnished,  the  promptitude  and 
facility  which  it  communicated,  and  the  wide  field 
it  opened  for  analogy  and  illustration;  giving  them 
thus,  on  every  subject,  a  larger  view  and  a  broader 
range,  as  well  for  discussion  as  for  the  government 
of  their  own  conduct. 

Literature  sometimes,  and  pretensions  to  it  much 


oftener,  disgusts,  by  appearing  to  hang  loosely  on 
the  character,  like  something  foreign  or  extrane 
ous  ;  not  a  part,  but  an  ill-adjusted  appendage ; 
or  by  seeming  to  overload  and  weigh  it  down  by 
its  unsightly  bulk,  like  the  productions  of  bad 
taste  in  architecture,  when  there  is  massy  and 
cumbrous  ornament  without  strength  or  solidity 
of  column.  This  has  exposed  learning,  and  espe 
cially  classical  learning,  to  reproach.  Men  have 
seen  that  it  might  exist  without  mental  superiority, 
without  vigour,  without  good  taste,  and  without 
utility.  But,  in  such  cases,  classical  learning  has 
only  not  inspired  natural  talent;  or,  at  most,  it  has 
but  made  original  feebleness  of  intellect  and  natu 
ral  bluntness  of  perception  somewhat  more  con 
spicuous.  The  question,  after  all,  if  it  be  a  ques 
tion,  is,  whether  literature,  ancient  as  well  as  mo 
dern,  does  not  assist  a  good  understanding,  improve 
natural  good  taste,  add  polished  armour  to  native 
strength,  and  render  its  possessor  not  only  more 
capable  of  deriving  private  happiness  from  con 
templation  and  reflection,  but  more  accomplished 
also  for  action  in  the  affairs  of  life,  and  especially 
for  public  action.  Those,  whose  memories  we 
now  honour,  were  learned  men;  but  their  learning 
was  kept  in  its  proper  place,  and  made  su\  servient 
to  the  uses  and  objects  of  life.  They  were  scho 
lars,  not  common  nor  superficial ;  but  their  scho 
larship  was  so  in  keeping  with  their  character,  so 
blended  and  inwrought,  that  careless  observers  or 
bad  judges,  not  seeing  an  ostentatious  display  of 
it,  might  infer  that  it  did  not  exist ;  forgetting,  or 
not  knowing,  that  classical  learning  in  men  who 
act  in  conspicuous  public  stations,  perform  duties 
which  exercise  the  faculty  of  writing,  or  address 
popular,  judicial,  or  deliberative  bodies,  is  often 
felt  where  it  is  little  seen,  and  sometimes  felt  more 
effectually  because  it  is  not  seen  et  all. 


ELOQUENCE. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

WHEN  public  bodies  are  to  be  addressed  on 
momentous  occasions,  when  great  interests  are  at 
stake,  and  strong  passions  excited,  nothing  is  valu 
able  in  speech  farther  than  it  is  connected  with 
high  intellectual  and  moral  endowments.  Clear 
ness,  force,  and  earnestness  are  the  qualities  which 
produce  conviction.  True  eloquence,  indeed,  does 
not  consist  in  speech.  It  cannot  be  brought  from 
far.  Labour  and  learning  may  toil  for  it,  but  they 
will  toil  in  vain.  Words  and  phrases  may  be 
marshalled  in  every  way,  but  they  cannot  com 
pass  it.  It  must  exist  in  the  man,  in  the  subject, 
and  in  the  occasion.  Affected  passion,  intense 
expression,  the  pomp  of  declamation,  all  may  as 
pire  after  it — they  cannot  reach  it.  It  comes,  il 
it  come  at  all,  like  the  outbreaking  of  a  fountain 
from  the  earth,  or  the  bursting  forth  of  volcani* 
fires  with  spontaneous,  original,  native  force.  The 
graces  taught  in  the  schools,  the  costly  ornaments 
and  studied  contrivances  of  speech,  shock  and  dis 
gust  men,  when  their  own  lives,  and  the  fate  of 
their  wives,  their  children,  and  their  Country  hang 
Q 


182 


DANIEL    WEBSTER. 


on  the  decision  of  the  hour.  Then,  words  have 
lost  their  power,  rhetoric  is  vain,  and  all  elaborate 
oratory  contemptible.  Even  genius  itself  then 
feels  rebuked  and  subdued,  as  in  the  presence  of 
higher  qualities.  Then,  patriotism  is  eloquent; 
then,  self-devotion  is  eloquent.  The  clear  concep 
tion  outrunning  the  deductions  of  logic,  the  high 
purpose,  the  firm  resolve,  the  dauntless  spirit, 
speaking  on  the  tongue,  beaming  from  the  eye, 
informing  every  feature,  and  urging  the  whole 
man  onward,  right  onward  to  his  object— this,  this 
is  eloquence :  or  rather  it  is  something  greater  and 
higher  than  all  eloquence, — it  is  action,  noble, 
sublime,  godlike  action. 


PUBLIC  OPINION. 

FROM  A  SPEECH  ON  THE  GREEK  REVOLUTION. 

IT  may  be  asked,  perhaps, . . .  what  can  we  do  ? 
Are  we  to  go  to  war  ]  Are  we  to  interfere  in  the 
Greek  cause,  or  any  other  European  cause  ?  Are 
we  to  endanger  our  pacific  relations  ] — No,  cer 
tainly  not.  What,  then,  the  question  recurs,  re 
mains  for  us  ?  If  we  will  not  endanger  our  own 
peace ;  if  we  will  neither  furnish  armies  nor  na 
vies  to  the  cause  which  we  think  the  just  one, 
what  is  there  within  our  power  1 

Sir,  this  reasoning  mistakes  the  age.  The  time 
has  been,  indeed,  when  fleets,  and  armies,  and  sub 
sidies  were  the  principal  reliances  even  in  the  best 
cause.  But,  happily  for  mankind,  there  has  arrived 
a  great  change  in  this  respect.  Moral  causes  come 
into  consideration,  in  proportion  as  the  progress  of 
knowledge  is  advanced ;  and  the  public  opinion  of 
the  civilized  world  is  rapidly  gaining  an  ascend 
ency  over  mere  brutal  force.  It  is  already  able  to 
oppose  the  most  formidable  obstruction  to  the  pro 
gress  of  injustice  and  oppression ;  and,  as  it  grows 
more  intelligent  and  more  intense,  it  will  be  more 
and  more  formidable.  It  may  be  silenced  by  mili 
tary  power,  but  it  cannot  be  conquered.  It  is 
elastic,  irrepressible,  and  invulnerable  to  the  wea 
pons  of  ordinary  warfare.  It  is  that  impassable, 
unextinguishable  enemy  of  mere  violence  and  arbi 
trary  rule  which,  like  Milton's  angels, 

'•Vital  in  every  part, 
Cannot,  but  by  annihilating,  die." 
Until  this  be  propitiated  or  satisfied,  it  is  vain 
for  power  to  talk  cither  of  triumphs  or  of  repose. 
No  matter  what  fields  are  desolated,  what  fortresses 
surrendered,  what  armies  subdued,  or  what  pro 
vinces  overrun.  In  the  history  of  the  year  that 
has  passed  by  us,  and  in  the  instance  of  unhappy 
Spain,  we  have  seen  the  vanity  of  all  triumphs  in 
a  cause  which  violates  the  general  sense  of  justice 
of  the  civilized  world.  It  is  nothing  that  the  troops 
of  France  have  passed  from  the  Pyrenees  to  Cadiz: 
it  is  nothing  that  an  unhappy  and  prostrate  nation 
has  fallen  before  them ;  it  is  nothing  that  arrests, 
and  confiscation,  and  execution  sweep  away  the 
little  remnant  of  national  resistance.  There  is  an 
enemy  that  still  exists  to  check  the  glory  of  these 
triumphs.  It  follows  the  conqueror  back  to  the 
very  scene  of  his  ovations ;  it  calls  upon  him  to 
take  notice  that  Europe,  though  silent,  is  yet  in 


dignant  ;  it  shows  him  that  the  sceptre  of  his  vic 
tory  is  a  barren  sceptre ;  that  it  shall  confer  neither 
joy  nor  honour,  but  shall  moulder  to  dry  ashes  in 
his  grasp.  In  the  midst  of  his  exultation  it  pierces 
his  ear  with  the  cry  of  injured  justice,  it  denounces 
against  him  the  indignation  of  an  enlightened  and 
civilized  age ;  it  turns  to  bitterness  the  cup  of  his 
rejoicing,  and  wounds  him  with  the  sting  which 
belongs  to  the  consciousness  of  having  outraged 
the  opinion  of  mankind. 


IMPRISONMENT  FOR  DEBT. 

FROM  A  SPEECH  ON  THE  BANKRUPT  LAW. 

WB  talk  much,  and  talk  warmly,  of  political 
liberty  ;  and  well  we  may,  for  it  is  among  the  chief 
of  public  blessings.  But  who  can  enjoy  political 
liberty  if  he  is  deprived  permanently  of  personal 
liberty,  and  the  exercise  of  his  own  industry,  and 
his  own  faculties  ]  To  those  unfortunate  indivi 
duals,  doomed  to  the  everlasting  bondage  of  debt, 
what  is  it  that  we  have  free  institutions  of  govern 
ment  1  What  is  it  that  we  have  public  and  popu 
lar  assemblies  ?  Nay,  to  them,  what  is  even  this 
Constitution  itself,  in  its  actual  operation,  and  as 
we  now  administer  it, — what  is  its  aspect  to  them 
but  an  aspect  of  stern,  implacable  seventy  'I — an 
aspect  of  refusal,  denial,  and  frowning  rebuke  1 — 
nay,  more  than  that,  an  aspect  not  only  of  auste 
rity  and  rebuke  even,  but,  as  they  must  think  it, 
of  plain  injustice  also  ;  since  it  will  not  relieve 
them,  nor  suffer  others  to  give  them  relief.  What 
love  can  they  feel  toward  the  Constitution  of  their 
country,  which  has  taken  the  power  of  striking  off 
their  bonds  from  their  own  paternal  state  govern 
ments,  and  yet,  inexorable  to  all  the  cries  of  justice 
and  of  mercy,  holds  it,  unexercised,  in  its  own  fast 
and  unrelenting  clinch  1  They  find  themselve* 
bondsmen,  because  we  will  not  execute  the  com 
mands  of  the  Constitution — bondsmen  to  debts 
they  cannot  pay,  and  which  all  know  they  cannot 
pay,  and  which  take  away  the  power  of  support 
ing  themselves.  Other  slaves  have  masters,  charged 
with  the  duty  of  support  and  protection ;  but  their 
masters  neither  clothe,  nor  feed,  nor  shelter ; — they 
only  bind 

Sir,  let  us  gratify  the  whole  country,  for  once, 
with  the  joyous  clang  of  chains, — joyous  because 
heard  falling  from  the  limbs  of  men.  The  wisest 
among  those  whom  I  address  can  desire  nothing 
more  beneficial  than  this  measure,  or  more  univer 
sally  desired ;  and  he  who  is  youngest  may  not  ex 
pect  to  live  long  enough  to  see  a  better  opportunity 
of  causing  new  pleasures  and  a  happiness  long  un- 
tasted  to  spring  up  in  the  hearts  of  the  poor  and 
the  humble.  How  many  husbands  and  fathers 
are  looking  with  hopes  which  they  cannot  sup 
press,  and  yet  hardly  dare  to  cherish,  for  the  result 
of  this  debate !  How  many  wives  and  mothers  will 
pass  sleepless  and  feverish  nights,  until  they  know 
whether  they  and  their  families  shall  be  raised 
from  poverty,  despondency,  and  despair,  and  re 
stored  again  to  the  circle*;  \,f  industrious,  indepen 
dent,  and  happy  life ! 


DANIEL    WEBSTER. 


183 


REPLY  TO  A  TAUNT  OF  MR.  HAYNE. 

FROM   A  SPEECH   ON   MR.  FOOTE'S   RESOLUTION. 

IT  was  put  as  a  question  for  me  to  answer,  and 
so  put  as  if  it  were  difficult  for  me  to  answer, 
whether  I  deemed  the  member  from  Missouri  an 
overmatch  for  myself  in  debate  here.  It  seems  to 
me,  sir,  that  this  is  extraordinary  language,  and 
an  extraordinary  tone  for  the  discussions  of  this 
body. 

Matches  and  over-matches !  Those  terms  are 
more  applicable  elsewhere  than  here,  and  fitter  for 
other  assemblies  than  this.  Sir,  the  gentleman 
seems  to  forget  where  and  what  we  are.  This  is 
a  senate  :  a  senate  of  equals :  of  men  of  individual 
honour  and  personal  character,  and  of  absolute 
independence.  We  know  no  masters;  we  ac 
knowledge  no  dictators.  This  is  a  hall  for  mutual 
consultation  and  discussion ;  not  an  arena  for  the 
exhibition  of  champions.  I  offer  myself,  sir,  as  a 
match  for  no  man,  I  throw  the  challenge  of  debate 
at  no  man's  feet.  But  then,  sir,  since  the  honourable 
member  has  put  the  question  in  a  manner  that 
calls  for  an  answer,  I  will  give  him  an  answer ; 
and  I  tell  him  that,  holding  myself  to  be  the  hum 
blest  of  the  members  here,  I  yet  know  nothing  in 
the  arm  of  his  friend  from  Missouri,  either  alone 
or  when  aided  by  the  arm  of  his  friend  from  South 
Carolina,  that  need  deter  even  me  from  espousing 
whatever  opinions  I  may  choose  to  espouse,  from 
debating  whenever  I  may  choose  to  debate,  or  from 
speaking  whatever  I  may  see  fit  to  say  on  the  floor 
of  the  Senate.  Sir,  when  uttered  as  matter  of 
commendation  or  compliment,  I  should  dissent 
from  nothing  which  the  honourable  member  might 
say  of  his  friend.  Still  less  do  I  put  forth  any 
pretensions  of  my  own.  But  when  put  to  me  as 
a  matter  of  taunt,  I  throw  it  back,  and  say  to  the 
gentleman  that  he  could  possibly  say  nothing  less 
likely  than  such  a  comparison  to  wound  my  pride 
of  personal  character.  The  anger  of  its  tone  res 
cued  the  remark  from  intentional  irony,  which 
otherwise,  probably,  would  have  been  its  general 
acceptation.  But,  sir,  if  it  be  imagined  that  by 
this  mutual  quotation  and  commendation;  if  it  be 
supposed,  that  by  casting  the  characters  of  the 
drama,  assigning  to  each  his  part;  to  one  the  at 
tack;  to  another  the  cry  of  onset:  or,  if  it  bo 
thought  that  by  a  loud  and  empty  vaunt  of  antici 
pated  victory,  any  laurels  are  to  be  won  here ;  if  it 
be  imagined,  especially,  that  any  or  all  of  these 
things  will  shake  any  purpose  of  mine,  I  can  tell 
the  honourable  member,  once  for  all,  that  he  is 
greatly  mistaken,  and  that  he  is  dealing  with  one 
of  whose  temper  and  character  he  has  yet  much 
to  learn.  Sir,  I  shall  not  allow  myself,  on  this 
occasion,  to  be  betrayed  into  any  loss  of  temper ; 
but  if  provoked,  as  I  trust  I  never  shall  allow  my 
self  to  be,  into  crimination  and  recrimination,  the 
honourable  member  may  perhaps  find  that,  in  that 
contest,  there  will  be  blows  to  take  as  well  as 
blows  to  give ;  that  others  can  state  comparisons 
as  significant,  at  least,  as  his  own,  and  that  his 
impunity  may,  perhaps,  demand  of  him  whatever 
powers  of  taunt  and  sarcasm  he  may  possess.  I  com 
mend  him  to  a  prudent  husbandry  of  his  resources. 


IMPORTANCE  OF  PRESERVING  THE 
UNION. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

I  PROFESS,  sir,  in  my  career  hitherto  to  have 
kept  steadily  in  view  the  prosperity  and  honour 
of  the  whole  country,  and  the  preservation  of  our 
federal  union.  It  is  to  that  union  we  owe  our 
safety  at  home,  and  our  consideration  and  dignity 
abroad.  It  is  to  that  union  that  we  are  chiefly  in 
debted  for  whatever  makes  us  most  proud  of  our 
country.  That  union  we  reached  only  by  the 
discipline  of  our  virtues,  in  the  severe  school  of 
adversity.  It  had  its  origin  in  the  necessities  of 
disordered  finance,  prostrate  commerce,  and  ruined 
credit.  Under  its  benign  influences,  these  great 
interests  immediately  awoke,  as  from  the  dead,  and 
sprang  forth  with  newness  of  life.  Every  year  of 
its  duration  has  teemed  with  fresh  proofs  of  its 
utility  and  its  blessings ;  and  although  our  territory 
has  stretched  out  wider  and  wider,  and  our  popu 
lation  spread  farther  and  farther,  they  have  not 
outrun  its  protection,  or  its  benefits.  It  has  been 
to  us  all  a  copious  fountain  of  national,  social,  and 
personal  happiness. 

I  have  not  allowed  myself,  sir,  to  look  beyond 
the  union,  to  see  what  might  lie  hidden  in  the 
dark  recess  behind.  I  have  not  coolly  weighed 
the  chances  of  preserving  liberty,  when  the  bonds 
that  unite  us  together  shall  be  broken  asunder.  I 
have  not  accustomed  myself  to  hang  over  the  pre 
cipice  of  disunion  to  see  whether,  with  my  short 
sight,  I  can  fathom  the  depth  of  the  abyss  below ; 
nor  could  I  regard  him  as  a  safe  counsellor  in  the 
affairs  of  this  government,  whose  thoughts  should 
be  mainly  bent  on  considering,  not  how  the  union 
should  be  best  preserved,  but  how  tolerable  might 
be  the  condition  of  the  people  when  it  shall  be 
broken  up  and  destroyed. 

While  the  union  lasts,  we  have  high,  exciting, 
gratifying  prospects  spread  out  before  us,  for  us 
and  our  children.  Beyond  that  I  seek  not  to  pene 
trate  the  veil.  God  grant  that,  in  my  day  at  least, 
that  curtain  may  not  rise.  God  grant  that  on  my 
vision  never  may  be  opened  what  lies  behind. 
When  my  eyes  shall  be  turned  to  behold,  for  the 
last  time,  the  sun  in  heaven,  may  I  not  see  him 
shining  on  the  broken  and  dishonoured  fragments 
of  a  once  glorious  union  ;  on  states  dissevered,  dis 
cordant,  belligerent ;  on  a  land  rent  with  civil  feuds, 
or  drenched,  it  may  be,  in  fraternal  blood  !  Let 
their  last  feeble  and  lingering  glance  rather  behold 
the  gorgeous  ensign  of  the  republic,  now  known 
and  honoured  throughout  the  earth,  still  full  high 
advanced,  its  arms  and  trophies  streaming  in  their 
original  lustre,  not  a  stripe  erased  or  polluted,  nor 
a  single  star  obscured — bearing  for  its  motto  no 
such  miserable  interrogatory  as — What  is  all  this 
worth  ]  Nor  those  other  words  of  delusion  and 
folly — liberty  first,  and  union  afterward — but  every 
where,  spread  all  over  in  characters  of  living  light, 
blazing  on  all  its  ample  folds  as  they  float  over  the 
sea  and  over  the  land,  and  in  every  wind  under 
the  whole  heavens,  that  other  sentiment  dear  to 
every  true  American  heart — liberty  and  union, 
now  and  for  ever,  one  and  inseparable  ! 


184 


DANIEL    WEBSTER. 


SOUTH  CAROLINA  AND  MASSACHU 
SETTS. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

THE  eulogium  pronounced  on  the  character  of 
the  state  of  South  Carolina  by  the  honourable 
gentleman,  for  her  revolutinary  and  other  merits, 
meets  my  hearty  concurrence.  I  shall  not  acknow 
ledge  that  the  honourable  member  goes  before  me 
in  regard  for  whatever  of  distinguished  talent,  or 
distinguished  character,  South  Carolina  has  pro 
duced.  I  claim  part  of  the  honour :  I  partake  in 
the  pride  of  her  great  names.  I  claim  them  for 
countrymen,  one  and  all.  The  Laurenses,  Rut- 
ledges,  the  Pinckneys,  the  Sumpters,  the  Marions 
— Americans  all — whose  fame  is  no  more  to  be 
hemmed  in  by  state  lines,  than  their  talents  and 
patriotism  were  capable  of  being  circumscribed 
within  the  same  narrow  limits.  In  their  day  and 
generation  they  served  and  honoured  the  country, 
and  the  whole  country,  and  their  renown  is  of  the 
treasures  of  the  whole  country.  Him,  whose  ho 
noured  name  the  gentleman  bears  himself — does 
he  suppose  me  less  capable  of  gratitude  for  his 
patriotism,  or  sympathy  for  his  sufferings,  than  if 
his  eyes  had  first  opened  upon  the  light  in  Massa 
chusetts,  instead  of  South  Carolina  ]  Sir,  does 
he  suppose  it  in  his  power  to  exhibit  a  Carolina 
name  so  bright  as  to  produce  envy  in  my  bosom,  1 
No,  sir, — increased  gratification  and  delight,  rather. 
Sir,  I  thank  God  that,  if  I  am  gifted  with  little  of 
the  spirit  which  is  said  to  be  able  to  raise  mortals 
to  the  skies,  I  have  yet  none,  as  I  trust,  of  that 
other  spirit  which  would  drag  angels  down. 

When  I  shall  be  found,  sir,  in  my  place  here  in 
the  Senate,  or  elsewhere,  to  sneer  at  public  merit, 
because  it  happened  to  spring  up  beyond  the  little 
limits  of  my  own  state  and  neighbourhood  ;  when 
I  refuse,  for  any  such  cause,  or  for  any  cause,  the 
homage  due  to  American  talent,  to  elevated  patri 
otism,  to  sincere  devotion  to  liberty  and  the  coun 
try  ;  or  if  I  see  an  uncommon  endowment  of  hea 
ven — if  I  see  extraordinary  capacity  and  virtue  in 
any  son  of  the  south — and  if  moved  by  local  pre 
judice,  or  gangrened  by  state  jealousy,  I  get  up 
here  to  abate  the  tithe  of  a  hair  from  his  just  cha 
racter  and  just  fame,  may  my  tongue  cleave  to  the 
roof  of  my  mouth  ! 

Sir,  let  me  recur  to  pleasing  recollections — let 
me  indulge  in  refreshing  remembrances  of  the  past 
— let  me  remind  you  that  in  early  times  no  states 
cherished  greater  harmony,  both  of  principle  and 
of  feeling,  than  Massachusetts  and  South  Carolina. 
Would  to  God  that  harmony  might  again  return. 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  they  went  through  the  Revo 
lution — hand  in  hand  they  stood  round  the  admi 
nistration  of  Washington,  and  felt  his  own  great 
arm  lean  on  them  for  support.  Unkind  feeling,  if 
it  exist,  alienation  and  distrust  are  the  growth,  un 
natural  to  such  soils,  of  false  principles  since  sown. 
They  are  weeds,  the  seeds  of  which  that  same 
great  arm  never  scattered. 

Mr.  President,  I  shall  enter  on  no  encomium 
upon  Massachusetts — she  needs  none.  There  she 
is — behold  her  and  judge  for  yourselves.  There 


is  her  history — the  world  knows  it  by  heart.  The 
past,  at  least,  is  secure.  There  is  Boston,  and 
Concord,  and  Lexington,  and  Bunker's  Hill ;  and 
there  they  will  remain  for  ever.  The  bones  of 
her  sons,  fallen  in  the  great  struggle  for  indepen 
dence,  now  lie  mingled  with  the  soil  of  every  state, 
from  New  England  to  Georgia;  and  there  they 
will  lie  for  ever.  And,  sir,  where  American  liberty 
raised  its  first  voice,  and  where  its  youth  was  nur 
tured  and  sustained,  there  it  still  lives  in  the 
strength  of  its  manhood,  and  full  of  its  original 
spirit.  If  discord  and  disunion  shall  wound  it — if 
party  strife  and  blind  ambition  shall  hawk  at  and 
tear  it:  if  folly  and  madness,  if  uneasiness,  under 
salutary  and  necessary  restraint,  shall  succeed  to 
separate  it  from  that  union,  by  which  alone  its 
existence  is  made  sure,  it  will  stand  in  the  end  by 
the  side  of  that  cradle  in  which  its  infancy  was 
rocked ;  it  will  stretch  forth  its  arm  with  whatever 
of  vigour  it  may  still  retain  over  the  friends  who 
gather  round  it :  and  it  will  fall  at  last,  if  fall  it 
must,  amidst  the  proudest  monuments  of  its  own 
glory,  and  on  the  very  spot  of  its  origin. 


DUTY  OF  THE  REPRESENTATIVE. 

FROM   A   SPEECH   ON  THE   PRESIDENT'S   PROTEST. 


WE  have  been  taught  to  regard  a  representative 
of  the  people  as  a  sentinel  on  the  watch-tower  of 
liberty.  Is  he  to  be  blind,  though  visible  danger 
approaches'?  Is  he  to  be  deaf,  though  sounds  of 
peril  fill  the  air  ]  Is  he  to  be  dumb,  while  a  thou 
sand  duties  impel  him  to  raise  the  cry  of  alarm  ] 
Is  he  not  rather  to  catch  the  lowest  whisper  which 
breathes  intention  or  purpose  of  encroachment  on 
the  public  liberties,  and  to  give  his  voice  breath 
and  utterance  at  the  first  appearance  of  danger  1 
Is  not  his  eye  to  traverse  the  whole  horizon  with 
the  keen  and  eager  vision  of  an  unhooded  hawk, 
detecting,  through  all  disguises,  every  enemy  ad 
vancing  in  any  form  toward  the  citadel  which  he 
guards  1  Sir,  this  watchfulness  for  public  liberty ; 
this  duty  of  foreseeing  danger  and  proclaiming  it ; 
this  promptitude  and  boldness  in  resisting  attacks 
on  the  Constitution  from  any  quarter;  this  de 
fence  of  established  landmarks;  this  fearless  resist 
ance  of  whatever  would  transcend  or  remove  them, 
— all  belong  to  the  representative  character,  are 
interwoven  with  its  very  nature. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  LIBERTY. 

FROM   THE  SAME. 

THE  spirit  of  liberty  is  indeed  a  bold  and  fear 
less  spirit ;  but  it  is  also  a  sharp-sighted  spirit ;  it 
is  a  cautious,  sagacious,  discriminating,  far-seeing 
intelligence ;  it  is  jealous  of  encroachment,  jealous 
of  power,  jealous  of  man.  It  demands  checks ;  it 
seeks  for  guards ;  it  insists  on  securities ;  it  en 
trenches  itself  behind  strong  defences,  and  fortifies 
with  all  possible  care  against  the  assaults  of  ambi 
tion  and  passion. 


DANIEL    WEBSTER. 


185 


LIBERTY  AND  PREROGATIVE. 

FROM   THE   SAME. 


THE  contest  for  ages  has  been  to  rescue  liberty 
from  the  grasp  of  executive  power.  Whoever  has 
engaged  in  her  sacred  cause,  from  the  days  of  the 
downfall  of  those  great  aristocracies  which  had 
stood  between  the  king  and  the  people  to  the  time 
of  our  own  independence,  has  struggled  for  the 
accomplishment  of  that  single  object.  On  the 
long  list  of  the  champions  of  human  freedom, 
there  is  not  one  name  dimmed  by  the  reproach  of 
advocating  the  extension  of  executive  authority; 
on  the  contrary,  the  uniform  and  steady  purpose 
of  all  such  champions  has  been  to  limit  and  restrain 
it.  To  this  end  the  spirit  of  liberty,  growing  more 
and  more  enlightened,  and  more  and  more  vigorous 
from  age  to  age,  has  been  battering  for  centuries 
against  the  solid  hutments  of  the  feudal  system. 
To  this  end,  all  that  could  be  gained  from  the  im 
prudence,  snatched  from  the  weakness,  or  wrung 
from  the  necessities  of  crowned  heads,  has  been 
carefully  gathered  up,  secured,  and  hoarded  as  the 
rich  treasures,  the  very  jewels  of  liberty.  To  this 
end,  popular  and  representative  right  has  kept  up 
its  warfare  against  prerogative  with  various  suc 
cess;  sometimes  writing  the  history  of  a  whole 
age  in  blood ;  sometimes  witnessing  the  martyr 
dom  of  Sidneys  and  Russells,  often  baffled  and 
repulsed,  but  still  gaining,  on  the  whole,  and  hold 
ing  what  it  gained  with  a  grasp  which  nothing 
but  the  complete  extinction  of  its  own  being  could 
compel  it  to  relinquish.  At  length  the  great  con 
quest  over  executive  power,  in  the  leading  western 
states  of  Europe,  has  been  accomplished.  The 
feudal  system,  like  other  stupendous  fabrics  of  past 
ages,  is  known  only  by  the  rubbish  which  it  has 
left  behind  it.  Crowned  heads  have  been  com 
pelled  to  submit  to  the  restraints  of  law,  and  the 
PEOPLE,  with  that  intelligence  and  that  spirit  which 
make  their  voice  resistless,  have  been  able  to  say 
to  prerogative,  "  Thus  far  shalt  thou  come,  and  no 
farther."  I  need  hardly  say,  sir,  that,  into  the  full 
enjoyment  of  all  which  Europe  has  reached  only 
through  such  slow  and  painful  steps,  we  sprang  at 
once  by  the  declaration  of  independence  and  by 
the  establishment  of  free  representative  govern 
ments;  government  borrowing  more  or  less  from 
the  models  of  other  free  states,  but  strengthened, 
secured,  improved  in  their  symmetry,  and  deep 
ened  in  their  foundation  by  those  great  men  of  our 
own  country,  whose  names  will  be  as  familiar  to 
future  times  as  if  they  were  written  on  the  arch  of 
the  sky. 


INFLUENCE  OF  WOMAN. 

FROM   A  SPEECH   AT   RICHMOND. 

IT  is  by  the  promulgation  of  sound  morals  in 
the  community,  and  more  especially  by  the  train 
ing  and  instruction  of  the  young,  that  woman  per 
forms  her  part  toward  the  preservation  of  a  free 
government.  It  is  generally  admitted  that  public 
liberty,  the  perpetuity  of  a  free  constitution,  rests 
on  the  virtue  and  intelligence  of  the  community 


which  enjoys  it.  How  is  that  virtue  to  be  inspired, 
and  how  is  that  intelligence  to  be  communicated  ] 
Bonaparte  once  asked  Madame  de  Stael  in  what 
manner  he  could  most  promote  the  happiness  of 
France.  Her  reply  is  full  of  political  wisdom.  She 
said,  "  Instruct  the  mothers  of  the  French  people." 
Mothers  are,  indeed,  the  affectionate  and  effective 
teachers  of  the  human  race.  The  mother  begins 
her  process  of  training  with  the  infant  in  her  arms. 
It  is  she  who  directs,  so  to  speak,  its  first  mental 
and  spiritual  pulsations.  She  conducts  it  along 
the  impressible  years  of  childhood  and  youth,  and 
hopes  to  deliver  it  to  the  rough  contests  and  tu 
multuous  scenes  of  life,  armed  by  those  good  prin 
ciples  which  her  child  has  received  from  maternal 
care  and  love. 

If  we  draw  within  the  circle  of  our  contempla 
tion  the  mothers  of  a  civilized  nation,  what  do  we 
see  ?  We  behold  so  many  artificers  working,  not 
on  frail  and  perishable  matter,  but  on  the  immortal 
mind,  moulding  and  fashioning  beings  who  are*to 
exist  for  ever.  We  applaud  the  artist  whose  skill 
and  genius  present  the  mimic  man  upon  the  can 
vas;  we  admire  and  celebrate  the  sculptor  who 
works  out  that  same  image  in  enduring  marble ; 
but  how  insignificant  are  these  achievements, 
though  the  highest  and  the  fairest  in  all  the  de 
partments  of  art,  in  comparison  with  the  great  vo 
cation  of  human  mothers  !  They  work,  not  upon 
the  canvas  that  shall  fail,  or  the  marble  that  shall 
crumble  into  dust,  but  upon  mind,  upon  spirit, 
which  is  to  last  for  ever,  and  which  is  to  bear,  for 
good  or  evil,  throughout  its  duration,  the  impress 
of  a  mother's  plastic  hand. 

I  have  already  expressed  the  opinion,  which  all 
allow  to  be  correct,  that  our  security  for  the  dura 
tion  of  the  free  institutions  which  bless  our  coun 
try  depends  upon  the  habits  of  virtue  and  the 
prevalence  of  knowledge  and  of  education.  Know 
ledge  does  not  comprise  all  which  is  contained  in 
the  larger  term  of  education.  The  feelings  are  to 
be  disciplined  ;  the  passions  are  to  be  restrained ; 
true  and  worthy  motives  are  to  be  inspired ;  a  pro 
found  religious  feeling  is  to  be  instilled,  and  pure 
morality  inculcated  under  all  circumstances.  All 
this  is  comprised  in  education.  Mothers  who  are 
faithful  to  this  great  duty,  will  tell  their  children 
that  neither  in  political  nor  in  any  other  concerns 
of  life  can  man  ever  withdraw  himself  from  the 
perpetual  obligations  of  conscience  and  of  duty ; 
that  in  every  act,  whether  public  or  private,  he  in 
curs  a  just  responsibility ;  and  that  in  no  condition 
is  he  warranted  in  trifling  with  important  rights 
and  obligations.  They  will  impress  upon  their 
children  the  truth,  that  the  exercise  of  the  elective 
franchise  is  a  social  duty,  of  as  solemn  a  nature 
as  man  can  be  called  to  perform;  that  a  man  may 
not  innocently  trifle  with  his  vote ;  that  every 
free  elector  is  a  trustee,  as  well  for  others  as  him 
self;  and  that  every  man  and  every  measure  he 
supports  has  an  important  bearing  on  the  interests 
of  others  as  well  as  on  his  own.  It  is  in  the  in 
culcation  of  high  and  pure  morals,  such  as  these, 
that,  in  a  free  republic,  woman  performs  her  sacred 
duty,  and  fulfils  her  destiny. 


186 


DANIEL    WEBSTER. 


LIBERTY  AND  THE  CONSTITUTION. 

FROM  A  SPEECH  DELIVERED  IN  NEW  YORK  IN  1837. 

UNDER  the  present  Constitution,  wisely  and 
conscientiously  administered,  all  are  safe,  happy, 
and  renowned.  The  measure  of  our  country's 
fame  may  fill  all  our  breasts.  It  is  fame  enough 
for  us  all  to  partake  in  her  glory,  if  we  will  carry 
her  character  onward  to  its  true  destiny.  But  if 
the  system  is  broken,  its  fragments  must  fall  alike 
on  all.  Not  only  the  cause  of  American  liberty, 
but  the  great  cause  of  liberty  throughout  the  whole 
earth  depends,  in  a  great  measure,  on  upholding 
the  Constitution  and  union  of  these  states.  If 
shattered  and  destroyed,  no  matter  by  what  cause, 
the  peculiar  and  cherished  idea  of  United  Ameri 
can  Liberty  will  be  no  more  for  ever.  There  may 
be  free  states,  it  is  possible,  when  there  shall  be 
separate  states.  There  may  be  many  loose,  and 
feeble,  and  hostile  confederacies,  where  there  is 
npw  one  great  and  united  confederacy.  But  the 
noble  idea  of  United  American  Liberty,  of  our 
liberty,  such  as  our  fathers  established  it,  will  be 
extinguished  for  ever.  Fragments  and  severed 
columns  of  the  edifice  may  be  found  remaining ; 
and  melancholy  and  mournful  ruins  will  they  be ; 
the  august  temple  itself  will  be  prostrate  in  the 
dust.  Gentlemen,  the  citizens  of  this  republic 
cannot  sever  their  fortunes.  A  common  fate 
awaits  as.  In  the  honour  of  upholding,  or  in  the 
disgrace  of  undermining  the  Constitution,  we  shall 
all  necessarily  partake.  Let  us  then  stand  by  the 
Constitution  as  it  is,  and  by  our  country  as  it  is, 
one,  united,  and  entire ;  let  it  be  a  truth  engraven 
on  our  hearts ;  let  it  be  borne  on  the  flag  under 
which  we  rally,  in  every  exigency,  that  we  have 

ONE  COUNTRY,  ONE  CONSTITUTION,  ONE  DESTINT. 


ARCHITECTS  OF  RUIN. 

FROM  A  SPEECH  ON  THE  COLLECTION  OF  DUTIES  ON  IMPORTS. 

IF  the  friends  of  nullification  should  be  able  to 
propagate  their  opinions,  and  give  them  practical 
effect,  they  would,  in  my  judgment,  prove  them 
selves  the  most  skilful  "  architects  of  ruin,"  the 
most  effectual  extinguishers  of  high-raised  expecta 
tion,  the  greatest  blasters  of  human  hopes,  which 
any  age  has  produced.  They  would  stand  up  to 
proclaim,  in  tones  which  would  pierce  the  ears  of 
half  the  human  race,  that  the  last  great  experi 
ment  of  representative  government  had  failed. 
They  would  send  forth  sounds,  at  the  hearing  of 
which  the  doctrine  of  the  divine  right  of  kings 
would  feel,  even  in  its  grave,  a  returning  sensation 
of  vitality  and  resuscitation.  Millions  of  eyes,  of 
those  who  now  feed  their  inherent  love  of  liberty 
on  the  success  of  the  American  *xomple,  would 
turn  away  from  beholding  our  dismemberment, 
and  find  no  place  on  earth  whereon  to  rest  their 
gratified  sight.  Amidst  the  incantations  arid  orgies 
of  nullification,  secession,  disunion,  and  revolution, 
would  be  celebrated  the  funeral  rites  of  constitu 
tional  and  republican  liberty. 


ILLEGAL  INTERFERENCE  WITH  THE 
PUBLIC  TREASURE. 

FROM   A  SPEECH   ON  THE   PRESIDENT'S   PROTEST. 

THE  Senate  regarded  this  interposition  as  an 
encroachment  by  the  Executive  on  other  branches 
of  the  government ;  as  an  interference  with  the 
legislative  disposition  of  the  public  treasure.  It 
was  strongly  and  forcibly  urged,  yesterday,  by  the 
honourable  member  from  South  Carolina,  that  the 
true  and  only  mode  of  preserving  any  balance  of 
power,  in  mixed  governments,  is  to  keep  an  exact 
balance.  This  is  very  true,  and  to  this  end  en 
croachment  must  be  resisted  at  the.  first  step.  The 
question  is,  therefore,  whether,  upon  the  true  prin 
ciples  of  the  Constitution,  this  exercise  of  power 
by  the  President  can  be  justified.  Whether  the 
consequences  be  prejudicial  or  not,  if  there  be  an 
illegal  exercise  of  power,  it  is  to  be  resisted  in  the 
proper  manner.  Even  if  no  harm  or  inconvenience 
result  from  transgressing  the  boundary,  the  intru 
sion  is  not  to  be  suffered  to  pass  unnoticed.  Every 
encroachment,  great  or  small,  is  important  enough 
to  awaken  the  attention  of  those  who  are  intrusted 
with  the  preservation  of  a  constitutional  govern 
ment.  We  are  not  to  wait  till  great  public  mis 
chiefs  come,  till  the  government  is  overthrown,  or 
liberty  itself  put  in  extreme  jeopardy.  We  should 
not  be  worthy  sons  of  our  fathers,  were  we  so  to 
regard  great  questions  affecting  the  general  free 
dom.  Those  fathers  accomplished  the  Revolution 
on  a  strict  question  of  principle.  The  Parliament 
of  Great  Britain  asserted  a  right  to  tax  the  colonies 
in  all  cases  whatsoever ;  and  it  was  precisely  on 
this  question  that  they  made  the  Revolution  turn. 
The  amount  of  taxation  was  trifling,  but  the  claim 
itself  was  inconsistent  with  liberty  ;  and  that  was, 
in  their  eyes,  enough.  It  was  against  the  recital 
of  an  act  of  Parliament,  rather  than  against  any 
suffering  under  its  enactments,  that  they  took  up 
arms.  They  went  to  war  against  a  preamble. 
They  fought  seven  years  against  a  declaration. 
They  poured  out  their  treasures  and  their  blood 
like  water  in  a  contest  in  opposition  to  an  asser 
tion  which  those  less  sagacious,  and  not  so  well 
schooled  in  the  principles  of  civil  liberty,  would 
have  regarded  as  barren  phraseology,  or  mere  pa 
rade  of  words.  They  saw  in  the  claim  of  the 
British  Parliament  a  seminal  principle  of  mischief, 
the  germ  of  unjust  power ;  they  detected  it,  dragged 
it  forth  from  underneath  its  plausible  disguises, 
struck  at  it ;  nor  did  it  elude  either  their  steady 
eye,  or  their  well-directed  blow,  till  they  had  extir 
pated  and  destroyed  it  to  the  smallest  fibre.  On 
this  question  of  principle,  while  actual  suffering 
was  yet  afar  off,  they  raise  their  flag  against  a 
power  to  which,  for  purposes  of  foreign  conquest 
and  subjugation,  Rome,  in  the  height  of  her  glory, 
is  not  to  be  compared — a  power  which  has  dotted 
over  the  surface  of  the  whole  globe  with  her  pos 
sessions  and  military  posts,  whose  morning  drum 
beat,  following  the  sun,  and  keeping  company  with 
the  hours,  circles  the  earth  daily  with  one  con 
tinuous  and  unbroken  strain  of  the  martial  airs  of 
England. 


•  1   bv  K  '  'nuk    • 


; 


JOHN  JAMES  AUDUBON. 


[Born  1780.    Died  1851.] 


"FORMERLY,"  said  Baron  Cuvier,  in  a  re 
port  to  the  Royal  Academy  of  Sciences  in 
Paris,  "  European  naturalists  had  to  make 
known  her  own  treasures  to  America ;  but 
now  her  Mitchells,  Harlans,  and  Charles  Bo- 
napartes,  have  repaid  with  interest  the  debt 
which  she  owed  to  Europe.  The  history  of 
the  American  birds  by  Wilson  already  equals' 
in  elegance  our  most  beautiful  works  in  orni 
thology,  and  if  ever  that  of  Audubon  be  com 
pleted,  it  will  have  to  be  confessed  that  in 
magnificence  of  execution  the  Old  World  is 
surpassed  by  the  New."  The  work  of  the 
"  American  backwoodsman"  thus  alluded  to 
has  long  been  completed;  the  great  Cuvier 
subsequently  acknowledged  it  to  be  "  the 
most  splendid  monument  which  art  has  erect 
ed  in  honour  of  ornithology;"  and  the  judg 
ment  of  mankind  has  placed  the  name  of  our 
countryman  among  the  first  of  authors  and  ar 
tists  who  have  illustrated  the  beautiful  branch 
of  natural  history  to  which  he  has  devoted  so 
large  a  portion  of  his  long  and  heroic  life. 

JOHN  JAMES  AUDUBON  was  born  in  Louisi 
ana,  May  4th,  1780.  He  was  of  French  de 
scent,  and  his  parents  perceiving  early  the 
bent  of  his  genius  sent  him  to  Paris  to  pur 
sue  his  education.  While  there  he  attended 
schools  of  natural  history  and  the  arts,  and  in 
drawing  took  lessons  from  the  celebrated  Da 
vid.  He  returned  in  his  eighteenth  year,  and 
his  father  soon  after  gave  him  a  farm  near  Phi 
ladelphia,  where  the  Perkiomen  creek  falls 
into  the  Schuylkill.  Its  fine  woods  offered 
him  numerous  subjects  for  his  pencil,  and 
he  here  commenced  that  series  of  drawings 
which  ultimately  swelled  into  the  magnificent 
collection  of  The  Birds  of  America.  Here 
too  he  was  married,  and  here  was  born  his 
eldest  son.  He  engaged  in  commercial  spe 
culations,  but  was  not  successful.  His  love 
for  the  fields  and  flowers,  the  forests  and  their 
winged  inhabitants,  we  readily  suppose  un 
fitted  him  for  trade.  At  the  end  of  ten  years 
he  removed  to  the  west.  There  were  then  no 
steamboats  on  the  Ohio,  and  few  villages  and 


no  cities  on  its  shores.  Reaching  that  no 
ble  river  in  the  warm  days  of  autumn,  he 
purchased  a  small  boat  in  which  with  his 
wife  and  child  and  two  rowers  he  leisure 
ly  pursued  his  way  down  to  Henderson  in 
Kentucky,  where  his  family  resided  several 
years.  He  appears  at  first  to  have  engaged 
in  commerce,  for  he  mentions  his  meeting 
with  Wilson,  of  whom  till  then  he  had  never 
heard,  as  having  occurred  in  his  counting- 
room  in  Louisville  in  the  spring  of  1810. 
His  great  predecessor  was  procuring  subscrip 
tions  for  his  work.  He  called  on  Audubon, 
explained  the  nature  of  his  occupations,  and 
requested  his  patronage.  The  merchant  was 
surprised  and  gratified  at  the  sight  of  his  vo 
lumes,  and  had  taken  a  pen  to  add  his  name 
to  the  list  of  subscribers,  when  his  partner 
abruptly  said  to  him  in  French,  "  My  dear 
Audubon,  what  induces  you  to  do  so  ?  your 
own  drawings  are  certainly  far  hotter,  and 
you  must  know  as  much  of  the  habits  of  Ame 
rican  birds  as  this  gentleman."  Wilson  pro 
bably  understood  the  remark,  for  he  appeared 
not  to  be  pleased,  and  inquired  whether  Audu 
bon  had  any  drawings  of  birds.  A  large  port 
folio  was  placed  upon  the  table,  and  all  its 
contents  exhibited  by  the  amateur  ornitholo 
gist.  Wilson  was  surprised;  he  had  sup 
posed  he  was  himself  the  only  person  engaged 
in  forming  such  a  collection ;  and  asked  if  it 
•was  intended  to  publish  them.  Audubon  re 
plied  in  the  negative  :  he  had  never  thought 
of  presenting  the  fruits  of  his  labours  to  the 
world.  Wilson  was  still  more  surprised  ;  he 
lost  his  cheerfulness ;  and  though  before  he 
left  Louisville  Audubon  explored  with  him 
the  neighbouring  woods,  loaned  him  his  draw 
ings,  and  in  other  ways  essayed  to  promote 
his  interests  and  happiness,  he  shook  the  dust 
from  his  feet  when  he  departed,  and  wrote  in 
his  diary  that  "literature  or  art  had  not  a 
friend  in  the  place."  Far  be  it  from  me  to 
write  a  word  in  dispraise  of  Alexander  Wilson. 
He  was  a  man  of  genius,  enthusiasm,  and  pa 
tient  endurance ;  an  honour  to  the  country  of 

it? 


188 


JOHN    JAMES    AUDUBON. 


his  birth,  and  a  glory  to  that  of  his  adoption  ; 
but  he  evidently  could  not  bear  the  thought  of 
being  excelled.  With  all  his  merits  he  was 
even  then  greatly  inferior  to  Audubon,  and  his 
heart  failed  him  when  he  contrasted  the  per 
formances  which  had  won  fame  for  him  with 
those  of  the  unknown  lover  of  the  same  mis- 
tres  ,  Nature,  whom  he  thus  encountered. 

Audubon  must  soon  have  abandoned  or  neg 
lected  his  day-books  and  ledgers,  for  in  1811 
we  find  him  with  his  rifle  and  drawing  paper 
among  the  bayous  of  Florida,  and  in  the  fol 
lowing  years  making  long  and  tedious  jour 
neys,  searching  the  forests  and  prairies,  the 
shores  of  rivers,  lakes,  gulfs  and  seas,  for  the 
subjects  of  his  immortal  work,  of  the  publica 
tion  of  which,  however,  he  had  never  yet  had 
a  thought. 

On  the  fifth  of  April,  1824,  he  visited  Phi 
ladelphia,  where  the  late  Dr.  Mease,  whom  he 
had  known  on  his  first  arrival  in  Pennsylva 
nia,  presented  him  to  Charles  Lucien  Bona 
parte,  who  in  his  turn  introduced  him  to  the 
Lyceum  of  Natural  History.  He  perceived 
that  he  could  look  for  no  patronage  in  this 
city,  and  so  proceeded  to  New  York,  where 
he  was  received  with  a  kindness  well  suited 
to  elevate  his  depressed  spirits,  and  afterwards 
ascending  the  Hudson  went  westward  to  the 
great  lakes,  and  in  the  wildest  solitudes  of  the 
pathless  forests  renewed  his  labours.  He  now 
began  to  think  of  visiting  Europe ;  the  number 
of  his  drawings  had  greatly  increased  notwith 
standing  a  misfortune  by  which  two  hundred  of 
them,  representing  nearly  a  thousand  birds,  had 
been  destroyed ;  and  he  fancied  his  work  un 
der  the  hands  of  the  engraver.  "  Happy  days 
and  nights  of  pleasing  dreams"  followed,  as 
he  retired  farther  from  the  haunts  of  men,  de 
termined  to  leave  nothing  undone  which  could 
be  accomplished  by  time  or  toil.  Another 
year  and  a  half  passed  by ;  he  returned  to  his 
family,  then  in  Louisiana  ;  and  having  ex 
plored  the  woods  of  that  state,  at  last  sailed 
for  England,  where  he  arrived  in  1826.  In 
Liverpool  and  Manchester  his  works  procured 
him  a  generous  reception  from  the  most  dis 
tinguished  men  of  science  and  letters ;  and 
when  he  proceeded  to  Edinburgh  and  exhi 
bited  there  his  four  hundred  paintings,  "  the 
hearts  of  all  warmed  toward  Audubon,"  says 
Professor  Wilson,  "  who  were  capable  of  con 
ceiving  the  difficulties,  dangers  and  sacrifices 
that  must  have  been  encountered,  endured  and 


overcome  before  genius  could  have  embodied 
these,  the  glory  of  its  innumerable  triumphs."* 
"The  man  himself,"  at  this  period  writes  the 
same  eloquent  author  in  another  work,  "  is 
just  what  you  would  expect  from  his  produc 
tions  ;  full  of  fine  enthusiasm  and  intelligence, 
most  interesting  in  his  looks  and  manners,  a 
perfect  gentleman,  and  esteemed  by  all  who 
know  him  for  the  simplicity  and  frankness  of 
his  nature."| 

His  reception  encouraged  him  to  proceed 
immediately  with  his  plans  of  publication. 
It  was  a  vast  undertaking  which  it  would  take 
probably  sixteen  years  to  accomplish,  and 
when  his  first  drawings  were  delivered  to  the 
engraver  he  had  not  a  single  subscriber.  His 
friends  pointed  out  the  rashness  of  the  pro 
ject  and  urged  him  to  abandon  it.  "  But  my 
heart  was  nerved,"  he  exclaims,  "  and  my  re 
liance  on  that  Power  on  whom  all  must  de 
pend  brought  bright  anticipations  of  success." 
Leaving  his  work  in  the  care  of  his  engravers 
and  agents,  in  the  summer  of  1828  he  visited 
Paris,  and  received  the  homage  of  the  most 
distinguished  men  of  science  in  that  capital. 
The  ensuing  winter  was  passed  in  London, 
and  in  April,  1829,  he  returned  to  America  to 
explore  anew  the  woods  of  the  middle  and 
southern  states.  Accompanied  by  his  wife  he 
left  New  Orleans  on  the  eighth  of  January, 
1830,  for  New  York,  and  on  the  twenty-fifth 
of  April,  just  a  year  from  the  time  of  his  de 
parture,  he  was  again  in  the  Great  Metropolis. 
Before  the  close  of  1830  he  had  issued  his  first 
volume,  containing  one  hundred  plates,  repre 
senting  ninety-nine  species  of  birds,  every 
figure  of  the  size  and  colours  of  life.  The 
applause  with  which  it  was  received  was  en 
thusiastic  and  universal.  The  kings  of  Eng 
land  and  France  had  placed  their  names  at  the 
head  of  his  subscription  list;  he  was  made  a 
fellow  of  the  Royal  Societies  of  London  and 
Edinburgh  ;  a  member  of  the  Natural  History 
Society  of  Paris,  and  other  celebrated  institu 
tions  ;  and  Cuvier,  Swainson,  and  indeed  the 
great  ornithologists  of  every  country,  exhaust 
ed  the  words  of  panegyric  in  his  praise. 

.On  the  first  of  August,  1831,  Audubon  ar 
rived  once  more  in  New  York,  and  having 
passed  a  few  days  with  his  friends  there 
and  in  Philadelphia  proceeded  to  Washington, 


*  Wilson's  Miscellanies,  vol.  ii.  p.  118. 
t  Nodes  AmbrosiaujB,  vol.  ii.  p.  103. 


JOHN    JAMES    AUDUBON. 


189 


where  the  president  and  other  principal  offi 
cers  of  the  government  gave  him  letters  of 
assistance  and  protection  to  be  used  all  along 
the  coasts  and  inland  frontiers  where  there 
were  collectors  of  revenue  or  military  or 
naval  forces.  He  had  previously  received 
similar  letters  from  the  king's  ministers  to 
the  authorities  of  the  British  colonies. 

The  ensuing  winter  and  spring  were  passed 
in  the  Floridas  and  in  Charleston;  and  early 
in  the  summer,  bending  his  course  northward 
to  keep  pace  with  the  birds  in  their  migrations, 
he  arrived  in  Philadelphia,  where  he  was 
joined  by  his  family.  The  cholera  was  then 
spreading  death  and  terror  through  the  coun 
try,  and  on  reaching  Boston  he  was  himself 
arrested  by  sickness  and  detained  until  the 
middle  of  August.  "  Although  I  have  been 
happy  in  forming  many  valuable  friendships  in 
various  parts  of  the  world,  all  dearly  cherished 
by  me,"  he  says,  "  the  outpouring  of  kind 
ness  which  I  experienced  in  Boston  far  ex 
ceeded  all  that  I  have  ever  met  with  ;"*  and  he 
tells  us,  with  characteristic  enthusiasm,  of  his 
gratitude  to  the  Appletons,  Everetts,  Quincys, 
Pickerings,  Parkmans,  and  other  eminent  gen 
tlemen  and  scholars  of  that  beautiful  and  hos 
pitable  city. 

Proceeding  at  length  upon  his  mission,  he 
(Liplored  the  forests  of  Maine  and  New  Bruns 
wick  and  the  shores  of  the  Bay  of  Fundy,  and 
chartering  a  vessel  at  Eastport,  sailed  for  the 
gulf  of  St.  Lawrence,  the  Magdalen  Islands 
and  the  coast  of  Labrador.  Returning  as  the 
cold  season  approached,  he  visited  Newfound 
land  and  Nova  Scotia,  and  rejoining  his  family 
proceeded  to  Charleston,  where  he  spent  the 
winter,  and  in  the  spring,  after  nearly  three 
years'  travel  and  research,  sailed  a  third  time 
for  England. 

The  second  volume  of  The  Birds  of  Ame 
rica  was  finished  in  1834,  and  in  December 
of  that  year  he  published  in  Edinburgh  the  se 
cond  volume  of  the  Ornithological  Biography. 
Soon  after,  while  he  was  in  London,  a  noble 
man  called  upon  him,  with  his  family,  and  on 
examining  some  of  his  original  drawings,  and 
being  told  that  it  would  still  require  eight  years 
to  complete  the  work,  subscribed  for  it,  saying, 
"  I  may  not  see  it  finished,  but  my  children 
will."  The  words  made  a  deep  impression 


*  Introduction  to  the  second  volume  of  Ornithological 
B'ography,  p.  xvii. 


on  Audubon.  "  The  solemnity  of  his  man 
ner  I  could  not  forget  for  several  days,"  he 
writes  in  the  introduction  to  his  third  volume ; 
"  I  often  thought  that  neither  might  I  see  the 
work  completed,  but  at  length  exclaimed, '  My 
sons  may ;'  and  now  that  another  volume, 
both  of  my  illustrations  and  of  my  biogra 
phies,  is  finished,  my  trust  in  Providence  is 
augmented,  and  I  cannot  but  hope  that  myself 
and  my  family  together  may  be  permitted  to 
see  the  completion  of  my  labours."  When 
this  was  written,  ten  years  had  elapsed  since 
the  publication  of  his  first  plate.  In  the  next 
three  years,  among  other  excursions  he  made 
one  to  the  western  coast  of  the  Floridas  and  to 
Texas,  in  a  vessel  placed  at  his  disposal  by  our 
government;  and  at  the  end  of  this  time  ap 
peared  the  fourth  and  concluding  volume  of  his 
engravings,  and  the  fifth  of  his  descriptions. 
The  whole  comprised  four  hundred  and  thirty- 
five  plates,  containing  one  thousand  and  sixty- 
five  figures,  from  the  Bird  of  Washington  to 
the  Humming  Bird  of  the  size  of  life,  and  a 
great  variety  of  land  and  marine  views,  and  flo 
ral  and  other  productions,  of  different  climates 
and  seasons,  all  carefully  drawn  and  coloured 
after  nature.  Well  might  the  great  natural 
ist  felicitate  himself  upon  the  completion  of 
his  gigantic  task.  He  had  spent  nearly  half 
a  century  "amid  the  tall  grass  of  the  far- 
extended  prairies  of  the  west,  in  the  solemn 
forests  of  the  north,  on  the  heights  of  the  mid 
land  mountains,  by  the  shores  of  the  boundless 
ocean,  and  on  the  bosoms  of  our  vast  bays, 
lakes  and  rivers,  searching  for  things  hidden 
since  the  creation  of  this  wondrous  world 
from  all  but  the  Indian  who  has  roamed  in  the 
gorgeous  but  melancholy  wilderness."  And 
speaking  from  the  depth  of  his  heart  he  says, 
"  Once  more  surrounded  by  all  the  members 
of  my  dear  family,  enjoying  the  countenance 
of  numerous  friends  who  have  never  deserted 
me,  and  possessing  a  competent  share  of  all 
that  can  render  life  agreeable,  I  look  up  with 
gratitude  to  the  Supreme  Being,  and  feel  that. 
I  am  happy." 

In  1839,  having  returned  for  the  last  time 
to  his  native  country  and  established  himself 
with  his  family  near  the  city  of  New  York, 
Audubon  commenced  the  publication  of  The 
Birds  of  America  in  imperial  octavo  volumes, 
of  which  the  seventh  and  last  was  issued  in 
the  summer  of  1844.  The  plates  in  this  edi 
tion,  reduced  from  his  larger  illustrations, 


190 


JOHN    JAMES    AUDUBON. 


were  engraved  and  coloured  in  the  most  admi 
rable  manner  by  Mr.  Bowen  of  Philadelphia, 
They  were  published  with  the  letter-press  in 
one  hundred  parts,  at  one  dollar  per  number, 
afterwards  bound  in  seven  volumes,  and  now 
in  eight  volumes. 

Audubon  was  too  sincere  a  worshipper  of 
nature  to  be  content  with  inglorious  repose, 
even  after  having  accomplished  in  action 
more  than  was  ever  dreamed  of  by  any  other 
naturalist;  and  while  the  "edition  for  the 
people"  of  his  Birds  of  America  was  in 
course  of  publication,  he  was  busy  amid  the 
forests  and  prairies,  the  reedy  swamps  of  our 
southern  shores,  the  cliffs  that  protect  our 
eastern  coasts,  by  the  currents'of  the  Mexican 
gulf  and  the  tide  streams  of  the  Bay  of  Fundy, 
with  his  sons,  Victor  Gifford  and  John  Wood- 
house,  making  the  drawings  and  writing  the 
biographies  of  the  Quadrupeds  of  America,  a 
work  in  no  respect  inferior  to  that  on  our  birds, 
which  he  published  in  parts,  and  completed 
in  three  volumes  in  1849.  The  plates,  on 
double  imperial  folio  paper,  engraved  and  col 
oured  by  Mr.  Bowen  after  the  original  draw 
ings  made  from  nature  by  Audubon  and  his 
sons,  are  even  more  magnificent  than  those  of 
the  Birds  of  America,  which  forty  years  ago 
delighted  and  astonished  the  naturalists  of 
Europe.  A  smaller  edition  was  afterwards  pub 
lished  in  3  vols.,  imperial  8vo.,  with  the  plates 
much  reduced ;  the  only  popular  work  of  the 
kind,  except  Dr.  Goodman's  Natural  History. 

Audubon's  highest  claim  to  admiration  is 
founded  upon  his  drawings  in  natural  history, 
in  which  he  has  exhibited  an  excellence  but 
rarely  eclipsed.  In  all  our  climates — in  the 
clear  atmosphere,  by  the  dashing  waters,  amid 
the  grand  old  forests  with  their  peculiar  and 
many-tinted  foliage,  by  him  first  made  known 
to  art — he  has  represented  our  feathered  tribes, 
building  their  nests  and  fostering  their  young, 
poised  on  the  tip  of  the  spray  and  hovering 
over  the  sedgy  margin  of  the  lake,  flying  in 
the  clouds  in  quest  of  prey  or  from  pursuit,  in 
love,  enraged,  indeed  in  all  the  varieties  of 
their  motion  and  repose  and  modes  of  life,  so 
perfectly,  that  nearly  every  bird  is  represented 
almost  as  natural  as  life. 

But  he  has  also  indisputable  claims  to  a  re 
spectable  rank  as  a  man  of  letters.  Some  of  his 
written  pictures  of  birds,  so  graceful^  clearly 
defined,  and  brilliantly  coloured,  are  scarcely 
inferior  to  the  productions  of  his  pencil.  His 


powers  of  general  description  are  also  remark 
able.  The  waters  seem  to  dance  to  his  words 
as  to  music,  and  the  lights  and  shades  of  his 
landscapes  show  the  practised  hand  of  a 
master.  The  evanescent  shades  of  manners, 
also,  upon  the  extreme  frontiers,  where  the 
footprints  of  civilization  have  hardly  crushed 
the  green  leaves,  have  been  sketched  with 
graphic  fidelity  in  his  journals. 

No  author  has  more  individuality.  The 
enthusiastic,  trustful  and  loving  spirit  which 
breathes  through  his  works  distinguishes  the 
man.  From  the  beginning  he  surrendered  him 
self  entirely  to  his  favourite  pursuit,  and  has 
been  intent  to  learn  every  thing  from  the  prime 
teacher,  Nature.  His  style  as  well  as  his 
knowledge  is  a  fruit  of  his  experiences.  He 
had  never  written  for  the  press  until  after  the 
age  at  which  most  authors  have  established 
their  reputation ;  and  when  he  did  write  his 
page  glowed  like  the  rich  wild  landscape  in 
the  spring,  when  Nature,  then  most  beautiful, 
"  bathes  herself  in  her  own  dewy  waters."  We 
seem  to  hear  his  expressions  of  wondering  ad 
miration,  as  unknown  mountains,  valleys  and 
lakes  burst  upon  his  view,  as  the  deer  at  his 
approach  leaps  from  his  ambush  into  the  deeper 
solitudes,  as  the  startled  bird  with  rushing 
wings  darts  from  his  feet  into  the  sky ;  or  his 
pious  thanksgiving  as  at  the  end  of  a  weary 
day  the  song  of  the  sparrow  or  the  robin  re 
lieves  his  mind  from  the  heavy  melancholy 
that  bears  it  down. 

When  tne  celebrated  Buffon  had  completed 
the  ornithological  portion  of  his  great  work 
on  natural  history,  he  announced  with  unhesi 
tating  assurance  that  he  had  "  finished  the 
history  of  the  birds  of  the  world."  Twenty 
centuries  had  served  for  the  discovery  of  only 
eight  hundred  species,  but  this  number  seemed 
immense,  and  the  short-sighted  naturalist  de 
clared  that  the  list  would  admit  of  "  no  mate 
rial  augmentation"  which  embraced  hardly  a 
sixteenth  of  those  now  known  to  exist.  To 
this  astonishing  advance  of  the  science  of 
ornithology  no  one  has  contributed  more  than 
Audubon,  by  his  magnificent  painting  and  fas 
cinating  history. 

— Mr.  Audubon  died  in  New  York,  on 
the  twenty-eighth  of  January,  1851.  From 
papers  that  he  left,  an  extended  account  of  his 
life  was  published  in  1869,  and  will  doubt 
less  prove  to  be  one  of  the  most  attractive 
specimens  of  biography  in  modern  literature. 


JOHN    JAMES    AUDUBON. 


191 


THE  HURRICANE. 

FROM   ORNITHOLOGICAL  BIOGRAPHY. 

VARIOUS  portions  of  our  country  have  at  dif 
ferent  periods  suffered  severely  from  the  influence 
of  violent  storms  of  wind,  some  of  which  have 
been  known  to  traverse  nearly  the  whole  extent 
of  the  United  States,  and  to  leave  such  deep  im 
pressions  in  their  wake  as  will  not  easily  be  for 
gotten.  Having  witnessed  one  of  these  awful 
phenomena,  in  all  its  grandeur,  I  will  attempt  to 
describe  it.  The  recollection  of  that  astonishing 
revolution  of  the  ethereal  element  even  now  brings 
with  it  so  disagreeable  a  sensation,  that  I  feel  as  if 
about  to  be  affected  by  a  sudden  stoppage  of  the 
circulation  of  my  blood. 

I  had  left  the  village  of  Shawaney,  situated  on 
the  banks  of  the  Ohio,  on  my  return  from  Hen 
derson,  which  is  also  situated  on  the  banks  of  the 
same  beautiful  stream.  The  weather  was  plea 
sant,  and  I  thought  no{  warmer  than  usual  at  that 
season.  My  horse  was  jogging  quietly  along,  and 
my  thoughts  were,  for  once  at  .least  in  the  course 
of  my  life,  entirely  engaged  in  commercial  specu 
lations.  I  had  forded  Highland  Creek,  and  was 
on  the  eve  of  entering  a  tract  of  bottom  land  or 
valley  that  lay  between  it  and  Canoe  Creek,  when 
on  a  sudden  I  remarked  a  great  difference  in  the 
aspect  of  the  heavens.  A  hazy  thickness  had 
overspread  the  country,  and  I  for  some  time  ex 
pected  an  earthquake,  but  my  horse  exhibited  no 
propensity  to  stop  and  prepare  for  such  an  occur 
rence.  I  had  nearly  arrived  at  the  verge  of  the 
valley,  when  I  thought  fit  to  stop  near  a  brook, 
and  dismounted  to  quench  the  thirst  which  had 
come  upon  me. 

I  was  leaning  on  my  knees,  with  my  lips  about 
to  touch  the  water,  when,  from  my  proximity  to 
the  earth,  I  heard  a  distant  murmuring  sound  of 
an  extraordinary  nature.  I  drank,  however,  and 
as  I  rose  on  my  feet,  looked  toward  the  south-west, 
where  I  observed  a  yellowish,  oval  spot,  the  ap 
pearance  of  which  was  quite  new  to  me.  Little 
time  was  left  to  me  for  consideration,  as  the  next 
moment  a  smart  breeze  began  to  agitate  the  taller 
trees.  It  increased  to  an  unexpected  height,  and  al 
ready  the  smaller  branches  and  twigs  were  seen 
falling  in  a  slanting  direction  towards  the  ground. 
Two  minutes  had  scarcely  elapsed,  when  the  whole 
forest  before  me  was  in  fearful  motion.  Here  and 
there,  where  one  tree  pressed  against  another,  a 
creaking  noise  was  produced,  similar  to  that  occa 
sioned  by  the  violent  gusts  which  sometimes  sweep 
over  the  country.  Turning  instinctively  toward 
the  direction  from  which  the  wind  blew,  I  saw,  to 
my  great  astonishment,  that  the  noblest  trees  of 
the  forest  bent  their  lofty  heads  for  a  while,  and 
unable  to  stand  against  the  blast,  were  falling  into 
pieces.  First,  the  branches  were  broken  off  with 
a  crackling  noise  ;  then  went  the  upper  part  of  the 
massy  trunks ;  and  in  many  places  whole  trees  of 
gigantic  size  were  falling  entire  to  the  ground.  So 
rapid  was  the  progress  of  the  storm,  that  before  I 
could  think  of  taking  measures  to  insure  my  safety, 
the  hurricane  was  passing  opposite  the  place  where  I 


stood.  Never  can  I  forget  the  scene  which  at  that 
moment  presented  itself.  The  tops  of  the  trees 
were  seen  moving  in  the  strangest  manner,  in  the 
central  current  of  the  tempest,  which  carried  along 
with  it  a  mingled  mass  of  twigs  and  foliage,  that 
completely  obscured  the  view.  Some  of  the  largest 
trees  were  seen  bending  and  writhing  under  the 
gale  ;  others  suddenly  snapped  across ;  and  many, 
after  a  momentary  resistance,  fell  uprooted  to  the 
earth.  The  mass  of  branches,  twigs,  foliage  and 
dust  that  moved  through  the.  air,  was  whirled  on 
wards  like  a  cloud  of  feathers,  and  on  passing, 
disclosed  a  wide  space  filled  with  fallen  trees,  naked 
stumps,  and  heaps  of  shapeless  ruins,  which  marked 
the  path  of  the  tempest.  This  space  was  about  a 
fourth  of  a  mile  in  breadth,  and  to  my  imagina 
tion  resembled  the  dried-up  bed  of  the  Mississippi, 
with  its  thousands  of  planters  and  sawyers,  strewed 
in  the  sand,  and 'inclined  in  various  degrees.  The 
horrible  noise  resembled  that  of  the  great  cataracts 
of  Niagara,  and  as  it  howled  along  in  the  track 
of  the  desolating  tempest,  produced  a  feeling  in 
my  mind  which  it  is  impossible  to  describe. 

The  principal  force  of  the  hurricane  was  now 
over,  although  millions  of  twigs  and  small  branches, 
that  had  been  brought  from  a  great  distance,  were 
seen  following  the  blast,  as  if  drawn  onwards  by 
some  mysterious  power.  They  even  floated  in  the 
air  for  some  hours  after,  as  if  supported  by  the 
thick  mass  of  dust  that  rose  high  above  the  ground. 
The  sky  had  now  a  greenish  lurid  hue,  and  an  ex 
tremely  disagreeable  sulphureous  odour  was  dif 
fused  in  the  atmosphere.  I  waited  in  amaze 
ment,  having  sustained  no  material  injury,  until 
nature  at  length  resumed  her  wonted  aspect. 
For  some  moments,  I  felt  undetermined  whether  I 
should  return  to  Morgantown,  or  attempt  to  force 
my  way  through  the  wrecks  of  the  tempest.  My 
business,  however,  being  of  an  urgent  nature,  I 
ventured  into  the  path  of  the  storm,  and  after  en 
countering  innumerable  difficulties,  succeeded  in 
crossing  it.  I  was  obliged  to  lead  my  horse  by  the 
bridle  to  enable  him  to  leap  over  the  fallen  trees, 
whilst  I  scrambled  over  or  under  them  in  the  best 
way  I  could,  at  times  so  hemmed  in  by  the  broken 
tops  and  tangled  branches,  as  almost  to  become 
desperate.  On  arriving  at  my  house,  I  gave  an 
account  of  what  I  had  seen,  when,  to  my  surprise, 
I  was  told  that  there  had  been  very  little  wind  in 
the  neighbourhood,  although  in  the  streets  and 
gardens  many  branches  and  twigs  had  fallen  in  a 
manner  which  excited  great  surprise. 

Many  wondrous  accounts  of  the  devastating  effect 
of  this  hurricane  were  circulated  in  the  country,  after 
its  occurrence.  Some  log  houses,  we  were  tola,  had 
been  overturned,  and  their  inmates  destroyed.  One 
person  informed  me  that  a  wire-sifter  had  been 
conveyed  by  the  gust  to  a  distance  of  many  miles. 
Another  had  found  a  cow  lodged  in  the  fork  of  a 
large  half-broken  tree.  But,  as  I  am  disposed  to 
relate  only  what  I  have  myself  seen,  I  will  not 
lead  you  into  the  region  of  romance,  but  shall  con 
tent  myself  by  saying  that  much  damage  was  done 
by  this  awful  visitation.  The  valley  is  yet  a  deso 
late  place,  overgrown  with  briars  and  bushes,  thick 


192 


JOHN    JAMES    AUDUBON. 


ly  entangled  amidst  the  tops  and  trunks  of  the 
fallen  trees,  and  is  the  resort  of  ravenous  animals, 
to  which  they  betake  themselves  when  pursued  by 
man,  or  after  they  have  committed  their  depreda 
tions  on  the  farms  of  the  surrounding  district.  I 
have  crossed  the  path  of  the  storm,  at  a  distance 
of  a  hundred  miles  from  the  spot  where  I  witnessed 
its  fury,  and,  again,  four  hundred  miles  farther  off,  in 
the  state  of  Ohio.  Lastly,  I  observed  traces  of  its 
ravages  on  the  summits  of  the  mountains  connected 
with  the  Great  Pine  Forest  of  Pennsylvania,  three 
hundred  miles  beyond  the  place  last  mentioned. 
In  all  these  different  parts,  it  appeared  to  me  not 
to  have  exceeded  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  breadth. 


DESCENT  OF  THE  OHIO  IN  1809. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

IT  was  hi  the  month  of  October.  The  autum 
nal  tints  already  decorated  the  shores  of  that  queen 
of  rivers,  the  Ohio.  Every  tree  was  hung  with 
long  and  flowing  festoons  of  different  species  of 
vines,  many  loaded  with  clustered  fruits  of  varied 
brilliancy,  their  rich  bronzed  carmine  mingling 
beautifully  with  the  yellow  foliage,  which  now 
predominated  over  the  yet  green  leaves,  reflecting 
more  lively  tints  from  the  clear  stream  than  ever 
landscape  painter  portrayed  or  poet  imagined. 

The  days  were  yet  warm.  The  sun  had  as 
sumed  the  rich  and  glowing  hue,  which  at  that 
season  produces  the  singular  phenomenon  called 
there  the  "  Indian  Summer."  The  moon  had 
rather  passed  the  meridian  of  her  grandeur.  We 
glided  down  the  river,  meeting  no  other  ripple  of 
the  water  than  that  formed  by  the  propulsion  of 
our  boat.  Leisurely  we  moved  along,  gazing  all 
day  on  the  grandeur  and  beauty  of  the  wild  scenery 
around  us. 

Now  and  then,  a  large  cat-fish  rose  to  the  sur 
face  of  the  water  in  pursuit  of  a  shoal  of  fry,  which 
starting  simultaneously  from  the  liquid  element, 
like  so  many  silvery  arrows,  produced  a  shower  of 
light,  while  the  pursuer  with  open  jaws  seized  the 
stragglers,  and,  with  a  splash  of  his  tail,  disap 
peared  from  our  view.  Other  fishes  we  heard  ut 
tering  beneath  our  bark  a  rumbling  noise,  the 
strange  sounds  of  which  we  discovered  to  proceed 
from  the  white  perch,  for  on  casting  our  net  from 
the  bow  we  caught  several  of  that  species,  when 
the  noise  ceased  for  a  time. 

Nature,  in  her  varied  arrangements,  seems  to 
have  felt  a  partiality  toward  this  portion  of  our 
country.  As  the  traveller  ascends  or  descends  the 
Ohio,  he  cannot  help  remarking  that  alternately, 
nearly  the  whole  length  of  the  river,  the  margin, 
on  one  side,  is  bounded  by  lofty  hills  and  a  rolling 
surface,  while  on  the  other,  extensive  plains  of  the 
richest  alluvial  land  are  seen  as  far  as  the  eye  can 
command  the  view.  Islands  of  varied  size  and 
form  rise  here  and  there  from  the  bosom  of  the 
water,  and  the  winding  course  of  the  stream  fre 
quently  brings  you  to  places,  where  the  idea  of 
being  on  a  river  of  great  length  changes  to  that  of 
floating  on  a  lake  of  moderate  extent.  Some  of 


these  islands  are  of  considerable  size  and  value ; 
while  others,  small  and  insignificant,  seem  as  if 
intended  for  contrast,  and  as  serving  to  enhance 
the  general  interest  of  the  scenery.  These  little 
islands  are  frequently  overflowed  during  great 
freshets  or  floods,  and  receive  at  their  heads  prodi 
gious  heaps  of  drifted  timber.  We  foresaw  with 
great  concern  the  alteration  that  cultivation  would 
soon  produce  along  those  delightful  banks. 

As  night  came,  sinking  in  darkness  the  broader 
portions  of  the  river,  our  minds  became  affected 
by  strong  emotions,  and  wandered  far  beyond  the 
present  moments.  The  tinkling  of  bells  told  us 
that  the  cattle  which  bore  them  were  gently  rov 
ing  from  valley  to  valley  in  search  of  food,  or  re 
turning  to  their  distant  homes.  The  hooting  of 
the  Great  Owl,  or  the  muffled  noise  of  its  wings 
as  it  sailed  smoothly  over  the  stream,  were  matters 
of  interest  to  us ;  so  was  the  sound  of  the  boat 
man's  horn,  as  it  came  winding  more  and  more 
softly  from  afar.  When  daylight  returned,  many 
songsters  burst  forth  with  echoing  notes,  more  and 
more  mellow  to  the  listening  ear.  Here  and  there 
the  lonely  cabin  of  a  squatter  struck  the  eye.  giv 
ing  note  of  commencing  civilization.  The  cross 
ing  of  the  stream  by  a  deer  foretold  how  soon  the 
hills  would  be  covered  with  snow. 

Many  sluggish  flat-boats  we  overtook  and  passed : 
some  laden  with  produce  from  the  different  head 
waters  of  the  small  rivers  that  pour  their  tributary 
streams  into  the  Ohio;  others,  of  less  dimensions, 
crowded  with  emigrants  from  distantparts,  in  search 
of  a  new  home.  Purer  pleasures  I  never  felt ;  nor 
have  you,  reader,  I  ween,  unless  indeed  you  have 
felt  the  like,  and  in  such  company 

When  I  think  of  the  timesTand  call  back  to  my 
mind  the  grandeur  and  beauty  of  those  almost  un 
inhabited  shores ;  when  I  picture  to  myself  the 
dense  and  lofty  summits  of  the  forest,  that  every 
where  spread  along  the  hills,  and  overhung  the 
margins  of  the  stream,  unmolested  by  the  axe  of  the 
settler ;  when  I  know  how  dearly  purchased  the 
safe  navigation  of  that  river  has  been  by  the  blood 
of  many  worthy  Virginians ;  when  I  see  that  no 
longer  any  Aborigines  are  to  be  found  there,  and 
that  the  vast  herds  of  elks,  deer,  and  buffaloes  which 
once  pastured  on  these  hills  and  in  these  valleys,  mak 
ing  for  themselves  great  roads  to  the  several  salt- 
springs,  have  ceased  to  exist ;  when  I  reflect  that  all 
this  grand  portion  of  our  Union,  instead  of  being  in 
a  state  of  nature,  is  now  more  or  less  covered  with 
villages,  farms,  and  towns,  where  the  din  of  ham 
mers  and  machinery  is  constantly  heard  ;  that  the 
woods  are  fast  disappearing  under  the  axe  by  day, 
and  the  fire  by  night;  that  hundreds  of  steam 
boats  are  gliding  to  and  fro,  over  the  whole  length 
of  the  majestic  river,  forcing  commerce  to  take  root 
and  to  prosper  at  every  spot ;  when  I  sec  the  sur 
plus  population  of  Europe  coming  to  assist  in  the 
destruction  of  the  forest,  arid  transplanting  civili 
zation  into  its  darkest  recesses ; — when  I  remember 
that  these  extraordinary  changes  have  all  taken 
place  in  the  short  period  of  twenty  years,  I  pause, 
wonder,  and,  although  I  know  all  to  be  fact,  can 
scarcely  believe  its  reality. 


JOHN    JAMES   AUDUBON. 


193 


Whether  these  changes  are  for  the  better  or  for 
the  worse,  I  shall  not  pretend  to  say ;  but  in 
whatever  way  my  conclusions  may  incline,  I  feel 
with  regret  that  there  are  on  record  no  satisfactory 
accounts  of  the  state  of  that  portion  of  the  coun 
try,  from  the  time  when  our  people  first  settled  in 
it.  This  has  not  been  because  no  one  in  America 
is  able  to  accomplish  such  an  undertaking.  Our 
IRVINGS  and  our  COOPERS  have  proved  themselves 
fully  competent  for  the  task.  It  has  more  proba 
bly  been  because  the  changes  have  succeeded  each 
other  with  such  rapidity,  as  almost  to  rival  the 
movements  of  their  pen.  However,  it  is  not  too 
late  yet;  and  I  sincerely  hope  that  either  or  both 
of  them  will  ere  long  furnish  the  generations  to 
come  with  those  delightful  descriptions  which  they 
are  so  well  qualified  to  give,  of  the  original  state 
of  a  country  that  has  been  so  rapidly  forced  to 
change  her  form  and  attire  under  the  influence  of 
increasing  population.  Yes ;  I  hope  to  read,  ere 
I  close  my  earthly  career,  accounts  from  those  de 
lightful  writers  of  the  progress  of  civilization  in 
our  western  country.  They  will  speak  of  the 
CLARXS,  the  CROGHAXS,  the  BOONS,  and  many 
other  men  of  great  and  daring  enterprise.  They 
will  analyze,  as  it  were,  into  each  component  part, 
the  country  as  it  once  existed,  and  will  render  the 
picture,  as  it  ought  to  be,  immortal. 


THE  HUMMING  BIRD. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

WHERE  is  the  person,  who,  on  observing  this 
glittering  fragment  of  the  rainbow,  would  not 
pause,  admire,  and  instantly  turn  his  mind  with 
reverence  toward  the  Almighty  Creator,  the  won 
ders  of  whose  hand  we  at  every  step  discover,  and 
of  whose  sublime  conceptions  we  everywhere  ob 
serve  the  manifestations  in  his  admirable  system 
of  creation  1 — There  breathes  not  such  a  person ; 
so  kindly  have  we  all  been  blessed  with  that  intui 
tive  and  noble  feeling — admiration  ! 

No  sooner  has  the  returning  sun  again  intro 
duced  the  vernal  season,  and  caused  millions  of 
plants  to  expand  their  leaves  and  blossoms  to  his 
genial  beams,  than  the  little  Humming  Bird  is  seen 
advancing  on  fairy  wings,  carefully  visiting  every 
opening  flower-cup,  and,  like  a  curious  florist,  re 
moving  from  each  the  injurious  insects  that  other 
wise  would  ere  long  cause  their  beauteous  petals 
to  droop  and  decay.  Poised  in  the  air,  it  is  ob 
served  peeping  cautiously,  and  with  sparkling  eye, 
into  their  innermost  recesses,  whilst  the  ethereal 
motions  of  its  pinions,  so  rapid  and  so  light,  ap 
pear  to  fan  and  cool  the  flower,  without  injuring 
its  fragile  texture,  and  produce  a  delightful  mur 
muring  sound,  well  adapted  for  lulling  the  insects 
to  repose 

The  prairies,  the  fields,  the  orchards  and  gardens, 
nay,  the  deepest  shades  of  the  forests,  are  all  visited 
in  their  turn,  and  everywhere  the  little  bird  meets 
with  pleasure  and  with  food.  Its  gorgeous  throat 
in  beauty  and  brilliancy  baffles  all  competition. 


Now  it  glows  with  a  fiery  hue,  and  again  it  is 
changed  to  the  deepest  velvety  black.  The  upper 
parts  of  its  delicate  body  are  of  resplendent  chang 
ing  green ;  and  it  throws  itself  through  the  air 
with  a  swiftness  and  vivacity  hardly  conceivable. 
It  moves  from  one  flower  to  another  like  a  gleam 
of  light,  upwards,  downwards,  to  the  right,  and  to 
the  left.  In  this  manner  it  searches  the  extreme 
northern  portions  of  our  country,  following  with 
great  precaution  the  advances  of  the  season,  and 
retreats  with  equal  care  at  the  approach  of  autumn. 


THE  MOCKING  BIRD. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

IT  is  where  the  Great  Magnolia  shoots  up  its 
majestic  trunk,  crowned  with  evergreen  leaves, 
and  decorated  with  a  thousand  beautiful  flower?, 
that  perfume  the  air  around  ;  where  the  forests  and 
fields  are  adorned  with  blossoms  of  every  hue ; 
where  the  Golden  Orange  ornaments  the  gardens 
and  groves ;  where  Bignonias  of  various  kinds  in 
terlace  their  climbing  steins  around  the  White- 
flowered  Stuartia,  and  mounting  still  higher,  cover 
the  summits  of  the  lofty  trees  around,  accompanied 
with  innumerable  vines,  that  here  and  there  fes 
toon  the  dense  foliage  of  the  magnificent  woods, 
lending  to  the  vernal  breeze  a  slight  portion  of  the 
perfume  of  their  clustered  flowers ;  where  a  genial 
warmth  seldom  forsakes  the  atmosphere ;  where 
berries  and  fruits  of  all  descriptions  are  met  with 
at  every  step; — in  a  word,  it  is  where  Nature 
seems  to  have  paused,  as  she  passed  over  the 
earth,  and  opening  her  stores  to  have  strewed 
with  unsparing  hand  the  diversified  seeds  from 
which  have  sprung  all  the  beautiful  and  splendid 
forms  which  I  should  in  vain  attempt  to  describe, 
that  the  Mocking  Bird  should  have  fixed  its  abode, 
there  only  that  its  wondrous  song  should  be  heard. 

But  where  is  that  favoured  land  1 — It  is  in  that 
great  continent  to  whose  distant  shores  Europe 
has  sent  forth  her  adventurous  sons,  to  wrest  for 
themselves  a  habitation  from  the  wild  inhabitants 
of  the  forest,  and  to  convert  the  neglected  soil  into 
fields  of  exuberant  fertility.  It  is,  reader,  in  Lou 
isiana  that  these  bounties  of  nature  are  in  the 
greatest  perfection.  It  is  there  that  you  should 
listen  to  the  love-song  of  the  Mocking  Bird,  as  I 
at  this  moment  do.  See  how  he  flies  round  his 
mate,  with  motions  as  light  as  those  of  the  butter 
fly  !  His  tail  is  widely  expanded,  he  mounts  in 
the  air  to  a  small  distance,  describes  a  circle,  and, 
again  alighting,  approaches  his  beloved  one,  his 
eyes  gleaming  with  delight,  for  she  has  already  pro 
mised  to  be  his  and  his  only.  His  beautiful  wings 
are  gently  raised,  he  bows  to  his  love,  and  again 
bouncing  upwards,  opens  his  bill,  and  pours  forth 
his  melody,  full  of  exultation  at  the  conquest 
which  he  has  made. 

They  are  not  the  soft  sounds  of  the  flute  or  (he 
hautboy  that  I  hear,  but  the  sweeter  notes  of  Na 
ture's  own  music.  The  mellowness  of  the  ?ong, 
the  varied  modulations  and  gradations,  the  extent 
of  its  compass,  the  great  brilliancy  of  execution,  are 
R 


194 


JOHN   JAMES    ATI  DUB  ON. 


unrivalled.  There  is  probably  no  bird  in  the 
world  that  possesses  all  the  musical  qualifications 
of  this  king  of  song,  who  has  derived  all  from  Na 
ture's  self.  Yes,  reader,  all ! 

No  sooner  has  he  again  alighted,  and  the  con 
jugal  contract  has  been  sealed,  than,  as  if  his 
breast  was  about  to  be  rent  with  delight,  he  again 
pours  forth  his  notes  with  more  softness  and  rich 
ness  than  before.  He  now  soars  higher,  glancing 
around  with  a  vigilant  eye,  to  assure  himself  that 
none  has  witnessed  his  bliss.  When  these  love 
scenes  are  over,  he  dances  through  the  air,  full  of 
animation  and  delight,  and,  as  if  to  convince  his 
lovely  mate  that  to  enrich  her  hopes  he  has  much 
more  love  in  store,  he  that  moment  begins  anew, 
and  imitates  all  the  notes  which  nature  has  im 
parted  to  the  other  songsters  of  the  grove 

The  musical  powers  of  this  bird  have  often  been 
taken  notice  of  by  European  naturalists,  and  persons 
who  find  pleasure  in  listening  to  the  song  of  different 
birds  whilst  in  confinement  or  at  large.  Some  of 
these  persons  have  described  the  notes  of  the 
Nightingale  as  occasionally  fully  equal  to  those 
"of  our  bird.  I  have  frequently  heard  both  species 
in  confinement,  and  in  the  wild  state,  and  without 
prejudice,  have  no  hesitation  in  pronouncing  the 
notes  of  the  European  Philomel  equal  to  those  of 
a  snubrette  of  taste,  which,  could  she  study  under 
a  MOZART,  might  perhaps  in  time  become  very  in 
teresting  in  her  way.  But  to  compare  her  essays 
to  the  finished  talent  of  the  Mocking  Bird,  is,  in 
my  opinion,  quite  absurd. 

THE  WOOD  THRUSH. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

THIS  bird  is  my  greatest  favourite  of  the  feathered 
tribes  of  our  woods.  To  it  I  owe  much.  How 
often  has  it  revived  my  drooping  spirits,  when  I 
have  listened  to  its  wild  notes  in  the  forest,  after 
passing  a  restless  night  in  my  slender  shed,  so 
feebly  secured  against  the  violence  of  the  storm, 
as  to  show  me  the  futility  of  my  best  efforts  to  re 
kindle  my  little  fire,  whose  uncertain  and  vacillat 
ing  light  had  gradually  died  away  under  the  de 
structive  weight  of  the  dense  torrents  of  rain  that 
seemed  to  involve  the  heavens  and  the  earth  in  one 
mass  of  fearful  murkiness,  save  when  the  red 
streaks  of  the  flashing  thunderbolt  burst  on  the  daz 
zled  eye,  and,  glancing  along  the  huge  trunk  of  the 
stateliest  and  noblest  tree  in  my  immediate  neigh 
bourhood,  were  instantly  followed  by  an  uproar  of 
crackling,  crashing,  and  deafening  sounds,  rolling 
their  volumes  in  tumultuous  eddies  far  and  near, 
as  if  to  silence  the  very  breathings  of  the  un 
formed  thought !  How  often,  after  such  a  night, 
when  far  from  my  dear  home,  and  deprived  of  the 
presence  of  those  nearest  to  my  heart,  wearied, 
hungry,  drenched,  and  so  lonely  and  desolate  as 
almost  to  question  myself  why  I  was  thus  situated, 
when  I  have  seen  the  fruits  of  my  labours  on  the 
eve  of  being  destroyed,  as  the  water,  collected  into 
a  stream,  rushed  through  my  little  camp,  and  forced 
me  to  stand  erect,  shivering  in  a  cold  fit  like  that 
of  a  severe  ague,  when  I  have  been  obliged  to  wait 


with  the  patience  of  a  martyr  for  the  return  ot 
day,  silently  counting  over  the  years  of  my  youth, 
doubting  perhaps  if  ever  again  I  should  return  to 
my  home,  and  embrace  my  family  ! — how  often, 
as  the  first  glimpses  of  morning  gleamed  doubt 
fully  amongst  the  dusky  masses  of  the  forest-trees, 
has  there  come  upon  my  ear,  thrilling  along  the 
sensitive  cords  which  connect  that  organ  with  the 
heart,  the  delightful  music  of  this  harbinger  of  day  ! 
— and  how  fervently,  on  such  occasions,  have  I 
blessed  the  Being  who  formed  the  Wood  Thrush,  and 
placed  it  in  those  solitary  forests,  as  if  to  console  me 
amidst  my  privations,  to  cheer  my  depressed  mind, 
and  to  make  me  feel,  as  I  did,  that  man  never  should 
despair,  whatever  may  be  his  situation,  as  he  can  ne 
ver  be  certain  that  aid  and  deliverance  are  not  at  hand. 
The  Wood  Thrush  seldom  commits  a  mistake 
after  such  a  storm  as  I  have  attempted  to  describe  ; 
for  no  sooner  are  its  sweet  notes  heard  than  the 
heavens  gradually  clear,  the  bright  refracted  light 
rises  in  gladdening  rays  from  beneath  the  distant 
horizon,  the  effulgent  beams  increase  in  their  in 
tensity,  and  the  great  orb  of  day  at  length  bursts 
on  the  sight.  The  gray  vapour  that  floats  along 
the  ground  is  quickly  dissipated,  Jthe  world  smiles 
at  the  happy  change,  and  the  woods  are  soon  heard 
to  echo  the  joyous  thanks  of  their  many  songsters. 
At  that  moment  all  fears  vanish,  giving  place  to 
an  inspiriting  hope.  The  hunter  prepares  to  leave 
his  camp.  He  listens  to  the  Wood  Thrush,  while 
he  thinks  of  the  course  which  he  ought  to  pursue, 
and  as  the  bird  approaches  to  peep  at  him,  and 
learn  somewhat  his  intentions,  he  raises  his  mind 
toward  the  Supreme  Disposer  of  events.  Seldom, 
indeed,  have  I  heard  the  song  of  this  Thrush, 
without  feeling  all  that  tranquillity  of  mind,  to 
which  the  secluded  situation  in  which  it  delights 
is  so  favourable.  The  thickest  and  darkest  woods 
always  appear  to  please  it  best.  The  borders  of 
murmuring  streamlets,  overshadowed  by  the  dense 
foliage  of  the  lofty  trees  growing  on  the  gentle  de 
clivities,  amidst  which  the  sunbeams  seldom  pene 
trate,  are  its  favourite  resorts.  There  it  is,  that 
the  musical  powers  of  this  hermit  of  the  woods 
must  be  heard,  to  be  fully  appreciated  and  enjoyed. 

FLIGHT  OF  THE  GREAT  HORNED  OWL. 

FROM   THE  SAME. 


IT  is  during  the  placid  serenity  of  a  beautiful 
summer  night,  when  the  current  of  the  waters 
moves  silently  along,  reflecting  from  its  smooth 
surface  the  silver  radiance  of  the  moon,  and  when 
all  else  of  animated  nature  seems  sunk  in  repose, 
that  the  Great  Horned  Owl,  one  of  the  Nimrods  of 
the  feathered  tribes  of  our  forests,  may  be  seen  sail 
ing  along  silently  yet  rapidly,  intent  on  the  destruc 
tion  of  the  objects  destined  to  form  his  food.  The 
lone  steersman  of  the  descending  boat  observes  the 
nocturnal  hunter,  gliding  on  extended  pinions  across 
the  river,  sailing  over  one  hill  and  then  another,  or 
suddenly  sweeping  downwards,  and  again  rising  in 
the  air  like  a  moving  shadow,  now  distinctly  seen, 
and  again  mingling  with  the  sombre  shades  of  the 
surrounding  woods,  fading  into  obscurity. 


JOHN   JAMES    AUDUUON. 


195 


NIAGARA. 

FROM  THE   SAME. 

AFTER  wandering  on  some  of  our  great  lakes 
for  many  months,  I  bent  my  course  toward  the 
celebrated  falls  of  Niagara,  being  desirous  of  taking 
a  sketch  of  them.  This  was  not  my  first  visit  to 
them,  and  I  hoped  it  would  not  be  the  last 

Returning  as  I  then  was  from  a  tedious  journey, 
and  possessing  little  more  than  some  drawings  of 
rare  birds  and  plants,  I  reached  the  tavern  at  Niagara 
Fails  in  such  plight  as  might  have  deterred  many 
an  individual  from  obtruding  himself  upon  a  circle 
of  well-clad  and  perhaps  well-bred  society.  Months 
had  passed  since  the  last  of  my  linen  had  been 
taken  from  my  body,  and  used  to  clean  that  useful 
companion,  my  gun.  I  was  in  fact  covered  just 
like  one  of  the  poorer  class  of  Indians,  and  was 
rendered  even  more  disagreeable  to  the  eye  of 
civilized  man,  by  not  having,  like  them,  plucked 
my  beard,  or  trimmed  my  hair  in  any  way.  Had 
HOGARTH  been  living,  and  there  when  I  arrived, 
he  could  not  have  found  a  fitter  subject  for  a  Ro- 
Bi^soy  CRUSOE.  My  beard  covered  my  neck 
in  front,  my  hair  fell  much  lower  at  my  back,  the 
leather  dress  which  I  wore  had  for  months  stood 
in  need  of  repair,  a  large  knife  hung  at  my  side, 
a  rusty  tin-box  containing  my  drawings  and  co 
lours,  and  wrapped  up  in  a  worn  out  blanket  that 
had  served  me  for  a  bed,  was  buckled  to  my  shoul 
ders.  To  every  one  I  must  have  seemed  immersed 
in  the  depths  of  poverty,  perhaps  of  despair.  Ne 
vertheless,  as  I  cared  little  about  my  appearance 
during  those  happy  rambles,  I  pushed  into  the  sit 
ting-room,  unstrapped  my  little  burden,  and  asked 
how  soon  breakfast  would  be  ready. 

In  America  no  person  is  ever  refused  entrance 
to  the  inns,  at  least  far  from  cities.  We  know  too 
well  how  many  poor  creatures  are  forced  to  make 
their  way  from  other  countries  in  search  of  em 
ployment,  or  to  seek  uncultivated  land,  and  we  are 
ever  ready  to  let  them  have  what  they  may  call 
for.  No  one  knew  who  I  was,  and  the  landlord 
looking  at  me  with  an  eye  of  close  scrutiny,  an 
swered  that  breakfast  would  be  on  the  table  as  soon 
as  the  company  should  come  down  from  their  rooms. 
I  approached  this  important  personage,  told  him  of 
my  avocations,  and  convinced  him  that  he  might 
feel  safe  as  to  remuneration.  From  this  moment 
I  was,  with  him  at  least,  on  equal  footing  with 
every  other  person  in  his  house.  He  talked  a  good 
dea]  of  the  many  artists  who  had  visited  the  Falls 
that  season,  from  different  parts,  and  offered  to  assist 
me,  by  giving  such  accommodations  as  I  might  re 
quire  to  finish  the  drawings  I  had  in  contemplation. 
He  left  me,  and  as  I  looked  about  the  room,  I  saw 
several  views  of  the  Falls,  by  which  I  was  so  dis 
gusted,  that  I  suddenly  came  to  my  better  senses. 
•<  What !"  thought  I,  «  have  I  come  here  to  mimic 
nature  in  her  grandest  enterprise,  and  add  my  cari 
cature  of  one  of  the  wonders  of  the  world  to  those 
which  I  here  see  1  No. — I  give  up  the  vain  at 
tempt.  I  will  look  on  these  mighty  cataracts  and 
imprint  them  where  they  alone  can  be  represented, 
— on  my  mind  !" 


THE  DEER  HUNT. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

WE  will  suppose  that  we  are  now  about  to  fol 
low  the  true  hunter,  as  the  Still  Hunter  is  also 
called,  through  the  interior  of  the  tangled  woods, 
across  morasses,  ravines,  and  such  places,  where 
the  game  may  prove  more  or  less  plentiful,  even 
should  none  be  found  there  in  the  first  instance. 
We  will  allow  our  hunter  all  the  agility,  pa 
tience,  and  care,  which  his  occupation  requires, 
and  will  march  in  his  rear,  as  if  we  were  spies, 
watching  all  his  motions.  His  dress,  you  ob 
serve,  consists  of  a  leather  hunting  shirt,  and  a 
pair  of  trowscrs  of  the  same  material.  His  feet 
are  well  moccasined ;  he  wears  a  belt  round  his 
waist;  his  heavy  rifle  is  resting  on  his  brawny 
shoulder ;  on  one  side  hangs  his  ball-pouch,  sur 
mounted  by  the  horn  of  an  ancient  buffalo,  once 
the  terror  of  the  herd,  but  now  containing  a  pound 
of  the  best  gunpowder ;  his  knife  is  scabbarded  in 
the  same  strap,  and  behind  is  a  tomahawk,  the 
handle  of  which  has  been  thrust  through  his  girdle. 
He  walks  with  so  rapid  a  step,  that  probably  few 
men  could  follow  him,  unless  for  a  short  distance, 
in  their  anxiety  to  witness  his  ruthless  deeds.  He 
stops,  looks  at  the  flint  of  his  gun,  its  priming,  and 
the  leather  cover  of  the  lock,  then  glances  his  eye 
towards  the  sky,  to  judge  of  the  course  most  likely 
to  lead  him  to  the  game. 

The  heavens  are  clear,  the  red  glare  of  the 
morning  sun  gleams  through  the  lower  branches 
of  the  lofty  trees,  the  dew  hangs  in  pearly  drops 
at  the  top  of  every  leaf.  Already  has  the-  emerald 
hue  of  the  foliage  been  converted  into  the  more 
glowing  tints  of  our  autumnal  months.  A  slight 
frost  appears  on  the  fence-rails  of  his  little  corn 
field.  As  he  proceeds,  he  looks  to  the  dead  foliage 
under  his  feet,  in  search  of  the  well-known  traces 
of  a  buck's  hoof.  Now  he  bends  toward  the 
ground,  on  which  something  has  attracted  his  at 
tention.  See !  he  alters  his  course,  increases  his 
speed,  and  will  soon  reach  the  opposite  hill.  Now, 
he  moves  with  caution,  stops  at  almost  every  tree, 
and  peeps  forward,  as  if  already  within  shooting 
distance  of  the  game.  He  advances  again,  but 
how  very  slowly  !  He  has  reached  the  declivity, 
upon  which  the  sun  shines  in  all  its  glowing  splen 
dour  ;  but  mark  him !  he  takes  the  gun  from  his 
shoulder,  has  already  thrown  aside  the  leathern 
cover  of  the  lock,  and  is  wiping  the  edge  of  his 
flint  with  his  tongue.  Now  he  stands  like  a  monu 
mental  figure,  perhaps  measuring  the  distance  that 
lies  between  him  and  the  game,  which  he  has  in 
view.  His  rifle  is  slowly  raised,  the  report  fol 
lows,  and  he  runs.  Let  us  run  also.  Shall  I 
speak  to  him,  and  ask  him  the  result  of  this  first 

Assuredly,  for  I  know  him  well. 
Pray,  friend,  what  have  you  killed  T'  (for  to 
say,  "what  have  you  shot  at?"  might  imply  the 
possibility  of  his  having  missed,  and  so  might  hurt 
his  feelings.)  "Nothing  but  a  buck."  "And 
where  is  it!"  "Oh,  it  has  taken  a  jump  or  so, 
but  I  settled  it,  and  will  soon  be  with  it.  My 
ball  struck,  and  must  have  gone  through  his  heart." 


196 


JOHN   JAMES   AUDUBON. 


THE   LAUREL. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

WHAT  a  beautiful  object,  in  the  delightful  sea 
son  of  spring,  is  our  Great  Laurel,  covered  with  its 
tufts  of  richly,  yet  delicately,  coloured  flowers  !  In 
imagination  I  am  at  this  moment  rambling  along  the 
banks  of  some  murmuring  streamlet,  overshadowed 
by  the  thick  foliage  of  this  gorgeous  ornament  of 
our  mountainous  districts.  Methinks  I  see  the 
timid  trout  eyeing  my  movements  from  beneath 
his  rocky  covert,  while  the  warblers  and  other  syl 
van  choristers,  equally  fond  of  their  wild  retreats, 
are  skipping  in  all  the  freedom  of  nature  around 
me.  Delightful  moments  have  been  to  me  those 
when,  seated  in  such  a  place,  with  senses  all  in 
tent,  I  gazed  on  the  rosy  tints  of  the  flowers  that 
seemed  to  acquire  additional  colpuring  from  the 
golden  rays  of  the  sun,  as  he  rode  proudly  over 
the  towering  mountains,  drawing  aside  as  it  were 
the  sable  curtain  that  till  now  hung  over  the  land 
scape,  and  drying  up,  with  the  gentleness  of  a 
parent  toward  his  cherished  offspring,  the  dewy 
tears  that  glittered  on  each  drooping  plant. 


GUILLEMOTS  IN  A  STORM. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

STAY  on  the  deck  of  the  Ripley  by  my  side  this 
clear  and  cold  morning.  See  how  swiftly  scuds 
our  gallant  bark,  as  she  cuts  her  way  through  the 
foaming  billows,  now  inclining  to  the  right  and 
again  to  the  left.  Far  in  the  east,  dark  banks  of 
low  clouds  indicate  foul  weather  to  the  wary  ma 
riner,  who  watches  the  approach  of  a  northern 
storm  with  anxiety.  Suddenly  the  wind  changes ; 
but  for  this  he  has  prepared ;  the  topsails  are 
snugged  to  their  yards,  and  the  rest  are  securely 
reefed.  A  thick  fog  obscures  all  around  us.  The 
waters,  suddenly  checked  in  their  former  course, 
furiously  war  against  those  which  now  strike 
them  in  front.  The  uproar  increases,  the  bark  is 
tossed  on  every  side ;  now  a  sweeping  wave  rushes 
against  the  bows,  the  vessel  quivers,  while  down 
along  her  deck  violently  pour  the  waters,  rolling 
from  side  to  side,  seeking  for  a  place  by  which 
they  may  escape.  At  this  moment  all  about  you 
are  in  dismay  save  the  Guillemots.  The  sea  is 
covered  with  these  intrepid  navigators  of  the  deep. 
Over  each  tumultuous  billow  they  swim  uncon 
cerned  on  the  very  spray  at  the  bow  of  the  vessel, 
and  plunging  as  if  with  pleasure,  up  they  come 
next  moment  at  the  rudder.  Others  fly  around  in 
large  circles,  while  thousands  contend  with  the 
breeze,  moving  directly  against  it  in  long  lines,  to 
ward  regions  unknown  to  all,  save  themselves  and 
some  other  species  of  sea  birds. 


THE  LIFE  OF  A  NATURALIST. 

FROM   THE  SAME. 

THE  adventures  and  vicissitudes  which  have  fal 
len  to  my  lot,  instead  of  tending  to  diminish  the 
fervid  enthusiasm  of  my  nature,  have  imparted  a 
toughness  to  my  bodily  constitution,  naturally 
strong,  and  to  my  mind,  naturally  buoyant,  an 
elasticity  such  as  to  assure  me  that  though  some 
what  old,  and  considerably  denuded  in  the  frontal 
region,  I  could  yet  perform  on  foot  a  journey  of 
any  length,  were  I  sure  that  I  should  thereby  add 
materially  to  our  knowledge  of  the  ever  interesting 
creatures  which  have  for  so  long  a  time  occupied 
my  thoughts  by  day,  and  filled  my  dreams  with 
pleasant  images.  Nay,  reader,  had  I  a  new  lease 
of  life  presented  to  me,  I  should  choose  for  it  the 
very  occupations  in  which  I  have  been  engaged. 

And,  reader,  the  life  which  I  have  led  has  been 
in  some  respects  a  singular  one.  Think  of  a  per 
son,  intent  on  such  pursuits  as  mine  have  been, 
aroused  at  early  dawn  from  his  rude  couch  on  the 
alder-fringed  brook  of  some  northern  valley,  or  in 
the  midst  of  some  yet  unexplored  forest  of  the 
west,  or  perhaps  on  the  soft  and  warm  sands  of  the 
Florida  shores,  and  listening  to  the  pleasing  melo 
dies  of  songsters  innumerable  saluting  the  magni 
ficent  orb,  from  whose  radiant  influence  the  crea 
tures  of  many  worlds  receive  life  and  light.  Re 
freshed  and  reinvigorated  by  healthful  rest,  he  starts 
upon  his  feet,  gathers  up  his  store  of  curiosities, 
buckles  on  his  knapsack,  shoulders  his  trusty  tire- 
lock,  says  a  kind  word  to  his  faithful  dog,  and 
re-commences  his  pursuit  of  zoological  knowledge. 
Now  the  morning  is  spent,  and  a  squirrel  or  a  trout 
afford  him  a  repast.  Should  the  day  be  warm,  he 
reposes  for  a  time  under  the  shade  of  some  tree.  The 
woodland  chpristers  again  burst  forth  into  song,  and 
he  starts  anew  to  wander  wherever  his  fancy  may  di 
rect  him,  or  the  objects  of  his  search  may  lead  him  in 
pursuit.  When  evening  approaches,  and  the  birds 
are  seen  betaking  themselves  to  the  retreats,  he 
looks  for  some  place  of  safety,  erects  his  shed  of 
green  boughs,  kindles  his  fire,  prepares  his  meal, 
and  as  the  widgeon  or  blue-winged  teal,  or  per 
haps  the  breast  of  a  turkey  or  a  steak  of  venison, 
sends  its  delicious  perfumes  abroad,  he  enters  into 
his  parchment-bound  journal  the  remarkable  inci 
dents  and  facts  that  have  occurred  in  the  course  of 
the  day.  Darkness  has  now  drawn  her  sable  cur 
tain  over  the  scene ;  his  repast  is  finished,  and 
kneeling  on  the  earth,  he  raises  his  soul  to 
Heaven,  grateful  for  the  protection  that  has  been 
granted  to  him,  and  the  sense  of  the  divine  pre 
sence  in  this  solitary  place.  Then  wishing  a  cor 
dial  good  night  to  all  the  dear  friends  at  home,  the 
American  woodsman  wraps  himself  up  in  his 
blanket,  and  closing  his  eyes  soon  falls  into  that 
comfortable  sleep  which  never  fails  him  on  nuch 


ROBERT   WALSH. 


[Born  about  1784.    Died  1859.] 


MR.  WALSH  was  of  Irish  Catholic  descent, 
and  was  born  about  the  year  1784,  in  Balti 
more,  where  his  father  was  a  merchant.  He 
received  a  liberal  education,  and  after  passing 
several  years  in  Great  Britain,  France,  and 
other  parts  of  Europe,  for  the  improvement 
of  his  mind,  at  twenty-six  years  of  age  he 
returned  to  the  United  States,  selected  Phila 
delphia  as  his  place  of  residence,  was  admit 
ted  to  the  bar,  and  married.  The  infirmity  of 
partial  deafness,  or  it  may  be  a  predominant 
love  of  letters,  soon  induced  the  abandonment 
of  the  profession  of  law  for  that  of  literature. 
His  first  essays  were  in  The  Port  Folio,  a 
monthly  miscellany  which  has  been  before 
mentioned  in  these  pages,  and  which  was  then 
in  the  zenith  of  its  reputation.  In  December, 
1809,  he  published  his  first  book,  under  the 
title  of  A  Letter  on  the  Geniu§  and  Disposi 
tions  of  the  French  Government,  including  a 
View  of  the  Taxation  of  the  French  Empire. 
It  is  stated  in  the  advertisement  that  it "  was 
written  amid  a  variety  of  pursuits  in  the  course 
of  two  months,"  and  hastily  published,  from 
an  impression  that  it  was  called  for,  if  at  all, 
a£4he  moment.  It  secured  for  him  at  once  a 
wide  popularity.  Perhaps  nothing  from  the 
American  press  had  ever  produced  a  greater 
sensation.  It  furnished  a  subject  for  the  lead 
ing  article  in  the  next  number  of  the  Edin 
burgh  Review  :  "  Here  is  a  stout  republican," 
exclaims  the  critic,  "  who  praises  England  and 
declaims  against  France,  with  more  zeal  and 
intelligence  than  any  of  our  own  politicians ; 
who  writes  better  and  shows  more  learning 
than  most  of  our  men  of  letters ;  displays  the 
characteristic  keenness  of  his  countrymen, 
without  any  of  their  coarseness,  and  has  all 
their  patriotic  prejudices,  without  their  illibe- 
rality."  Mr.  Walsh  had  made  good  use  of 
his  time  while  in  France,  and  the  fulness  of 
his  information  respecting  that  country,  and 
contemporaneous  events  generally,  the  bold 
ness  and  apparent  sagacity  of  his  views,  and 
the  affluence  of  his  clear  and  forcible  style,  na 
turally  won  for  him  the  most  favourable  con 
sideration;  but  perhaps  Mr.  Jeffrey  might  not 


have  discovered  so  much  literary  merit  in  his 
Letter,  if  it  had  been  informed  with  a  more 
gallican  spirit.  Mr.  Walsh's  hatred  of  France 
indeed  was  so  strong  as  even  with  the  British 
reviewer  to  cause  an  instinctive  distrust  of  his 
accuracy,  though  it  is  admitted  that  the  ope 
ration  of  his  prejudice  was  in  a  great  measure 
corrected  by  an  uprightness  of  principle  and 
a  habit  of  careful  reasoning. 

On  the  first  of  January,  1811,  Mr.  W'alsh 
published  the  initial  number  of  The  American 
Review  of  History  and  Politics.  This  was 
the  first  American  quarterly,  and  was  too  far 
in  advance  of  the  popular  taste  to  be  success 
ful.  Mr.  Walsh  himself  wrote  nearly  all  the 
contents  of  the  first  and  second  numbers, 
among  which  were  two  able  articles  on  the 
life  and  genius  of  Alexander  Hamilton,  and 
several  on  his  more  favourite  subject  of  France 
and  her  foreign  relations.  Altogether  the  Re 
view  was  eminently  creditable  to  him,  and  its 
discontinuance  at  the  close  of  the  second  year 
of  its  publication  was  with  good  reason  la 
mented  by  the  friends  of  literature  throughout 
the  country. 

In  1813  he  published  his  Correspondence 
with  General  Harper  respecting  Russia,  and 
his  Essay  on  the  Future  State  of  Europe  : 
works  in  style  and  spirit  agreeing  very  close 
ly  with  his  Letter  on  the  French  Government. 
It  was  about  this  period,  I  believe,  that  he 
wrote  the  biographical  and  critical  notices  of 
the  British  Poets,  contained  in  the  part  print 
ed  under  his  supervision,  of  the  fifty-volume 
edition  of  their  works,  commenced  by  Mr. 
Sanford. 

In  1817  he  undertook  the  management  of 
the  American  Register,  a  periodical  devoted 
to  politics,  history,  statistics,  etc.,  upon  which 
his  labours  were  arduous  and  of  much  tem 
porary  importance.  Indeed  the  work  is  still 
interesting  and  valuable,  and  it  proves  that  the 
editor  must  have  possessed  great  industry  as 
well  as  various  intellectual  resources. 

In  18 19  appeared  Mr.  Walsh's  Appeal  from 
the  Judgments  of  Great  Britain  respecting 

the  United  States  of  America,  containing  an 
R  2  u>? 


198 


ROBERT    WALSH. 


Historical  Outline  of  their  Merits  and  Wrongs 
as  Colonies,  and  Strictures  upon  the  Calum 
nies  of  the  British  Writers.  It  is  an  octavo 
volume  of  more  than  five  hundred  pages,  and 
was  the  offspring  of  a  more  extended  and  sys 
tematic  design,  "  a  survey  of  the  institutions 
and  resources  of  the  American  republic,  and 
of  the  real  character  of  the  American  people;" 
and  was  published  as  an  introduction  to  a 
work  of  this  nature.  The  appearance  in  the 
Quarterly  Review  of  an  article  on  the  United 
States,  in  the  form  of  a  review  of  Inchiquin's 
Letters,  distinguished  alike  for  malignity,  ig 
norance,  and  coarse  buffoonery,  had  somewhat 
exasperated  the  feelings  of  many  here  who 
had  observed  the  almost  uniform  injustice  of 
English  writers  and  orators  toward  our  coun 
try.  They  cared  very  little  for  the  attacks 
themselves,  which  evidently  for  the  most  part 
were  by  vulgar  hirelings,  but  it  was  thought 
with  good  reason  that  there  must  be  a  pervad 
ing  and  deeply  rooted  prejudice  against  us  in 
a  community  which  could  make  such  things 
profitable  to  their  authors.  The  Rev.  Dr. 
D wight,  Mr.  James  K.  Paulding,  and  one  or 
two  others,  had  replied  to  the  Quarterly  in 
volumes  marked  by  trenchant  wit  as  well  as 
by  research  and  solid  argument.  Mr.  Walsh's 
Appeal  was  a  more  extended  and  comprehen 
sive  work  of  the  same  sort,  and  was  in  the 
main  judiciously  and  forcibly  executed.  But 
his  subjection  to  unworthy  prejudices  prevent 
ed  him  from  ^making,  in  an  elaborate  vindica 
tion  of  our  intellectual  character  which  it  con 
tained,  even  the  slightest  allusion  to  Jonathan 
Edwards.  One  might  as  well  not  mention 
Homer  in  a  history  of  Greek  poetry. 

In  1821,  Mr.  Walsh  and  Mr.  William  Fry 
established  in  Philadelphia  the  National  Ga 
zette,  a  small  evening  newspaper,  the  editorial 
control  of  which  was  confided  to  Mr.  Walsh. 
It  was  at  first  published  but  three  times  a 
week;  but  in  a  short  time  it  was  enlarged 
and  issued  daily.  Under  the  example  of  the 
National  Gazette,  journalism  in  this  country 
assumed  by  degrees  some  new  characteristics. 
Hitherto  the  daily  press  had  been  chiefly  de 
voted  to  politics,  in  the  treatment  of  which 
the  temperaroe  of  gentlemanly  breeding  with 
the  taste  of  classical  training  were  not  often 
exhibited.  M:.  Walsh's  system  of  editing 
was  an  innovation.  His  columns  were  devot 
ed  to  literature,  science  and  art,  as  well  as  to 
general  intelligence  and  public  affairs.  His 


reviews  of  books,  though  lacking  the  genial 
sympathy  of  the  best  critics,  exhibited  much 
knowledge,  reflection,  and  good  sense.  The 
same  may  be  said  of  his  notices  of  the  stage. 
The  Gazette  rose  rapidly  in  the  popular  esti 
mation  and  soon  had  an  unprecedented  influ 
ence,  and  its  success  led  in  all  parts  of  the 
country  to  more  attention  to  matters  of  taste 
in  the  journals. 

Since  the  failure  of  Mr.  Walsh's  quarterly, 
the  North  American  Review  had  proved  a 
more  successful  experiment  in  Boston,  and 
in  1822,  resigning  the  management  of  the 
American  Magazine  of  Foreign  Literature,  he 
revived  the  American  Quarterly  Raview,  or 
rather  established  a  new  periodical  under  that 
title.  It  was  published  for  ten  years,  during 
which  time  he  wrote  for  it  numerous  articles, 
some  of  which  were  on  subjects  requiring  very 
careful  and  extensive  investigations,  besides 
attending  assiduously  to  the  National  Gazette, 
writing  the  valuable  papers  in  American  bio 
graphy  in  the  Encyclopedia  Americana,  and 
performing  other  literary  labours. 

For  fifteen  years  the  prosperity  of  the  Na 
tional  Gazette  was  unabated ;  but  with  changes 
of  times  and  opinions,  and  the  rise  of  rival 
journals  with  new  attractions,  it  began  to  lose 
ground,  and  in  1837  Mr.  Walsh  withdrew  from 
it,  and  quitted  the  country.  Before  his  depart 
ure,  he  printed  two  volumes  of  miscellaneous 
selections  from  his  manuscripts,  newspaper 
articles,  and  other  ephemera,  under  the  title  of 
Didactics,  Social,  Literary  and  Political.  He 
afterwards  resided  in  Paris,  where  he  was  the 
consul  of  the  United  States,  and  the  French 
correspondent  of  the  National  Intelligencer, 
and  where  he  died  in  1859. 

When  Mr.  Walsh  commenced  his  career,  he 
was  in  taste,  learning  and  general  information 
among  the  first  of  our  writers  ;  and  though  of 
all  that  he  has  written  there  is  but  little  that 
promises  to  survive  him,  our  literature  has  un 
doubtedly  been  much  benefited  by  his  industri 
ous  and  long  continued  labours.  His  reading, 
in  various  languages,  has  been  extensive,  and 
his  memory  is  remarkably  retentive,  as  is  evi 
dent  from  the  copiousness  of  his  quotations  and 
allusions,  which  are  generally  applied  with 
much  felicity.  There  is  something  artificial, 
a  pedantic  and  stately  mannerism,  in  his  style, 
in  which  he  once  seemed  to  imitate  Burke,  but 
which  is  now  a  compound  of  the  peculiarities 
of  worse  writers,  both  French  and  English. 


ROBERT  WALSH. 


199 


THE  GARONNE,  THE  WYE,  AND  THE 
HUDSON. 

FROM  LETTERS  ON  FRANCE  AND  ENGLAND. 

No  impressions  can  be  more  lively,  no  sensa 
tions  more  rapid  and  cheerful,  than  those  of  a 
young  American,  who,  leaving  his  country  for  the 
first  time,  arrives  in  the  river  Garonne  on  a  fine 
day  of  the  month  of  June,  after  a  sea-voyage  of 
two  months  accompanied  by  one  unbroken  train 
"  of  vapours  and  clouds  and  storms."  Such  was 
exactly  my  case,  and  my  imagination  was  never 
so  powerfully  affected  as  by  the  scenery  which  I 
then  witnessed,  and  of  which  nothing  of  the  same 
description  ever  meets  the  eye  of  a  traveller  in  this 
country.  Vineyards  spread  over  lofty  hills, — cha 
teaux  of  white  stone,  built  in  a  style  of  magnifi 
cence,  and  surrounded  by  a  display  of  cultivation 
altogether  unknown  to  us  at  home, — a  multitude 
of  country  mansions  and  of  villages  delightfully 
situated  either  near  the  edge  of  the  water  or  along 
the  declivities  of  the  hills ;  a  numerous  population 
of  peasantry  of  an  appearance  equally  novel,  and 
in  an  attire  singularly  grotesque ;  all  these  present 
themselves  to  the  view  in  continuous  succession 
for  twenty-one  leagues, — the  distance  from  the  en 
trance  of  the  river  to  the  city  of  Bordeaux.  This 
perspective,  so  strikingly  contrasted  with  "  the  sul 
len  and  monotonous  ocean,"  appeared  at  the  time 
sufficient  to  indemnify  me  for  all  the  cabin  fatigues 
which  I  had  encountered,  and  gave  me  a  most  de 
licious  foretaste  of  the  satisfactions  which  I  was  to 
derive  from  the  bounties  so  profusely  scattered  over 
this  fine  region  by  the  hand  of  nature.  I  under 
stood  then  for  the  first  time  the  force  of  the  excla 
mation,  la  belle  France,  which  I  had  so  often  heard 
in  the  mouth  of  her  sons,  and  began  to  form  some 
idea  of  the  nature  of  that  charm  which  operates 
upon  them  like  the  fascination  of  magic,  after  any 
length  of  absence,  and  at  any  distance  of  space 
from  their  native  soil. 

We  frequently  sailed  within  a  hundred  feet  of 
the  shore,  so  as  to  be  enabled  to  converse  with  the 
proprietors  of  the  country-seats  whom  we  occasion 
ally  observed  sitting  under  the  shade  of  their  trees, 
some  of  which  overhung  the  banks  of  the  river. 
The  clusters  of  small  islands  which  we  encoun 
tered,  particularly  near  the  confluence  of  the  Dor- 
dogne  with  the  Garonne,  and  which  were  covered 
with  the  most  luxuriant  vegetation,  heightened  the 
enchantment  of  the  scene. — Nothing  is  wanting 
to  the  Garonne  but  a  translucent  wave  to  supply 
it  with  an  assemblage  of  features  more  smiling, 
variegated,  and  picturesque  than  those  which  be 
long,  perhaps,  to  any  other  river  in  the  world. 
The  waters  were  turbid  at  the  time  we  passed  up, 
and  I  was  informed  that  this  was  the  case  during 
the  greater  part  of  the  year.  I  have  contemplated 
since,  but  with  emotions  of  pleasure  not  by  any 
means  so  vivid,  the  banks  of  the  Hudson  in  this 
country,  and  those  of  the  Wye  in  England,  both 
so  justly  celebrated  for  the  magnificence  and  beauty 
of  the  views  which  they  afford.  The  character  of 
the  scenery  is  indeed  totally  distinct  in  these  rivers, 
and,  perhaps,  the  preference  which  I  give  to  the 


first  arises  from  the  influence  of  a  -particular  asso 
ciation  of  ideas  and  circumstances.  Who  is  it 
that  has  ever  experienced  the  sufferings  of  a  long 
illness  without  being,  on  his  convalescence,  dis 
posed  to  repeat  with  Akenside, 

"Fair  is  nature's  aspect 

When  rural  songs  and  odours  wake  the  morn 
To  every  eye ;  but  how  much  more  to  his 
Round  whom  ihe  bed  of  sickness  long  diffused 
Its  melancholy  gloom !  how  doubly  fair 
When  first  with  fresh-born  vigour  he  inhales 
The  balmy  breeze,  and  feels  the  blessed  sun 
Warm  at  his  bosom,  from  the  springs  of  life 
Chasing  oppressive  damps  and  languid  pain." 

If  I  could  well  claim  permission  to  digress  so 
soon  from  rny  immediate  subject,  it  would  be  to 
talk  of  the  navigation  of  another  stream — the  Wye, 
which  I  have  mentioned  above.  The  English 
have  within  their  own  island  much  of  the  finest 
imagery  of  nature,  embellished  by  the  most  perfect 
labours  of  art,  and  by  all  the  luxury  of  taste.  But 
if  I  were  to  be  called  upon  to  select  any  one  portion 
of  their  scenery  upon  which  I  could  now  dwell, 
and  upon  which  I  have  dwelt  with  most  delight, 
it  would  be  that  of  the  Wye  from  Ross  to  Chep- 
stow.  For  "  a  picturesque  tourist"  it  is  a  sort  of 
bonne  bouche,  an  exquisite  morceau,  with  which, 
moreover,  the  appetite  could  scarcely  ever  be 
cloyed.  The  Wye  is  our  Hudson  in  miniature, 
but  with  features,  of  a  much  softer  character,  and 
with  Gothic  appendages  which  give  to  it  all  the 
additional  and  powerful  influence  over  the  fancy 
that  belong  to  "  wizard  time  and  antique  story." 
The  proportions  of  nature  on  the  Hudson,  for  a 
course  of  two  hundred  miles,  are  of  the  most  gigan 
tic  magnificence,  and  the  historical  recollections 
connected  with  this  river  are  to  an  American  of  the 
most  endearing  and  ennobling  kind.  The  pro 
gress  of  civilization,  moreover,  as  you  trace  it  on 
its  banks  so  far  in  the  interior  of  this  continent,  in 
the  flourishing  cities  of  Hudson,  of  Athens,  and  of 
Albany,  swells  the  mind,  and  refreshes  the  spirit 
of  patriotism  by  the  prospect  of  actual  and  future 
improvements  almost  as  stupendous  to  the  imagi 
nation  as  the  rocks  and  mountains  in  their  vici 
nity  are  to  the  eye. 

The  beauties  of  the  English  river  are  comprised 
within  a  space  of  fifty  miles ;  it  winds  itself  like 
the  Hudson  almost  into  labyrinths,  and  in  a  very 
narrow  channel,  presents  rocks  and  hills  of  equal 
ruggedness,  although  of  dimensions  much  less 
colossal.  There  is,  however,  about  the  Wye  an 
indescribable  and  unrivalled  charm ;  a  peculiar 
"  witchery"  arising  from  an  admixture  of  the  soft 
with  the  savage  features  of  the  landscape ;  and  from 
the  Gothic  ruins  which  decorate  its  banks  at  inter 
vals  ;  among  the  rest  those  of  Tintern  Abbey,  by 
far  the  most  majestic  and  imposing  of  all  the  de 
cayed  edifices  of  England.  In  the  navigation  of 
this  river  you  can  descend  from  your  boat  to  the 
banks  whenever  you  please,  and  you  then  rarely 
fail  to  find  the  whole  poetical  assemblage 

"Of  lofty  trees  wilh  sacred  shades 
And  perspectives  of  pleasant  glades; 
The  ruins  too  of  some  majestic  piece 
Boasting  the  power  of  ancient  Rome  or  Greece, 
Whose  statues,  friezes,  columns,  broken  lie, 
And  though  defaced,  the  wonder  of  the  eye." 


200 


ROBERT    WALSH. 


ENGLAND  IN  1808. 

FROM    A   LETTER  ON  THE   FRENCH   GOVERNMENT. 

WHATEVER  may  be  the  representations  of  those 
who,  with  little  knowledge  of  facts,  and  still  less 
soundness  or  impartiality  of  judgment,  affect  to 
deplore  the  condition  of  England,  it  is  neverthe 
less  true,  that  there  does  not  exist,  and  never  has 
existed  elsewhere,  so  beautiful  and  perfect  a  mo 
del  of  public  and  private  prosperity , — so  magnifi 
cent,  and  at  the  same  time  so  solid  a  fabric  of  social 
happiness  and  national  grandeur.  I  pay  this  just 
tribute  of  admiration  with  the  more  pleasure,  as  it 
is  to  me  in  the  light  of  an  atonement  for  the  errors 
and  prejudices  under  which  I  laboured  on  this  sub 
ject,  before  I  enjoyed  the  advantage  of  a  personal 
experience.  A  residence  of  nearly  two  years  in 
that  country, — during  which  period  I  visited  and 
studied  almost  every  part  of  it, — with  no  other 
view  or  pursuit  than  that  of  obtaining  correct  in 
formation,  and,  I  may  add,  with  previous  studies 
well-fitted  to  promote  my  object,  convinced  me 
that  I  had  been  egregiously  deceived. 

I  saw  no  instances  of  individual  oppression,  and 
scarcely  any  individual  misery  but  that  which  be 
longs,  under  any  circumstances  of  our  being,  to  the 
infirmity  of  all  human  institutions.  I  witnessed 
no  symptom  of  declining  trade  or  of  general  dis 
content.  On  the  contrary,  I  found  there  every 
indication  of  a  state  engaged  in  a  rapid  career  of 
advancement.  I  found  the  art  and  spirit  of  com 
mercial  industry  at  their  acme — a  metropolis  opu 
lent  and  liberal  beyond  example  : — a  cheerful  pea 
santry,  well  fed  and  commodiously  lodged, — an 
ardent  attachment  to  the  constitution  in  all  classes, 
and  a  full  reliance  on  the  national  resources.  I 
found  the  utmost  activity  in  agricultural  and  ma 
nufacturing  labours; — in  the  construction  of  works 
of  embellishment  and  utility ; — in  enlarging  and 
beautifying  the  provincial  cities.  I  heard  but  few 
well-founded  complaints  of  the  amount,  and  none 
concerning  the  collection  of  the  taxes.  The  de 
mands  of  the  state  create  no  impediment  to  con 
sumption  or  discouragement  to  industry.  I  could 
discover  no  instance  in  which  they  have  operated 
to  the  serious  distress  or  ruin  of  individuals. . . . 

The  agriculture  of  England  is  confessedly  supe 
rior  to  that  of  any  other  part  of  the  world,  and  the 
condition  of  those  who  are  engaged  in  the  cultiva 
tion  of  the  soil  incontestably  preferable  to  that  of 
the  same  class  in  any  other  section  of  Europe. 
An  inexhaustible  source  of  admiration  and  delight 
is  found  in  the  unrivalled  beauty,  as  well  as  rich 
ness  and  fruitfulness  of  their  husbandry;  the  effects 
of  which  are  heightened  by  the  magnificent  parks 
and  noble  mansions  of  the  opulent  proprietors :  by 
picturesque  gardens  upon  the  largest  scale,  arid 
disposed  with  the  most  exquisite  taste :  and  by 
Gothic  remains  no  less  admirable  in  their  structure 
than  venerable  for  their  antiquity.  The  neat  cot 
tage,  the  substantial  farm-house,  the  splendid  villa, 
are  constantly  rising  to  the  sight,  surrounded  by 
the  most  choice  and  poetical  attributes  of  the  land 
scape.  The  painter  is  there  but  a  mere  copyist. 
A  picture  of  as  much  neatness,  softness,  and  ele 


gance  is  exposed  to  the  eye,  as  can  be  given  to 
the  imagination,  by  the  finest  etching,  or  the  most 
mellowed  drawing.  The  vision  is  not  more  de 
lightfully  recreated  by  the  rural  scenery,  than  the 
moral  sense  is  gratified,  and  the  understanding 
elevated  by  the  institutions  of  this  great  country. 
The  first  and  continued  exclamation  of  an  Ameri 
can  who  contemplates  them  with  an  unbiassed 
judgment  is — 

Salve  magna  Parens,  frugum  saturnia  tellus 

Magna  virum. 

It  appears  something  not  less  than  impious  to 
desire  the  ruin  of  this  people,  when  you  view  the 
height  to  which  they  have  carried  the  comforts, 
the  knowledge,  and  virtue  of  our  species :  the  ex 
tent  and  number  of  their  foundations  of  charity  ; 
their  skill  in  the  mechanic  arts,  by  the  improve 
ment  of  which  alone  they  have  conferred  inesti 
mable  benefits  on  mankind;  the  masculine  moral 
ity,  the  lofty  sense  of  independence,  the  sober  and 
rational  piety  which  are  found  in  all  classes;  their 
impartial,  decorous,  and  able  administration  of  a 
code  of  laws,  than  which  none  more  just  and  per 
fect  has  ever  been  in  operation  : — their  seminaries 
of  education  yielding  more  solid  and  profitable  in 
struction  than  any  other  whatever :  their  eminence 
in  literature  and  science — the  urbanity  and  learn 
ing  of  their  privileged  orders, — their  deliberative 
assemblies,  illustrated  by  so  many  profound  states 
men  and  brilliant  orators.  It  is  worse  than  ingra 
titude  in  us  not  to  sympathize  with  them  in  their 
present  struggle,  when  we  recollect  that  it  is  from 
them  we  derive  the  principal  merit  of  our  own 
character — the  best  of  our  own  institutions — the 
sources  of  our  highest  enjoyments — and  the  light 
of  freedom  itself,  which,  if  they  should  be  destroyed, 
will  not  long  shed  its  radiance  over  this  country. 


SLANDER. 

FROM    DIDACTICS. 


IT  has  been  often  said  that  true  honour  is  not 
touchy,  but  generally  indifferent  about  slander ;  nei 
ther  the  common  sense  nor  common  experience  of 
mankind  warrants  this  theory,  supposing  touchy  to 
mean  sensitive.  The  most  pure  and  delicate,  those 
who  have  laboured  most  earnestly  to  deserve  the  best 
reputation — are  apt  to  be  tremulously  alive  to  every 
kind  of  obloquy  and  injurious  suspicion.  Honour 
may  be  thoroughly  sound  and  incorruptible,  but  not 
robust  so  as  to  be  unaffected  by  opinion ;  falsehood 
alone  can  annoy  it,  and  does  severely  in  the  plu 
rality  of  cases.  There  are,  indeed,  public  pursuits 
and  situations,  so  particularly  and  constantly  liable 
to  obloquy,  that  the  natural  susceptibility  of  true 
honour  is  gradually  lessened  ;  yet,  eminent  men  of 
the  noblest  virtue,  public  and  private,  have  even  pe 
rished,  in  advanced  stages,  from  tenderness,  or  irrita 
bility  with  regard  to  their  fame.  Few  are  content 
or  able  to  live  down  merely  "  the  judgments  of  igno 
rance  and  the  inventions  of  malice.''  Querulous- 
ness,  indeed,  is  never  manly, and  rarely  serviceable; 
but  sensitiveness  is  common  where  firm,  conscious 
honour  and  high  moral  courage  are  united. 


WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


[Born  1783.    Died  1859.] 


THIS  charming  author,  who  has  delighted 
the  readers  of  the  English  language  for  almost 
naif  a  century,  was  born  in  a  house  which  is 
still  standing,*  near  the  old  Dutch  church,  in 
William  street,  in  the  city  of  New  York,  on 
the  third  of  April,  1783.  His  father,  a  respect 
able  merchant,  originally  from  Scotland,  died 
while  he  was  quite  young,  and  his  education 
was  superintended  by  his  elder  brothers,  some 
of  whom f  had  gained  considerable  reputation 
for  acquirements  and  literary  taste.  In  his 
youth  he  is  said  to  have  been  of  a  meditative 
and  almost  melancholy  disposition,  though  at 
times  to  have  evinced  something  of  that  rich 
and  peculiar  humour  for  which  he  has  since 
been  famous ;  and  as  his  health  did  not  ad 
mit  of  a  very  close  application  to  business 
or  study,  he  rambled  about  the  picturesque 
island  of  Manhattan,  which  had  then  a  more 
distinctive  population  than  now,  gathering  up 
those  traditions  and  receiving  those  impres 
sions  which  Mr.  Seth  Handaside's  erudite  and 
conscientious  lodger  has  made  immortal. 

Mr.  Irving's  first  essays  in  literature  were  ! 
a  series  of  letters  under  the  signature  of  Jona 
than  Oldstyle,  Gent.,  published  in  the  Morning 
Chronicle,  of  which  one  of  his  brothers  was 
editor,  in  1802.  In  consequence  of  symptoms 
of  pulmonary  disease,  it  was  decided  in  the  fol- 

*It  was  pointed  out  to  me  not  long  ago  by  Dr.  John 
W.  Francis,  to  whom  I  am  happy  to  acknowledge  my 
indebtedness  for  much  information  contained  in  this 
volume;  nor  can  I  forbear  to  improve  the  occasion  to 
express  the  regret  I  feel,  in  common  with  all  his  friends, 
that  the  absorbing  duties  of  professional  life  debar  so 
enthusiastic  and  intelligent  a  lover  of  literature  and  sci 
ence  from  any  but  an  occasional  demonstration  of  his 
talents  in  a  field  they  are  so  fitted  to  adorn.  Dr.  Francis 
is  one  of  the  few  whose  ardent  sympathy  with  men  de 
voted  to  these  pursuits,  and  truly  national  spirit,  enable 
him  to  recognise  what  has  been  and  what  is  likely  yet 
to  be  accomplished  by  the  genius  of  our  country.  [1845.] 

fThe  elder,  William,  a  merchant  of  high  standing, 
and  distinguished  for  his  love  of  literature,  wrote  several 
of  the  papers  in  Salmagundi,  and  was  many  years  a 
representative  of  the  city  of  New  York,  in  Congress. 
The  second,  Dr.  Peter  Irving. — the  author  of  the  first 
five  chapters  of  Knickerbocker's  History, — aAer  a  resi 
dence  of  twenty-five  years  abroad,  returned  10  his 
native  city  in  1837;  and  ihe  third,  the  late  Judge  Irving, 
a  man  of  large  abilities  and  honorable  character,  died 
in  New  York  about  the  year  1841. 
26 


lowing  year  that  he  should  visit  the  south  of 
Europe,  and  embarking  in  a  ship  bound  for  the 
Mediterranean,  he  was  landed  on  the  southern 
coast  of  Sicily,  whence  he  proceeded  by  way 
of  Palermo  and  Naples  to  Rome,  and  through 
France  to  England.  His  unpublished  journal 
of  this  tour  I  have  heard  described  as  one  of 
the  most  interesting  of  his  works. 

He  returned  in  1806,  and  soon  after  joined 
Mr.  Paulding,  who  was  a  few  years  his  senior, 
in  writing  Salmagundi.  The  sensation  pro 
duced  by  this  whimsical  miscellany  is  de 
scribed  by  the  "  old  inhabitants"  as  exceed 
ing  any  thing  of  the  kind  ever  known  in  New- 
York.  Its  amusing  ridicule  of  the  ignorance 
and  vulgarity  of  British  tourists,  and  of  all 
sorts  of  foreign  adventurers  and  home  pretend 
ers,  with  its  occasional  dashes  of  graceful 
sentiment,  captivated  the  town  and  decided 
the  fortunes  of  its  authors.  Mr.  Irving  had 
commenced  the  study  of  the  law,  with  the 
late  Judge  Josiah  Ogden  Hoffman,  but,  with 
prospects  which  forbade  the  expectation  of 
having  to  rely  upon  a  profession  for  support, 
he  gave  little  heed  to  the  masters  of  the  great 
science.  He  wrote  a  few  magazine  papers, 
and  an  elegant  sketch  of  Campbell,  which 
was  prefixed  to  an  American  edition  of  Ger 
trude  of  Wyoming;  and  the  establishment 
of  the  New  York  Historical  Society,  with  the 
announcement  that  one  of  its  members  con 
templated  the  preparation  from  its  collections 
of  a  history  of  the  early  days  of  the  colony, 
suggesting  to  him  the  idea  of  The  History 
of  New  York  by  Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  he 
yielded  to  its  inspiration,  and  produced  this 
finest  monument  of  his  genius,  the  most  ori 
ginal  and  humorous  work  of  the  age.  By 
paragraphs  in  the  gazettes  the  public  curiosity 
respecting  it  was  excited ;  when  it  appeared  it 
was  bought  as  a  veracious  chronicle ;  and  in 
his  character  of  a  descendant  of  one  of  the  ori 
ginal  settlers  of  Niew  Nederlandts  the  author 
w-ore  so  gravely  and  naturally  the  prejudices 
which  such  persons  might  be  supposed  to  in 
herit,  that  many  read  whole  chapters  before 
they  were  undeceived  by  its  inimitable  wit 

2UL 


202 


WASHINGTON   IRVING. 


and  drollery.  Some  of  the  real  Dutchmen  are 
said  to  have  been  little  pleased  with  the  bur 
lesque  history,  and  one  of  them,  the  learned 
and  excellent  Verplanck,  in  his  Discourse  be 
fore  the  Historical  Society,  could  not  forbear, 
"  though  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger,"  to 
allude  to  it  among  instances  of  national  injus 
tice.  "It  is  painful  to  see  a  mind,"  he  says, 
"  as  admirable  for  its  exquisite  perception  of 
the  beautiful,  as  for  its  quick  sense  of  the 
ridiculous,  wasting  the  riches  of  its  fancy  on 
an  ungrateful  theme." 

Mr.  Irving  seems  to  have  thought  very  little 
of  his  success,  and  for  several  years  after  the 
publication  of  Knickerbocker's  History  never 
to  have  dreamed  of  literature  as  a  profession. 
His  only  writings  for  the  press  in  this  pe 
riod,  I  believe,  were  the  biographies,  chiefly  of 
officers  in  the  navy,  which  he  contributed  to 
the  Analectic  Magazine.  His  brothers,  who 
were  largely  and  successfully  engaged  in  fo 
reign  commerce,  admitted  him  to  a  partner 
ship,  and  his  attention  was  principally  devoted 
to  trade,  until  the  beginning  of  the  war  with 
Great  Britain,  when  he  tendered  his  services 
to  Governor  Tompkins,  and  was  received  into 
his  staff  as  an  aid-de-camp.  He  was  frequently 
employed  by  the  commander  in  chief  on  spe 
cial  duties,  and  was  regarded  as  a  very  discreet 
and  efficient  officer.  The  peace  however  put 
an  end  to  the  military  life  of"  Colonel  Irving," 
and  in  1815  he  went  to  England,  to  assist  in 
conducting  the  business  of  his  firm,  in  Liver 
pool.  Buoyant  with  hope,  with  "  enough  of 
the  world's  geer"  for  all  his  wants,  he  had  a 
prospect  of  returning  home,  in  a  couple  of  years, 
with  a  mind  stored  with  pleasant  recollections ; 
but  he  had  hardly  landed  in  England,  he  tells 
us  in  the  preface  to  one  of  his  later  works, 
before  a  reverse  of  fortune*  cast  him  down  in 
spirit,  and  altered  the  whole  tenor  of  his  life. 
Literature,  which  had  hitherto  been  his  amuse 
ment,  was  now  resorted  to  for  "  solace  and 
support."  It  is  sad  to  think  our  pleasures 
are  a  consequence  of  any  man's  misfortunes. 
But  whatever  were  the  "  baffled  plans  and  de 
ferred  hopes"  which  beguiled  him,  from  year 
to  year,  in  a  path  that  was  too  often  beset  with 
thorns,  we  may  be  sure  that  he  now  regrets 
no  more  than  the  world  of  his  admirers  those 
circumstances  which  made  him  once  more  an 
author 

*The  house  of  Irving  &,  Brothers  was  swept  awa"y  with 
many  others  in  the  disastrous  revulsion  after  the  peace. 


The  first  fruit  of  Mr.  Irving's  devotion  to 
letters,  after  he  went  to  England,  was  The 
Sketch  Book,  which  was  published  in  New 
York  and  London  in  1819  and  1820.  It  "  par 
takes  of  the  fluctuations  of  his  thoughts  and 
feelings,  sometimes  treating  of  scenes  before 
him,  sometimes  of  others  purely  imaginary, 
and  sometimes  wandering  back  with  his  recol 
lections  to  his  native  country."  No  book  of 
unconnected  tales  and  essays  had  ever  been  so 
well  received,  but  there  was  an  evident  supe 
riority  in  the  fresh  and  striking  passages  that 
related  to  American  scenery,  manners,  and 
superstitions,  that  gave  assurance  of  an  inspir 
ing  love  of  home.  Nothing  in  their  way  can 
be  more  beautiful  than  The  Wife,  The  Broken 
Heart,  and  The  Pride  of  the  Village ;  but  the 
vitality  of  the  work  was  in  Rip  Van  Winkle, 
and  the  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow.  The 
Sketch  Book  was  followed,  in  1822,  by  Brace- 
bridge  Hall,  a  medley,  chiefly  descriptive  of 
rural  life  in  England,  which  he  painted  with 
an  exactness  of  detail,  a  variety  of  light  and 
shade,  and  a  delicacy  of  finish,  that  surprised 
and  delighted  his  English  critics ;  while  its  nice 
apprehension,  genial  humour,  occasional  ten 
derness,  and  exquisite  refinement  and  melody, 
made  it  no  less  popular  in  America.  About  one 
fourth  of  the  volumes  is  occupied  with  legends 
of  the  Hudson,  by  the  amiable  and  unfatiguing 
historian  of  the  Dutch  dynasty,  and  these  were 
readily  recognised  as  most  characteristic  of  the 
author's  imagination  and  humour.  In  1824 
appeared  his  Tales  of  a  Traveller ;  and  the 
beautiful  novel  of  Buckthorne,  which  is  among 
them,  and  is  the  last  of  his  writings  that  have 
reference  to  English  life,  is  quite  equal  to  any 
thing  of  the  same  sort  that  he  had  published, 
and  has  touches  of  pathos  that  he  has  never  sur 
passed.  The  Money  Diggers,  a  story  of  New 
York,  sustained  his  reputation  in  the  field  he 
had  first  chosen. 

While  Mr.  Irving  was  at  Bordeaux,  in  the 
winter  after  the  publication  of  the  Tales  of  a 
Traveller,  he  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Alex 
under  H.  Everett,  then  Minister  of  the  United 
States  to  Spain,  informing  him  of  the  re 
searches  respecting  Columbus  by  Navarrete, 
and  inviting  him  to  Madrid,  to  consider  the 
propriety  of  translating  his  collection  of  docu 
ments  into  English.  He  accepted  the  invita 
tion,  and  his  residence  in  the  Spanish  capital 
gave  a  new  direction  to  his  literary  labours. 
He  soon  perceived  that  the  publication  of 


WASHINGTON    IRVING. 


203 


Navarrete  presented  not  so  much  a  history  as 
the  materials  for  such  a  work,  and  with  little 
hesitation  soon  undertook  from  this  and  vari 
ous  other  printed  and  manuscript  collections 
respecting  the  great  navigator,  to  prepare  a 
work  which  should  be  an  acceptable  gift  to 
his  countrymen,  and  that  the  world  "  would 
not  willingly  let  die."  His  own  reputation, 
and  the  friendship  of  the  Americans  resident  in 
Spain,  secured  to  him  every  possible  facility, 
and  in  1828  he  supplied  a  desideratum  which 
had  existed  in  the  literature  of  every  nation, — 
a  History  of  the  Life  and  Voyages  of  Chris 
topher  Columbus,  that  was  worthy  of  its  sub 
ject.  It  is  not  indeed  of  the  first  order  of  his 
torical  compositions ;  it  offers  no  pretensions 
to  philosophical  inquiry  and  generalization; 
but  it  is  hardly  excelled  in  picturesque  descrip 
tion,  lively  narrative,  or  scrupulous  fidelity. 
It  was  greeted  with  a  warm  and  general  ap 
proval  in  America  and  Europe,  and  in  1831 
was  followed  by  its  pendant,  the  Voyages  and 
Discoveries  of  the  Companions  of  Columbus, 
which  gave  the  same  uiimingled  satisfaction. 

In  his  researches  connected  with  the  life 
of  the  Great  Admiral,  Mr.  Irving  had  caught 
glimpses  of  the  romantic  grandeur  of  the  Moor 
ish  dominion,  and  of  strange  adventure  in  those 
wars,  that  ended  with  the  expulsion  of  the 
Mohammedans  from  Spain,  in  which  his  hero 
was  sometime  an  actor ;  and  before  the  appear 
ance  of  the  work  last  mentioned,  he  published 
his  Chronicle  of  the  Conquest  of  Grenada,  in 
which,  under  the  guise  of  an  imaginary  con 
temporary  author,  Fray  Antonio  Agapida,  he 
has  presented  a  view  of  the  knightly  emprise 
and  splendid  pageantry  of  the  infidel  ascend 
ency  in  Andalusia,  which  combines  the  poeti 
cal  enthusiasm  of  the  old  Castilian  with  the 
charming  simplicity  and  vivacity  of  Froissart. 
In  the  spring  of  1829,  after  visiting  the  ruins 
of  the  towns  and  castles,  and  the  wild  passes 
and  defiles,  which  had  been  the  scenes  of  the 
most  remarkable  events  in  the  crusade  against 
the  Moors,  by  a  very  courteous  offer  of  the  king 
of  Spain,  he  remained  several  months  in  the 
Alhambra,  where  the  Moslem  heroes  passed  the 
intervals  of  war  in  dalliance  with  their  Zaidas 
and  Zalindas,and  here  wrote  the  series  of  tales 
and  sketches  which  was  subsequently  publish 
ed  under  the  name  of  that  enchanted  palace. 

At  length,  in  1832,  after  an  absence  of  seven 
teen  years,  Mr.  Irving  returned  «o  the  United 
States.  Ae  he  saw  the  "  blue  line  of  his  na 


tive  land"  rising  like  a  cloud  in  that  horizon 
where,  so  many  years  before,  he  had  seen  it 
fade  away,  a  doubt  whether  he  would  be  re 
ceived  as  a  favourite  child  or  as  a  stranger, 
passed  like  a  shadow  over  his  spirit ;  but  it 
was  banished  by  the  enthusiastic  greeting 
which  awaited  him  in  the  city  of  his  birth, — 
one  of  the  fairest  triumphs  that  has  been  ac 
corded  to  literary  merit  in.  this  age. 

After  passing  a  few  weeks  in  the  city  of 
New  York,  Mr.  Irving,  for  the  satisfaction  of 
his  curiosity,  set  out  upon  a  tour  through  the 
country,  and  early  in  September  arrived  at 
St.  Louis,  where  he  joined  a  party  consisting  of 
an  Indian  commissioner  of  the  government, 
Mr.  Latrobe,  (the  author  of  Rambles  in  North 
America,)  and  several  others,  to  visit  the  re 
gions  beyond  the  outposts  of  civilization  in 
the  Far  West.  He  returned  in  the  course  of 
the  winter  to  the  Atlantic  states,  and  for  some 
two  years  seems  to  have  withdrawn  his  atten 
tion  from  literature,  and  to  have  given  him 
self  up  to  the  society  of  the  troops  of  friends 
who  loved  him  for  his  amiable  and  honourable 
character,  and  were  proud  of  him  for  the  cre 
dit  his  genius  reflected  upon  his  native  city 
and  the  republic.  He  purchased  the  old  man 
sion  of  the  Van  Tassels,  on  the  Hudson, — close 
by  the  margin  of  the  Tappaan  Zee,  and  in  the 
vicinity  of  Sleepy  Hollow, — "as  quiet  and 
sheltered  a  nook  as  the  heart  of  man  could 
desire,  in  which  to  take  refuge  from  the  cares 
and  troubles  of  the  world," — which  he  called 
Wolfert's  Roost, and  "repaired  and  renovated 
with  religious  care,  in  the  genuine  Dutch  style, 
and  adorned  and  illustrated  with  sundry  relics 
of  the  glor^pus  days  of  the  New  Netherlands." 
Here  he  passed  his  summers ;  and  his  winters 
he  spent  in  New  York,  in  the  streets  of  which 
Knickerbocker  omnibuses  rattled  by  Knicker 
bocker  Halls  where  Knickerbocker  clubs  held 
festivals,  and  at  whose  wharves  magnificent 
ships  and  steamers,  coming  and  going  every 
day,  also  bore  that  immortal  name, — in  pleas 
ing  testimony  of  the  universality  of  his  fame, 
and  of  the  popular  apprehension  of  intellectual 
merit,  and  respect  for  its  possessor. 

In  1835  Mr.  Irving  reappeared  as  an  author, 
in  A  Tour  of  the  Prairies,  in  which  he  gives 
an  account  of  his  wanderings  in  the  Indian 
country  in  the  autumn  of  1832.  In  descrip 
tion  it  has  the  freshness  and  truth  of  one  of 
Catlin's  sketches,  and  it  charms  still  more  by 
its  agreeable  personal  narrative.  It  was  fol 


204 


WASHINGTON    IRVING. 


lowed  in  the  same  year  by  Abbotsford  and 
Newstead  Abbey,  containing  notices  of  his 
visits  to  these  places, — sacred  to  all   future  ! 
ages  as  the  homes  of  the  greatest  geniuses  of 
many  generations, — and  by  Legends  of  the  j 
Conquest  of  Spain,  which    he  had  written 
while  a  dweller  in  the  Alhambra,  but  had  not 
before  offered  to  the  public. 

In  1836  he  published  Astoria,  or  Anecdotes 
of  an  Enterprise  beyond  the  Rocky  Mountains. 
Many  years  before,  during  occasional  visits  to 
Canada,  he  had  become  acquainted  with  some 
of  the  partners  of  the  great  North-West  Fur 
Company,  who  at  that  time  lived  in  genial 
style  at  Montreal,  and  at  their  hospitable 
boards  had  met "  Sinbads  of  the  Wilderness," 
whose  wanderings  and  perilous  adventures 
among  the  Indians  had  made  the  lives  of  trap 
pers  and  fur  traders  perfect  romance  to  him ; 
so  that  afterward,  when  the  friendship  of  Mr. 
John  Jacob  Astor  afforded  him  materials  for  a 
history  of  the  enterprise  undertaken  by  that 
gentleman  to  establish  the  fur  trade  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Columbia  river,  he  engaged  in 
its  preparation  with  enthusiasm,  and  produced 
a  work  admirably  fitted  to  gratify  curiosity  on 
the  subject. 

At  the  table  of  Mr.  Astor  Mr.  Irving  was 
accustomed  to  meet  various  persons  of  adven 
turous  character,  who  had  been  connected  with 
expeditions  to  the  centre  of  the  continent  and 
to  the  Pacific,  and  with  them  one  that  "  pecu 
liarly  took  his  fancy,"  Captain  Bonneville,  of 
the  United  States  Army,  who,  engrafting  the 
trapper  and  hunter  on  the  soldier,  had  led  an 
enterprise  which  occupied  several  years,  into 
the  heart  of  the  fur  country.  From  the  journal 
which  had  been  kept  by  Captain  Bonneville, 
and  various  other  sources,  he  digested  the 
volumes  entitled,  The  Rocky  Mountains,  or 
Scenes,  Incidents,  and  Adventures  in  the  Far 
West,  which  appeared  in  1837. 

The  most  recent  publications  of  Mr.  Irving 
are  a  series  of  sketches  of  manners,  traditions, 
and  travels,  which  appeared  in  the  Knicker 
bocker  Magazine  for  1839  and  1840.  They 
would  make  some  three  duodecimo  volumes, 
two  of  which  might  appropriately  he  called 
A  Continuation  of  the  Sketch  Book. 

In  1841,  soon  after  the  whig  national  ad 
ministration  came  into  power,  Mr.  Irving 
wns  appointed  Minister  Plenipotentiary  to  the 
court  of  Spain.  In  London  and  Paris,  as  he 
passed  through  those  cities,  he  was  warmly 


greeted  by  his  old  friends  and  associates,  and 
in  Madrid,  where  he  resided  four  years,  he  re 
newed  his  acquaintance  with  the  distinguished 
Spanish  scholars  and  men  of  letters  whom  he 
had  known  while  writing  in  that  capital  his 
History  of  Columbus  and  Conquest  of  Gre 
nada.  On  the  election  of  Mr.  Polk  to  the  pre 
sidency,  he  was  relieved,  at  his  own  request, 
having  been  absent  a  year  and  a  half  beyond 
the  period  contemplated  when  he  accepted  the 
appointment ;  and  in  the  autumn  of  1846  he 
returned  to  New  York,  and  retired  to  "  Wol- 
fert's  Roost,"  to  spend  there  the  remainder  of 
his  days.  Although  never  married,  he  has  for 
several  years  had  about  him  a  household,  the 
daughters  of  a  brother,  who  have  been  to  him 
as  his  own  children,  and  who  bear  to  him  all 
the  love  that  a  father  could  engage. 

It  is  understood  that  Mr.  Irving  finished 
many  years  ago  an  elaborate  and  important  his 
torical  work  on  the  Life  and  Influence  of  Mo 
hammed,  founded  on  materials  that  he  dis 
covered  in  the  library  of  the  Escurial,  which 
had  never  been  used,  and  which  have  since 
by  some  accident  been  destroyed.  The  piracy 
against  authors,  which  is  sanctioned  by  the 
present  iniquitous  laws  regarding  copyright, 
render  it  unsafe  to  give  to  the  press  any  work 
of  great  value,  and  Mr.  Irving  has  retained  his 
manuscript,  it  is  said,  in  the  hope  that  the  go 
vernment  will  at  length  adopt  the  wiser  policy 
of  justice.  He  at  one  time  contemplated  a 
history  of  the  Conquest  of  Mexico,  a  subject 
that  naturally  suggested  itself  to  him  while 
writing  of  the  discovery  of  this  continent;  but 
on  learning  that  the  eloquent  historian  of  Fer 
dinand  and  Isabella  was  engaged  upon  such 
a  work  he  relinquished  his  design.*  And 
when  he  was  called  into  the  public  service, 

*  In  the  Preface  to  the  "  History  of  Ferdinand  and  Isa 
bella,"  I  lamented,  that,  while  occupied  with  that  suhji-ct, 
two  of  us  most  attractive  parts  had  engaged  the  attention 
of  the  most  popular  of  American  authors,  Washington 
Irving.  By  a  singular  chance,  something  like  the  re 
verse  of  this  has  taken  place  in  the  composition  of  the 
present  history,  and  I  have  fou)id  myself  unconsciously 
tak'iig  up  ground  which  he  was  preparing  to  occupy. 
It  wjis  noi  till  I  had  become  master  of  my  rich  collection 
of  materials,  that  I  was  acquainted  with  this  circum 
stance  ;  and,  had  he  persevered  in  his  design,  I  should 
unhesitatingly  have  abandoned  my  own,  if  not  from 
courtesy,  at  least  from  policy:  for,  though  armed  with 
the  weapons  of  Achilles,  this  could  give  me  no  hope  of 
success  in  a  competition  with  Achilles  himself.  But  no 
sooner  was  that  distinguished  writer  informed  of  the  pre 
parations  I  had  made,  than,  with  the  gentlemanly  spirit 
which  will  surprise  no  one  who  has  the  pleasure  of  his 
acquaintance,  he  instantly  announced  to  me  his  inten 
tion  of  leaving  the  subject  open  to  me.  While  I  do  but 
justice  to  Mr.  Irving  by  this  statement,  I  feel  the  preju 
dice  it  does  to  myself  in  the  unavailing  regret  I  am  ex- 
ciiiug  in  the  bosom  of  the  reader. — Preface  to  Prcscott' 
History  of  the  Conquest  of  Alexico. 


WASHINGTON    IRVING. 


205 


he  was  occupied  with  a  Life  of  Washington, 
which  was  to  have  been  illustrated  in  a 
costly  manner  by  Mr.  Chapman.  Whether 
these  works,  or  any  others  by  him,  will  be 
published  during  his  lifetime,  is  uncertain. 
It  is  to  be  hoped  however  that  he  will  super 
intend  the  republication  of  his  complete  writ 
ings,  including  those  which  he  has  scattered 
in  half  a  century  through  periodicals  and  other 
ephemera,  so  that  the  country  may  be  advised 
under  his  own  seal  of  the  true  extent  of  its 
indebtedness  to  him. 

It  has  been  the  custom  to  speak  of  Mr.  Ir 
ving  as  an  author  in  his  sympathies,  tastes, 
and  execution,  much  more  English  than  Ame 
rican,  but  no  such  judgment  has  been  formed 
from  an  intelligent  and  candid  study  of  his 
works.  His  subjects  are  as  three  American 
and  two  Spanish  to  one  English ;  the  periods 
of  his  residence  in  America,  Spain,  and  Eng 
land,  in  the  years  of  his  literary  activity,  bear 
to  each  other  about  the  same  proportion  ;  and 
the  productions  which  have  won  for  him  the 
most  reputation,  even  in  Europe,  are  not  only 
such  as  had  no  models  in  the  literatures  of  the 
world,  but  such  as  could  have  been  written 
only  by  one  intimately  acquainted  with  the 
peculiar  life  and  manners  by  which  they  were 
suggested.  The  History  of  New  York,  to  the 
end  of  the  Dutch  Dynasty,  by  Diedrich  Knick 
erbocker,  and  the  various  tales  and  sketches 
written  in  the  character  of  that  imaginary  au 
thor,  are  the  foundations  of  Mr.  Irving's  fame, 
and  are  broad  and  deep  enough  always  to  sus 
tain  it.  As  to  the  Sketch  Book,  there  is  no 
intimation  in  many  of  the  most  admirable 
pieces  which  it  contains  that  they  are  designed 
to  illustrate  English  life,  and  certainly  The 
Wife,  and  many  others,  are  quite  as  American 
as  English,  to  say  the  least.  The  truth  is, 
that  a  certain  sort  of  persons  who  attempt  cri 
ticism  in  Great  Britain,  seem  to  regard  us  as 
a  species  of  outside  barbarians,  and  demand 
of  us  a  literature  corresponding  with  our  sup 
posed  character,  and  whenever  one  of  our  au 
thors  produces  a  book  in  which  is  evinced  a 
mastery  of  our  mother  tongue,  and  which  has 
in  it  unquestionable  signs  of  vitality,  they  de 
clare  it  to  be  thoroughly  English ;  and  the  key 
note  of  cant  which  they  strike  is  sounded  by  all 
those  persons  at  home  who  are  but  too  happy 
to  impute  the  public's  neglect  of  themselves 
to  their  "uncompromising  Americanism."  It 
is  not  intended  in  what  is  here  written  to  as 


sert  that  Mr.  Irving's  works  are  preeminently 
distinguished  for  the  highest  sort  of  nation 
ality ;  but  merely  to  deny  the  justice  and  rea 
sonableness  of  a  common  opinion  in  respect 
to  his  English  affinities.  It  is  not  in  any  de 
gree  improbable  that  if  Addison,  Goldsmith, 
or  Mackenzie  had  never  lived,  he  would  have 
written  exactly  as  he  has  written,  and  upon 
every  subject,  except  the  life  of  Goldsmith, 
which  has  ever  occupied  his  attention. 

Mr.  Irving  has  a  genuine  poetical  tempera 
ment,  and  unites  to  a  peculiar  sensibility  to 
beauty,  in  all  its  manifestations,  a  quick  obser 
vation  of  the  follies  of  society,  which  he  has 
the  art  of  setting  in  the  most  comic  and  whim 
sical  point  of  view,  without  ever  sacrificing 
his  refinement  or  delicacy.     His  humour  is 
bold,  original,  and  indigenous,  but  never  of 
fends  the  most  fastidious  by  unchasteness  or 
|  vulgarity.     He  has  a  great  deal  of  common 
i  sense,  and  the  most  perfect  candour ;  and  as 
the  true  course  is  usually  the  middle  one, and 
calls  for  no  special  subserviency  or  acrimony, 
his  tone,  which  is  manly,  though  gentle,  con 
ciliates  all,  while  it  shuts  him  from  the  sym 
pathies  of  none.     He  has  a  very  great  variety 
of  scenes  and  characters,  to  all  of  which  his 
manner   is  adapted  with  singular  skill  and 
felicity.     It  would  scarcely  be  supposed  that 
!  the  Spanish  history,  the  English  essay,  and 
I  the  American  legend,  were  by  one  author,  o, 
;  that  Fray  Antonio  Agapida,  Geoffrey  Crayon, 
and  Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  had  ever  even 
read  each  other's  works. 
.    His  style  has  the  ease  and  purity  and  more 
than  the  grace  and  polish  of  Franklin ;  with 
out  the  intensity  of  Brown,  the  compactness 
of  Calhoun,  or  the  strength  and  splendour  of 
|  Webster, — American  authors  who  preceded 
j  him,  or  were  in  the  strictest  sense  his  con 
temporaries.     His  words  are   selected   with 
I  the- most  careful  taste,  and  so  arranged  as  to 
produce  the  effect  of  finished  versification. 
He  is  not  always  correct :  such  unauthorized 
forms  as  "/row  thence,"  and  others,  occur 
;  frequently,  and  evince  more  regard  for  a  nice 
j  modulation  than  for  perfect  grammatical  accu- 
I  racy;  but  his  variously  constructed  periods,  his 
remarkable  elegance,  sustained  sweetness,  and 
distinct  and  delicate  painting,  place  him  in  the 
very  front  rank  of  the  masters  of  our  language. 
It  may  be  said  of  him,  that  in  whatever  he  has 
proposed  to  himself  to  do,  he  has  been  among 
the  most  successful  of  all  authors. 


206 


WASHINGTON     IRVING. 


The  foregoing  sketch  of  Washington  Irving 
and  his  works  was  written  by  Mr.  Griswold 
in  1847,  and  it  only  remains  for  the  present  edi 
tor  to  give  an  account  of  the  remaining  years 
of  his  life  to  1859,  the  time  of  his  decease, 
and  the  additional  works  published  by  him. 

By  his  engagement  with  Willis  Gaylbrd 
Clark,  of  the  Knickerbocker  magazine,  he 
furnished  for  two  thousand  dollars  per  annum 
a  monthly  article  for  that  periodical,  from 
March  1839,  until  March  1841.  The  greater 
part  of  these  contributions  were  collected  and 
published  under  the  title  of  "  Wolfert's  Roost," 
in  1855,  and  had  an  extraordinary  sale.  His 
exquisite  sketch  of  "  The  Bobolink  "  in  "  The 
Birds  of  Spring  "  was  at  once  copied  into  nearly 
every  paper  in  the  country. 

In  1840  he  wrote  a  biography  of  Goldsmith, 
for  Harper's  Family  Library,  a  mere  sketch  to 
accompany  an  edition  of  Goldsmith's  writings, 
but  which  he  afterwards  enlarged  into  a  most 
delightful  biography  of  that  author.  In  the 
Spring  of  1841  he  wrote  for  Mrs.  Davidson  a 
biography  of  her  daughter  Margaret,  to  accom 
pany  an  edition  of  her  poems,  the  copyright  of 
which  he  generously  presented  to  the  mother. 

In  November,  1841,  he  began  the  crowning 
work  of  his  life,  the  "  Life  of  Washington." 
which  he  continued  at  intervals  until  its  com 
pletion.  Also  about  this  period  he  commen 
ced  revising  his  works  preparatory  to  a  final 
publication  of  an  uniform  edition,  filling  in  his 
spare  moments  from  his  diplomatic  labors  in 
Spain  with  this  duty. 

Two  years  after  his  return  from  Spain,  he 
entered  into  an  arrangement  with  Mr.  George 
P.  Putnam  for  the  publication  of  a  new,  revised, 
complete,  and  uniform  edition  of  all  his  works. 
The  first  volume  of  which  edition,  Knicker 
bocker,  was  published  on  the  first  of  Septem 
ber,  1848.  The  "Sketch  Book"  followed  in 
Oct.,  Columbus  vol.  1st.  in  Nov.,  Bracebridge 
Hall  in  Dec.  Although  forty  years  since  his 
first  work  was  published,  this  new  edition  of 
his  works  was  received  by  the  public  witk 
eagerness,  the  unprecedented  demand  increas 
ing  with  the  issue  of  every  new  volume,  until 
the  books  are  truly  household  volumes  and 
to  be  found  in  any  library  of  the  slightest  pre 
tensions  to  taste  or  completeness. 

From  this  time,  1850,  aged  66,  until  1855,  he 
was  spending  his  time  in  the  receipt  of  atten 
tions  of  the  kindest  nature  from  his  attached 


relatives  residing  with  him  at  Sunnyside  and 
from  numerous  aristocratic  and  literary 
celebrities  from  abroad  as  well  as  at  home  ; 
making  repeated  short  trips  and  visits  to 
friends,  and  excursions  to  Washington  to  ex 
amine  the  archives  there  for  his  Life  of 
Washington.  His  only  anxiety  at  this  time 
mid  all  his  cheerful  ease  and  surroundings, 
seems  to  have  been  his  fear  that  he  might 
not  live  to  accomplish  this,  his  greatest 
task. 

In  1855,  the  publication  of  the  first  volume 
of  the  life  of  Washington  soon  succeeded 
the  appearance  of  "Wolfert's  Roost."  The 
author,'  at  the  age  of  72,  had  just  got  through 
correcting  the  proofs  of  this  volume,  when  he 
was  thrown  from  his  horse,  and  severely  in 
jured  about  the  head  and  shoulders,  but 
from  which  he  fortunately  recovered  in  a 
short  time.  The  first  volume  met  with  such 
great  success  and  cordial  reviews  from  Ban 
croft,  Prescott,  and  others  capable  of  judging 
of  its  merits,  as  relieved  his  solicitude,  and  de 
termined  him  to  complete  the  work  to  the 
death  of  Washington,  the  original  intention 
having  been  to  end  it  with  Washington's  in 
auguration  as  President.  Volume  2d  ap 
peared  in  December,  1855,  followed  by  the 
3d  in  July,  1856,  the  4th  in  May,  1857,  and 
the  5th  in  May,  1859. 

During  the  latter  part  of  1858,  and  through 
1859,  his  health  was  gradually  failing.  He  died 
from  disease  of  the  heart,  suddenly,  Nov.  28th, 
and  was  buried  in  the  churchyard  in  the  vici 
nity.  He  did  not  fear  death,  but  loss  of  mind, 
his  desire  had  long  been  that  he  might,  as  he 
expresssd  it,  "  go  down  with  all  sail  set." 

Of  the  estimation  in  which  he  was  held 
during  the  publication  of  the  revised  edition, 
some  idea  may  be  gained  when  we  state  that  in 
nine  years  the  sales  amounted  to  350,000  vol 
umes  and  he  received  $80,000,  though  the 
Washington  was  not  yet  completed  ;  probably 
quite  as  many  more  volumes  have  been  sold 
to  this  time. 

Those  who  desire  to  read  in  detail  the  life 
of  this  delightful  author  should  get  the  "Life 
and  Letters, by  his  nephew,  Pierre M.  Irving;" 
one  of  the  most  charming  biographies  ever 
written,  4  vols.  12  mo.,  in  which  Irving  is  al 
lowed,  mainly  through  his  letters,  to  tell  his 
own  story,  and  thus  in  reality  add  so  many  more 
volumes  to  his  "works." 


WASHINGTON    IRVING. 


207 


PRIMITIVE  HABITS  IN  NEW  AMSTER 
DAM. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

IN  those  happy  days  a  well-regulated  family 
always  rose  with  the  dawn,  dined  at  eleven,  and 
went  to  bed  at  sun-down.  Dinner  was  invariably 
a  private  meal,  and  the  fat  old  burghers  showed 
incontestable  symptoms  of  disapprobation  and  un 
easiness  at  being  surprised  by  a  visit  from  a  neigh 
bour  on  such  occasions.  But  though  our  worthy 
ancestors  were  thus  singularly  averse  to  giving 
dinners,  yet  they  kept  up  the  social  bands  of  inti 
macy  by  occasional  banquetings,  called  tea-parties. 

These  fashionable  parties  were  generally  con 
fined  to  the  higher,  classes,  or  noblesse,  that  is  to 
say,  such  as  kept  their  own  cows,  and  drove  their 
own  wagons.  The  company  commonly  assembled 
at  three  o'clock,  and  went  away  about  six,  unless 
it  was  in  winter  time,  when  the  fashionable  hours 
were  a  little  earlier,  that  the  ladies  might  get  home 
before  dark.  The  tea-table  was  crowned  with  a 
huge  earthen  dish  well  stored  with  slices  of  fat 
pork,  fried  brown,  cut  up  into  morsels,  and  swim 
ming  in  gravy.  The  company  being  seated  around 
the  genial  board,  and  each  furnished  with  a  fork, 
evinced  their  dexterity  in  lanching  at  the  fattest 
pieces  in  this  mighty  dish — in  much  the  same 
manner  as  sailors  harpoon  porpoises  at  sea,  or  our 
Indians  spear  salmon  in  the  lakes.  Sometimes 
the  table  was  graced  with  immense  apple-pies,  or 
sauces  full  of  preserved  peaches  and  pears ;  but  it 
was  always  sure  to  boast  an  enormous  dish  of  balls 
of  sweetened  dough,  fried  in  hog's  fat,  and  called 
doughnuts,  or  olykoeks — a  delicious  kind  of  cake, 
at  present  scarce  known  in  this  city,  excepting  in 
genuine  Dutch  families. 

The  tea  was  served  out  of  a  majestic  delft  tea 
pot,  ornamented  with  paintings  of  fat  little  Dutch 
shepherds  and  shepherdesses  tending  pigs — with 
boats  sailing  in  the  air,  and  houses  built  in  the 
clouds,  and  sundry  other  ingenious  Dutch  fantasies. 
The  beaux  distinguished  themselves  by  their  adroit 
ness  in  replenishing  this  pot  from  a  huge  copper 
tea-kettle,  which  would  have  made  the  pigmy  ma 
caronies  of  these  degenerate  days  sweat  merely  to 
look  at  it.  To  sweeten  the  beverage,  a  lump  of 
sugar  was  laid  beside  each  cup — and  the  company 
alternately  nibbled  and  sipped  with  great  decorum, 
until  an  improvement  was  introduced  by  a  shrewd 
and  economic  old  lady,  which  was  to  suspend  a 
large  lump  directly  over  the  tea-table  by  a  string 
from  the  ceiling,  so  that  it  could  be  swung  from 
mouth  to  mouth — an  ingenious  expedient  which 
is  still  kept  up  by  some  families  in  Albany ;  but 
which  prevails  without  exception  in  Communi- 
paw,  Bergen,  Flatbush,  and  all  our  uncontaminated 
Dutch  villages. 

At  these  primitive  tea-parties  the  utmost  pro 
priety  and  dignity  of  deportment  prevailed.  No 
flirting  nor  coqueting — no  gambling  of  old  ladies, 
nor  hoyden  chattering  and  romping  of  young  ones 
— no  self-satisfied  struttings  of  wealthy  gentlemen, 
with  their  brains  in  their  pockets — nor  amusing 
conceits  and  monkey  divertisements  of  smart  young 


gentlemen  with  no  brains  at  all.  On  the  contrary, 
the  young  ladies  seated  themselves  demurely  in 
their  rush-bottomed  chairs,  and  knit  their  own 
woollen  stockings ;  nor  ever  opened  their  lips,  ex 
cepting  to  say  yaw  Mynher,  or  yah^/ah  Frouw,  to 
any  question  that  was  asked  them ;  behaving  in 
all  things  like  decent,  well-educated  damsels.  As 
to  the  gentlemen,  each  of  them  tranquilly  smoked 
his  pipe,  and  seemed  lost  in  contemplation  of  the 
blue  and  white  tiles  with  which  the  fire-places 
were  decorated ;  wherein  sundry  passages  of  scrip 
ture  were  piously  portrayed — Tobit  and  his  dog 
figured  to  great  advantage ;  Haman  swung  con 
spicuously  on  his  gibbet;  and  Jonah  appeared 
most  manfully  bouncing  out  of  the  whale,  like 
Harlequin  through  a  barrel  of  fire. 

The  parties  broke  up  without  noise  and  without 
confusion.  They  were  carried  home  by  their  own 
carriages,  that  is  to  say,  by  the  vehicles  Nature 
had  provided  them,  excepting  such  of  the  wealthy 
as  could  afford  to  keep  a  wagon.  The  gentlemen 
gallantly  attended  their  fair  ones  to  their  respective 
abodes,  and  took  leave  of  them  with  a  hearty  smack 
at  the  door ;  which,  as  it  was  an  established  piece 
of  etiquette,  done  in  perfect  simplicity  and  honesty 
of  heart,  occasioned  no  scandal  at  that  time,  nor 
should  it  at  the  present — if  our  great-grandfathers 
approved  of  the  custom,  it  would  argue  a  great 
want  of  reverence  in  their  descendants  to  say  a 
word  against  it. 


LADIES  OF  THE  GOLDEN  AGE. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

IN  this  dulcet  period  of  my  history,  even  the 
female  sex,  those  arch  innovators  upon  the  tran 
quillity,  the  honesty,  and  gray-beard  customs  of 
society,  seemed  for  awhile  to  conduct  themselves 
with  incredible  sobriety  and  comeliness. 

Their  hair,  untortured  by  the  abominations  of 
art,  was  scrupulously  pomatumed  back  from  their 
foreheads  with  a  candle,  and  covered  with  a  little 
cap  of  quilted  calico,  which  fitted  exactly  to  their 
heads.  Their  petticoats  of  linsey-woolsey  were 
striped  with  a  variety  of  gorgeous  dyes — though  I 
must  confess  these  gallant  garments  were  rather 
short,  scarce  reaching  below  the  knee;  but  then 
they  made  up  in  the  number,  which  generally 
equalled  that  of  the  gentlemen's  small  clothes  ;  and 
what  is  still  more  praiseworthy,  they  were  all  of 
their  own  manufacture — of  which  circumstance, 
as  may  well  be  supposed,  they  were  not  a  little 
vain. 

These  were  the  honest  days  in  which  every 
woman  stayed  at  home,  read  the  Bible,  and  wore 
pockets — ay,  and  that  too  of  a  goodly  size,  fashioned 
with  patchwork  into  many  curious  devices,  and 
ostentatiously  worn  on  the  outside.  These,  in 
fact,  were  convenient  receptacles  where  all  good 
housewives  carefully  stored  away  such  things  as 
they  wished  to  have  at  hand;  by  which  means 
they  often  came  to  be  incredibly  crammed — and  I 
remember  there  was  a  story  current  when  I  was  a 
boy,  that  the  lady  of  Wouter  Van  Twiller  once 


208 


WASHINGTON    IRVING. 


had  occasion  to  empty  her  right  pocket  in  search  of  a 
wooden  ladle,  and  the  utensil  was  discovered  lying 
among  some  rubbish  in  one  corner — but  we  must 
not  give  too  much  faith  to  all  these  stories ;  the 
anecdotes  of  those  remote  periods  being  very  sub 
ject  to  exaggeration. 

Besides  these  notable  pockets,  they  likewise 
wore  scissors  and  pincushions  suspended  from  their 
girdles  by  red  ribands,  or,  among  the  more  opulent 
and  showy  classes,  by  brass,  and  even  silver  chains, 
indubitable  tokens  of  thrifty  housewives  and  in 
dustrious  spinsters.  I  cannot  say  much  in  vindi 
cation  of  the  shortness  of  the  petticoats ;  it  doubt 
less  was  introduced  for  the  purpose  of  giving  the 
stockings  a  chance  to  be  seen,  which  were  gene 
rally  of  blue  worsted,  with  magnificent  red  clocks 
— or  perhaps  to  display  a  well-turned  ankle,  and . 
a  neat  though  serviceable  foot,  set  off  by  a  high- 
heeled  leathern  shoe,  with  a  large  and  splendid  sil 
ver  buckle.  Thus  we  find  that  the  gentle  sex  in 
all  ages  have  shown  the  same  disposition  to  in 
fringe  a  little  upon  the  laws  of  decorum,  in  order 
to  betray  a  lurking  beauty,  or  gratify  an  innocent 
love  of  finery. 

From  the  sketch  here  given,  it  will  be  seen  that 
our  good  grandmothers  differed  considerably  in  their 
ideas  of  a  fine  figure  from  their  scantily-dressed 
descendants  of  the  present  day.  A  fine  lady,  in 
those  times,  waddled  under  more  clothes,  even  on 
a  fair  summer's  day,  than  would  have  clad  the 
whole  bevy  of  a  modern  ball-room.  Nor  were 
they  the  less  admired  by  the  gentlemen  in  conse 
quence  thereof.  On  the  contrary,  the  greatness 
of  a  lover's  passion  seemed  to  increase  in  propor 
tion  to  the  magnitude  of  its  object — and  a  volumi 
nous  damsel,  arrayed  in  a  dozen  of  petticoats,  was 
declared  by  a  Low  Dutch  sonnetteer  of  the  pro 
vince  to  be  radiant  as  a  sunflower,  and  luxuriant 
as  a  full-blown  cabbage.  Certain  it  is,  that  in 
those  days  the  heart  of  a  lover  could  not  contain 
more  than  one  lady  at  a  time ;  whereas  the  heart 
of  a  modern  gallant  has  often  room  enough  to  ac 
commodate  half-a-dozen.  The  reason  of  which  I 
conclude  to  be,  that  either  the  hearts  of  the  gentle 
men  have  grown  larger,  or  the  persons  of  the  la 
dies  smaller — this,  however,  is  a  question  for  phy 
siologists  to  determine. 

But  there  was  a  secret  charm  in  these  petticoats, 
which  no  doubt  entered  into  the  consideration  of 
the  prudent  gallants.  The  wardrobe  of  a  lady 
was  in  those  days  her  only  fortune ;  and  she  who 
had  a  good  stock  of  petticoats  and  stockings,  was 
as  absolutely  an  heiress  as  is  a  Kamtschatka  dam 
sel  with  a  store  of  bear-skins,  or  a  Lapland  belle 
with  a  plenty  of  reindeer.  The  ladies,  therefore, 
were  very  anxious  to  display  these  powerful  attrac 
tions  to  the  greatest  advantage ;  and  the  best  rooms 
in  the  house,  instead  of  being  adorned  with  cari 
catures  of  dame  Nature,  in  water  colours  and 
needle-work,  were  always  hung  round  with  abun 
dance  of  homespun  garments,  the  manufacture 
and  the  property  of  the  females — a  piece  of  laud 
able  ostentation  that  still  prevails  among  the  heir 
esses  of  our  Dutch  villages.  .  . . 

Such  was   the  happy  reign  of  Wouter  Van 


Twiller,  celebrated  in  many  a  long-forgotten  song 
as  the  real  golden  age,  the  rest  being  nothing  but 
counterfeit  copper-washed  coin.  In  that  delight 
ful  period,  a  sweet  and  holy  calm  reigned  over  the 
whole  province.  The  burgomaster  smoked  his 
pipe  in  peace — the  substantial  solace  of  his  do 
mestic  cares,  after  her  daily  toils  were  done,  sat 
soberly  at  the  door  with  her  arms  crossed  over  her 
apron  of  snowy  white,  without  being  insulted  by 
ribald  street-walkers,  or  vagabond  boys — those  un 
lucky  urchins,  who  do  so  infest  our  streets,  dis 
playing  under  the  roses  of  youth  the  thorns  arid 
briars  of  iniquity.  Then  it  was  that  the  lover 
with  ten  breeches,  and  the  damsel  with  petticoats 
of  half  a  score,  indulged  in  all  the  innocent  endear 
ments  .of  virtuous  love,  without  fear  and  without 
reproach ;  for  what  had  that  virtue  to  fear  winch 
was  defended  by  a  shield  of  good  linsey-woolseys, 
equal  at  least  to  the  seven  bull-hides  of  the  invin 
cible  Ajax? 

Ah !  blissful,  and  never  to  be  forgotten  age ! 
when  every  thing  was  better  than  it  has  ever  been 
since,  or  ever  will  be  again — when  Buttermilk 
Channel  was  quite  dry  at  low  water — when  the 
shad  in  the  Hudson  were  all  salmon,  and  when 
the  moon  shone  with  a  pure  and  resplendent 
whiteness,  instead  of  that  melancholy  yellow  light 
which  is  the  consequence  of  her  sickening  at  the 
abominations  she  every  night  witnesses  in  this 
degenerate  city  ! 

Happy  would  it  have  been  for  New  Amsterdam 
could  it  always  have  existed  in  this  state  of  bliss 
ful  ignorance  and  lowly  simplicity — but,  alas !  the 
days  of  childhood  are  too  sweet  to  last !  Cities,  like 
men,  grow  out  of  them  in  time,  and  are  doomed 
alike  to  grow  into  the  bustle,  the  cares,  and  mise 
ries  of  the  world.  Let  no  man  congratulate  him 
self  when  he  beholds  the  child  of  his  bosom  or  the 
city  of  his  birth  increasing  in  magnitude  and  im 
portance — let  the  history  of  his  own  life  teach  him 
the  dangers  of  the  one,  and  this  excellent  little 
history  of  Manna-hata  convince  him  of  the  cala 
mities  of  the  other. 


LAST  DAYS  OF  PETER  STUYVESANT 

FROM   THE  SAME. 

Ix  process?  of  time,  the  old  governor,  like  all 
other  children  of  mortality,  began  to  exhibit  tokens 
of  decay.  Like  an  aged  oak,  which,  though  it 
long  has  braved  the  fury  of  the  elements,  and  still 
retains  its  gigantic  proportions,  yet  begins  to  shake 
and  groan  with  every  blast — so  was  it  with  the 
gallant  Peter;  for  though  he  still  bore  the  port 
and  semblance  of  what  he  was  in  the  days  of  his 
hardihood  and  chivalry,  yet  did  age  and  infirmity 
begin  to  sap  the  vigour  of  his  frame — but  his  heart, 
that  most  unconquerable  citadel,  still  triumphed 
unsubdued.  With  matchless  avidity  would  he 
listen  to  every  article  of  intelligence  concerning 
the  battles  between  the  English  and  Dutch — still 
would  his  pulse  beat  high  whenever  he  heard  of 
the  victories  of  De  Ruyter — and  his  countenance 
lower,  and  his  eyebrows  knit  when  fortune  turned 


WASHINGTON    IRVING. 


209 


in  favour  of  the  English.  At  length,  as  on  a  cer 
tain  day  he  had  just  smoked  his  fifth  pipe,  and 
was  napping  after  dinner  in  his  arm-chair,  con 
quering  the  whole  British  nation  in  his  dreams, 
he  was  suddenly  aroused  by  a  fearful  ringing  of 
bells,  rattling  of  drums,  and  roaring  of  cannon, 
that  put  all  his  blood  in  a  ferment.  But  when  he 
learnt  that  these  rejoicings  were  in  honour  of  a 
great  victory  obtained  by  the  combined  English 
and  French  fleets  over  the  brave  De  Ruyter  and 
the  younger  Von  Tromp,  it  went  so  much  to  his 
heart  that  he  took  to  his  bed,  and  in  less  than 
three  days  was  brought  to  death's  door  by  a  vio 
lent  cholera  morbus  !  But,  even  in  this  extremity, 
he  still  displayed  the  unconquerable  spirit  of  Peter 
the  Headstrong  ;  holding  out  to  the  last  gasp  with 
the  most  inflexible  obstinacy  against  a  whole  army 
of  old  women,  who  were  bent  upon  driving  the 
enemy  out  of  his  bowels,  after  a  true  Dutch  mode 
of  defence,  by  inundating  the  seat  of  war  with  cat 
nip  and  pennyroyal. 

While  he  thus  lay,  lingering  on  the  verge  of 
dissolution,  news  was  brought  him  that  the  brave 
De  Ruyter  had  suffered  but  little  loss — had  made 
good  his  retreat — and  meant  once  more  to  meet 
the  enemy  in  battle.  The  closing  eye  of  the  old 
warrior  kindled  at  the  words — he  partly  raised 
himself  in  bed — a  flash  of  martial  fire  beamed 
across  his  visage — he  clinched  his  withered  hand, 
as  if  he  felt  within  his  gripe  that  sword  which 
wavod  in  triumph  before  the  walls  of  Fort  Chris 
tina,  and,  giving  a  grim  smile  of  exultation,  sunk 
back  upon  his  pillow  and  expired. 

Thus  died  Peter  Stuy  vesant,  a  valiant  soldier — 
a  loyal  subject — an  upright  governor,  and  an  ho 
nest  Dutchman — who  wanted  only  a  few  empires 
to  desolate  to  have  been  immortalized  as  a  hero ! 

His  funeral  obsequies  were  celebrated  with  the 
utmost  grandeur  and  solemnity.  The  town  was 
perfectly  emptied  of  its  inhabitants,  who  crowded 
in  throngs  to  pay  the  last  sad  honours  to  their 
good  old  governor.  All  his  sterling  qualities 
rushed  in  full  tide  upon  their  recollections,  while 
the  memory  of  his  foibles  and  his  faults  had  ex 
pired  with  him.  The  ancient  burghers  contended 
who  should  have  the  privilege  of  bearing  the  pall; 
the  populace  strove  who  should  walk  nearest  to 
the  bier — and  the  melancholy  procession  was  closed 
by  a  number  of  gray-headed  negroes,  who  had 
wintered  and  summered  in  the  household  of  their 
departed  master  for  the  greater  part  of  a  century. 

With  sad  and  gloomy  countenances  the  multi 
tude  gathered  around  the  grave.  They  dwelt 
with  mournful  hearts  on  the  sturdy  virtues,  the 
signal  services,  and  the  gallant  exploits  of  the 
brave  old  worthy.  They  recalled  with  secret  up- 
braidings  their  own  factious  opposition  to  his  go 
vernment — and  many  an  ancient  burgher,  whose 
phlegmatic  features  had  never  been  known  to  re 
lax,  nor  his  eyes  to  moisten — was  now  observed 
to  puff  a  pensive  pipe,  and  the  big  drop  to  steal 
down  his  cheek — while  he  muttered  with  affec 
tionate  accent  and  melancholy  shake  of  the  head 
— "  Well  den  ! — Hardkoppig  Peter  ben  gone  at 
last !" 

97 


THE  USES  OF  HISTORY. 

FEOM   THE  SAME. 

How  vain,  how  fleeting,  how  uncertain  are  all, 
those  gaudy  bubbles  after  which  we  are  panting 
and  toiling  in  this  world  of  fair  delusion !  The 
wealth  which  the  miser  has  amassed  with  so  many 
weary  days,  so  many  sleepless  nights,  a  spend 
thrift  heir  may  squander  away  in  joyless  prodigal 
ity.  The  noblest  monuments  which  pride  has 
ever  reared  to  perpetuate  a  name,  the  hand  of  time 
will  shortly  tumble  into  ruins — and  even  the 
brightest  laurels,  gained  by  feats  of  arms,  may 
wither  and  be  for  ever  blighted  by  the  chilling 
neglect  of  mankind. — «  How  many  illustrious  he- 
rocs,"  says  the  good  Boetius, "  who  were  once  the 
pride  and  glory  of  the  age,  hath  the  silence  of  his 
torians  buried  in  eternal  oblivion !"  And  this  it 
was  that  induced  the  Spartans,  when  they  went 
to  battle,  solemnly  to  sacrifice  to  the  muses,  sup 
plicating  that  their  achievements  should  be  wor 
thily  recorded.  Had  not  Homer  tuned  his  lofty 
lyre,  observes  the  elegant  Cicero,  the  valour  of 
Achilles  had  remained  unsung.  And  such,  too, 
after  all  the  toils  and  perils  he  had  braved,  after 
all  the  gallant  actions  he  had  achieved,  such  too 
had  nearly  been  the  fate  of  the  chivalric  Peter 
Stuyvcsant,  but  that  I  fortunately  stepped  in  and 
engraved  his  name  on  the  indelible  tablet  of  his 
tory,  just  as  the  caitiff  Time  was  silently  brushing 
it  away  for  ever. 

The  more  I  reflect,  the  more  am  I  astonished  at 
the  important  character  of  the  historian.  He  is 
the  sovereign  censor  to  decide  upon  the  renown 
or  infamy  of  his  fellow-men — he  is  the  patron  of 
kings  and  conquerors,  on  whom  it  depends  whether 
they  shall  live  in  after  ages,  or  be  forgotten,  as 
were  their  ancestors  before  them.  The  tyrant  may 
oppress  while  the  object  of  his  tyranny  exists,  but 
the  historian  possesses  superior  might,  for  his  power 
extends  even  beyond  the  grave.  The  shades  of 
departed  and  long-forgotten  heroes  anxiously  bend 
down  from  above,  while  he  writes,  watching  each 
movement  of  his  pen,  whether  it  shall  pass  by 
their  names  with  neglect,  or  inscribe  them  on  the 
deathless  pages  of  renown.  Even  the  drop  of  ink 
that  hangs  trembling  on  his  pen,  which  he  may 
either  dash  upon  the  floor  or  waste  in  idle  scraw- 
lings — that  very  drop,  which  to  him  is  not  worth 
the  twentieth  part  of  a  farthing,  may  be  of  incal 
culable  value  to  some  departed  worthy — may  ele 
vate  half  a  score  in  one  moment  to  immortality, 
who  would  have  given  worlds,  had  they  possessed 
them,  to  insure  the  glorious  meed. 

Let  not  my  readers  imagine,  however,  that  I  am 
indulging  in  vain-glorious  boastings,  or  am  anxious 
to  blazon  forth  the  importance  of  my  tribe.  On 
the  contrary,  I  shrink  when  I  reflect  on  the  a\vful 
responsibility  we  historians  assume — I  shudder  to 
think  what  direful  commotions  and  calamities  we 
occasion  in  the  world — I  swear  to  thee,  hones 
reader,  as  I  am  a  man,  I  weep  at  the  very  idea 
Why,  let  me  ask,  arc  so  many  illustrious  mei 
daily  tearing  themselves  away  from  the  embrace 
of  their  families — slighting  the  smiles  of  beauty 


210 


WASHINGTON   IRVING. 


despising  the  allurements  of  fortune,  and  exposing 
themselves  to  the  miseries  of  war1? — Why  are 
kings  desolating  empires  and  depopulating  whole 
countries  !  In  short,  what  induces  all  great  men, 
of  all  ages  and  countries,  to  commit  so  many  vic 
tories  and  misdeeds,  and  inflict  so  many  miseries 
upon  mankind  and  on  themselves,  but  the  mere 
hope  that  some  historian  will  kindly  take  them 
into  notice,  and  admit  them  into  a  corner  of  his 
volume.  For,  in  short,  the  mighty  object  of  all 
their  toils,  their  hardships,  and  privations,  is  no 
thing  but  immortal  fame — and  what  is  immortal 
fame  1 — why,  half  a  page  of  dirty  paper ! — Alas  ! 
alas  !  how  humiliating  the  idea — that  the  renown 
of  so  great  a  man  as  Peter  Stuy  vesant  should  de 
pend  upon  the  pen  of  so  little  a  man  as  Diedrich 
Knickerbocker ! 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE. 

A  POSTHUMOUS  WRITING  OF  DIEDRICH 
KNICKERBOCKER. 

FROM   THE   SKETCH-BOOK. 

WHOEVER  has  made  a  voyage  up  the  Hudson 
must  remember  the  Kaatskill  mountains.  They 
are  a  dismembered  branch  of  the  great  Appala 
chian  family,  and  are  seen  away  to  the  west  of 
the  river,  swelling  up  to  a  noble  height,  and  lord 
ing  it  over  the  surrounding  country.  Every 
change  of  season,  every  change  of  weather,  in 
deed,  every  hour  in  the  day,  produces  some  change 
in  the  magical  hues  and  shapes  of  these  moun 
tains  ;  and  they  are  regarded  by  all  the  good  wives, 
far  and  near,  as  perfect  barometers.  When  the 
weather  is  fair  and  settled,  they  are  clothed  in  blue 
and  purple,  and  print  their  bold  outlines  on  the 
clear  evening  sky ;  but  sometimes,  when  the  rest 
of  the  landscape  is  cloudless,  they  will  gather  a 
hood  of  gray  vapours  about  their  summits,  which, 
in  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  will  glow  and 
light  up  like  a  crown  of  glory. 

At  the  foot  of  these  fairy  mountains,  the  voy 
ager  may  have  descried  the  light  smoke  curling  up 
from  a  village,  whose  shingle  roofs  gleam  among 
the  trees,  just  where  the  blue  tints  of  the  upland 
melt  away  into  the  fresh  green  of  the  nearer  land 
scape.  It  is  a  little  village  of  great  antiquity,  hav 
ing  been  founded  by  some  of  the  Dutch  colonists 
in  the  early  times  of  the  province,  just  about  the 
beginning  of  the  government  of  the  good  Peter 
Stuyvesant,  (may  he  rest  in  peace!)  and  there 
were  some  of  the  houses  of  the  original  settlers 
standing  within  a  few  years,  built  of  small  yellow 
bricks  brought  from  Holland,  having  latticed  win 
dows  and  gable  fronts,  surmounted  with  weather 
cocks. 

In  that  same  village,  and  in  one  of  these  very 
houses,  (which,  to  tell  the  precise  truth,  was  sadly 
time-worn  and  weather-beaten,)  there  lived  many 
years  since,  while  the  country  was  yet  a  province 
of  Great  Britain,  a  simple,  good-natured  fellow,  of 
the  name  of  Rip  Van  Winkle.  He  was  a  de 
scendant  of  the  Van  Winkles  who  figured  so  gal 
lantly  in  the  chivalrous  days  of  Peter  Stuyvesant, 


and  accompanied  him  to  the  siege  of  Fort  Chris 
tina.  He  inherited,  however,  but  little  of  the  mar 
tial  character  of  his  ancestors.  I  have  observed 
that  he  was  a  simple,  good-natured  man ;  he  was 
moreover  a  kind  neighbour,  and  an  obedient  hen 
pecked  husband.  Indeed,  to  the  latter  circum 
stance  might  be  owing  that  meekness  of  spirit 
which  gained  him  such  universal  popularity  ;  for 
those  men  are  most  apt  to  be  obsequious  and  con 
ciliating  abroad,  who  are  under  the  discipline  of 
shrews  at  home.  Their  tempers,  doubtless,  are 
rendered  pliant  and  malleable  in  the  fiery  furnace 
of  domestic  tribulation,  and  a  curtain  lecture  is 
worth  all  the  sermons  in  the  world  for  teaching 
the  virtues  of  patience  and  long-suffering.  A  ter 
magant  wife  may,  therefore,  in  some  respects,  be 
considered  a  tolerable  blessing ;  and  if  so,  Rip  Van 
Winkle  was  thrice  blessed. 

Certain  it  is,  that  he  was  a  great  favourite  among 
all  the  good  wives  of  the  village,  who,  as  usual 
with  the  amiable  sex,  took  his  part  in  all  family 
squabbles,  and  never  failed,  whenever  they  talked 
those  matters  over  in  their  evening  gossipings,  to 
lay  all  the  blame,  on  Dame  Van  Winkle.  The 
children  of  the  village,  too,  would  shout  with  joy 
whenever  he  approached.  He  assisted  at  their 
sports,  made  their  playthings,  taught  them  to  fly 
kites  and  shoot  marbles,  and  told  them  long  stories 
of  ghosts,  witches,  and  Indians.  Whenever  he 
went  dodging  about  the  village,  he  was  surrounded 
by  a  troop  of  them,  hanging  on  his  skirts,  clam 
bering  on  his  back,  and  playing  a  thousand  tricks 
on  him  with  impunity  ;  and  not  a  dog  would  bark 
at  h>m  throughout  the  neighbourhood. 

The  great  error  in  Rip's  composition  was  an  in 
superable  aversion  to  all  kinds  of  profitable  labour. 
It  could  not  be  from  the  want  of  assiduity  or  per 
severance  ;  for  he  would  sit  on  a  wet  rock,  with  a 
rod  as  long  and  heavy  as  a  Tartar's  lance,  and  fish 
all  day  without  a  murmur,  even  though  he  should 
not  be  encouraged  by  a  single  nibble.  He  would 
carry  a  fowling-piece  on  his  shoulder  for  hours  to 
gether,  trudging  through  woods  and  swamps,  and 
up  hill  and  down  dale,  to  shoot  a  few  squirrels  or 
wild  pigeons.  He  would  never  refuse  to  assist  a 
neighbour  even  in  the  roughest  toil,  and  was  a  fore 
most  man  at  all  country  frolics  for  husking  Indian 
corn,  or  building  stone  fences.  The  women  of 
the  village,  too,  used  to  employ  him  to  run  their 
errands,  and  to  do  such  little  odd  jobs  as  their  less 
obliging  husbands  would  not  do  for  them ; — in  a 
word,  Rip  was  ready  to  attend  to  anybody's  busi 
ness  but  his  own ;  but  as  to  doing  family  duty 
and  keeping  his  farm  in  order,  he  found  it  im 
possible. 

In  fact,  he  declared  it  was  of  no  use  to  work  on 
his  farm ;  it  was  the  most  pestilent  little  piece  of 
ground  in  the  whole  country ;  every  thing  about 
it  went  wrong,  and  would  go  wrong  in  spite  of 
him.  His  fences  were  continually  falling  to  pieces ; 
his  cow  would  either  go  astray,  or  get  among  the 
abbages;  weeds  were  sure  to  grow  quicker  in  his 
fields  than  anywhere  else  ;  the  rain  always  made 
a  point  of  setting  in  just  as  he  had  some  out-door 
work  to  do ;  so  that  though  his  patrimonial  estate 


WASHINGTON   IRVING. 


211 


had  dwindled  away  under  his  management,  acre 
by  acre,  until  there  was  little  more  left  than  a  mere 
patch  of  Indian  corn  and  potatoes,  yet  it  was  the 
worst  conditioned  farm  in  the  neighbourhood. 

His  children,  too,  were  as  ragged  and  wild  as  if 
they  belonged  to  nobody.  His  son  Rip,  an  urchin 
begotten  in  his  own  likeness,  promised  to  inherit 
the  habits,  with  the  old  clothes  of  his  father.  He 
was  generally  seen  trooping  like  a  colt  at  his  mo 
ther's  heels,  equipped  in  a  pair  of  his  father's  cast- 
off  galligaskins,  which  he  had  much  ado  to  hold 
up  with  one  hand,  as  a  fine  lady  does  her  train  in . 
bad  weather. 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  however,  was  one  of  those 
happy  mortals,  of  foolish,  well-oiled  dispositions, 
who  take  the  world  easy,  eat  white  bread  or  brown, 
whichever  can  be  got  with  least  thought  or  trouble, 
and  would  rather  starve  on  a  penny  than  work  for 
a  pound.  If  left  to  himself,  he  would  have  whis 
tled  life  away  in  perfect  contentment ;  but  his  wife 
kept  continually  dinning  in  his  ears  about  his  idle 
ness,  his  carelessness,  and  the  ruin  he  was  bring 
ing  on  his  family. 

Morning,  noon,  and  night  her  tongue  was  inces 
santly  going,  and  every  thing  he  said  or  did  was 
sure  to  produce  a  torrent  of  household  eloquence. 
Rip  had  but  one  way  of  replying  to  all  lectures  of 
the  kind,  and  that  by  frequent  use  had  grown  into 
a  habit.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  shook  his 
head,  cast  up  his  eyes,  but  said  nothing.  This, 
however,  always  provoked  a  fresh  volley  from  his 
wife,  so  that  he  was  fain  to  draw  off  his  forces  and 
take  to  the  outside  of  the  house — the  only  side 
which,  in  truth,  belongs  to  a  henpecked  husband. 

Rip's  sole  domestic  adherent  was  his  dog  Wolf, 
who  was  as  much  henpecked  as  his  master ;  for 
Dame  Van  Winkle  regarded  them  as  companions 
in  idleness,  and  even  looked  upon  Wolf  with  an 
evil  eye,  as  the  cause  of  his  master's  going  so  often 
astray.  True  it  is  in  all  points  of  spirit  befitting 
an  honourable  dog,  he  was  as  courageous  an  animal  • 
as  ever  scoured  the  woods — but  what  courage  can 
withstand  the  ever-during  and  all-besetting  terrors 
of  a  woman's  tongue  ]  The  moment  Wolf  en 
tered  the  house,  his  crest  fell,  his  tail  drooped  to 
the  ground,  or  curled  between  his  legs;  he  sneaked 
about  with  a  gallows  air,  casting  many  a  sidelong 
glance  at  Dame  Van  Winkle,  and  at  the  least 
flourish  of  a  broomstick  or  ladle,  he  would  fly  to 
the  door  with  yelping  precipitation. 

Times  grew  worse  and  worse  with  Rip  Van 
Winkle,  as  years  of  matrimony  rolled  on :  a  tart 
temper  never  mellows  with  age,  and  a  sharp  tongue 
is  the  only  edge  tool  that  grows  keener  with  con 
stant  use.  For  a  long  while  he  used  to  console 
himself,  when  driven  from  home,  by  frequenting 
a  kind  of  perpetual  club  of  the  sages,  philosophers, 
and  other  idle  personages  of  the  village,  which 
held  its  sessions  on  a  bench  before  a  small  inn, 
designated  by  a  rubicund  portrait  of  his  majesty, 
George  the  Third.  Here  they  used  to  sit  in  the 
shade,  of  a  long  lazy  summer's  day,  talking  list 
lessly  over  village  gossip,  or  telling  endless  sleepy 
stories  about  nothing.  But  it  would  have  been 
worth  any  statesman's  money  to  have  heard  the 


profound  discussions  which  sometimes  took  place, 
when  by  chance  an  old  newspaper  fell  into  their 
hands  from  some  passing  traveller.  How  solemnly 
they  would  listen  to  the  contents  as  drawled  out 
by  Derrick  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster,  a  dap 
per  learned  little  man,  who  was  not  to  be  daunted 
by  the  most  gigantic  word  in  the  dictionary ;  and 
how  sagely  they  would  deliberate  upon  public 
events  some  months  after  they  had  taken  place. 

The  opinions  of  this  junto  were  completely  con 
trolled  by  Nicholas  Vedder,  a  .patriarch  of  the  vil 
lage  and  landlord  of  the  inn,  at  the  door  of  which 
he  took  his  seat  from  morning  till  night,  just  mov 
ing  sufficiently  to  avoid  the  sun,  and  keep  in  the 
shade  of  a  large  tree ;  so  that  the  neighbours  could 
tell  the  hour  by  his  movements  as  accurately  as 
by  a  sun-dial.  It  is  true  he  was  rarely  heard  to 
speak,  but  smoked  his  pipe  incessantly.  His  ad 
herents,  however,  (for  every  great  man  had  his 
adherents,)  perfectly  understood  him,  and  knew 
how  to  gather  his  opinions.  When  any  thing 
that  was  read  or  related  displeased  him,  he  tva.s 
observed  to  smoke  his  pipe  vehemently,  and  to 
send  forth  short,  frequent,  and  angry  puffs ;  but 
when  pleased,  he  would  inhale  the  smoke  slowly 
and  tranquilly,  and  emit  it  in  light*  and  placid 
clouds,  and  sometimes  taking  the  pipe  from  his 
mouth,  and  letting  the  fragrant  vapour  curl  about 
his  nose,  would  gravely  nod  his  head  in  token  of 
perfect  approbation. 

From  even  this  strong  hold  the  unlucky  Rip 
was  at  length  routed  by  his  termagant  wife,  who 
would  suddenly  break  in  upon  the  tranquillity  of 
the  assemblage,  and  call  the  members  all  to  nought; 
nor  was  that  august  personage,  Nicholas  Vedder 
himself,  sacred  from  the  daring  tongue  of  this  ter 
rible  virago,  who  charged  him  outright  with  en 
couraging  her  husband  in  habits  of  idleness. 

Poor  Rip  was  at  last  reduced  almost  to  despair, 
and  his  only  alternative  to  escape  from  the  labour 
of  the  farm  and  the  clamour  of  his  wife  was  to 
take  gun  in  hand  and  stroll  away  into  the  woods. 
Here  he  would  sometimes  seat  himself  at  the  foot 
of  a  tree,  arid  share  the  contents  of  his  wallet  with 
Wolf,  with  whom  he  sympathized  as  a  fellow- 
sufferer  in  persecution.  "  Poor  Wolf,"  he  would 
say,  "  thy  mistress  leads  thee  a  dog's  life  of  it ;  but 
never  mind,  my  lad,  whilst  I  live  thou  shalt  never 
want  a  friend  to  stand  by  thee !"  Wolf  would 
wag  his  tail,  look  wistfully  in  his  master's  faco, 
and  if  dogs  can  feel  pity,  I  verily  believe  he  reci 
procated  the  sentiment  with  all  his  heart. 

In  a  long  ramble  of  the  kind,  on  a  fine  autum 
nal  day,  Rip  had  unconsciously  scrambled  to  one 
of  the  highest  parts  of  the  Kaatskill  mountains. 
He  was  after  his  favourite  sport  of  squirrel-shoot 
ing,  and  the  still  solitudes  had  echoed  and  re 
echoed  with  the  reports  of  his  gun.  Panting  and 
fatigued,  he  threw  himself,  late  in  the  afternoon, 
on  a  green  knoll  covered  with  mountain  herbage 
that  crowned  the  brow  of  a  precipice.  From  an 
opening  between  the  trees,  he  could  overlook  all 
the  lower  country  for  many  a  mile  of  rich  wood 
land.  He  saw  at  a  distance  the  lordly  Hudson 
far,  far  below  him,  moving  on  its  silent  but  ma- 


212 


WASHINGTON    IRVING. 


jestic  course,  with  the  reflection  of  a  purple  cloud, 
or  the  sail  of  a  lagging  bark,  here  and  there  sleep 
ing  on  its  glassy  bosom,  and  at  last  losing  itself  in 
the  blue  highlands. 

On  the  other  side  he  looked  down  into  a  deep 
mountain  glen,  wild,  lonely,  and  shagged,  the  bot 
tom  filled  with  fragments  from  the  impending  cliffs, 
and  scarcely  lighted  by  the  reflected  rays  of  the 
setting  sun.  For  some  time  Rip  lay  musing  on 
this  scene ;  evening  was  gradually  advancing ;  the 
mountains  began  to  throw  their  long  blue  shadows 
over  the  valleys ;  he  saw  that  it  would  be  dark 
long  before  he  could  reach  the  village ;  and  he 
heaved  a  heavy  sigh  when  he  thought  of  encoun 
tering  the  terrors  of  Dame  Van  Winkle. 

As  he  was  about  to  descend,  he  heard  a  voice 
from  a  distance,  hallooing,  "  Rip  Van  Winkle ! 
Rip  Van  Winkle  !"  He  looked  around,  but  could 
-see  nothing  but  a  crow  winging  its  solitary  flight 
across  the  mountain.  He  thought  his  fancy  must 
have  deceived  him,  and  turned  again  to  descend, 
when  he  heard  the  same  cry  ring  through  the  still 
evening  air :  "  Rip  Van  Winkle  !  Rip  Van  Win 
kle  !" — at  the  same  time  Wolf  bristled  up  his  back, 
and  giving  a  low  growl,  skulked  to  his  master's 
side,  looking  fearfully  down  into  the  glen.  Rip 
now  felt  a  vague  apprehension  stealing  over  him  : 
he  looked  anxiously  in  the  same  direction,  and  per 
ceived  a  strange  figure  slowly  toiling  up  the  rocks, 
and  bending  under  the  weight  of  something  he 
carried  on  his  back.  He  was  surprised  to  see  any 
human  being  in  this  lonely  and  unfrequented  place, 
but  supposing  it  to  be  some  one  of  the  neighbour 
hood  in  need  of  his  assistance,  he  hastened  down 
to  yield  it. 

On  nearer  approach,  he  was  still  more  surprised 
at  the  singularity  of  the  stranger's  appearance. 
He  was  a  short,  square-built  old  fellow,  with  thick 
bushy  hair  and  a  grizzled  beard.  His  dress  was 
of  the  antique  Dutch  fashion — a  cloth  jerkin 
strapped  round  the  waist — several  pair  of  breeches, 
the  outer  one  of  ample  volume,  decorated  with 
rows  of  buttons  down  the  sides,  and  bunches  at 
the  knees.  He  bore  on  his  shoulders  a  stout  keg, 
that  seemed  full  of  liquor,  and  made  signs  for  Rip 
to  approach  and  assist  him  with  the  load.  Though 
rather  shy  and  distrustful  of  this  new  acquaint 
ance,  Rip  complied  with  his  usual  alacrity,  and 
mutually  relieving  each  other,  they  clambered  up 
a  narrow  gully,  apparently  the  dry  bed  of  a  moun 
tain  torrent.  As  they  ascended,  Rip  every  now 
and  then  heard  long  rolling  peals,  like  distant 
thunder,  that  seemed  to  issue  out  of  a  deep  ravine, 
or  rather  cleft  between  lofty  rocks,  toward  which 
their  rugged  path  conducted.  He  paused  for  an 
instant,  but  supposing  it  to  be  the  muttering  of 
one  of  those  transient  thunder-showers  which  often 
take  place  in  mountain  heights,  he  proceeded. 
Passing  through  the  ravine,  they  came  to  a  hollow, 
like  a  small  amphitheatre,  surrounded  by  perpen 
dicular  precipices,  over  the  brinks  of  which  im 
pending  trees  shot  their  branches,  so  that  you  only 
caught  glimpses  of  the  azure  sky  and  the  bright 
evening  cloud.  During  the  whole  time.  Rip  and 
his  companion  had  laboured  on  in  silence ;  for 


though  the  former  marvelled  greatly  what  coulft 
be  the  object  of  carrying  a  keg  of  liquor  up  this 
wild  mountain,  yet  there  was  something  strange 
and  incomprehensible  about  the  unknown,  that 
inspired  awe,  and  checked  familiarity. 

On  entering  the  amphitheatre,  new  objects  of 
wonder  presented  themselves.  On  a  level  spot  in 
the  centre  was  a  company  of  odd-looking  person 
ages  playing  at  nine-pins.  They  were  dressed  in 
a .  qviaint  out-landish  fashion  :  some  wore  short 
doublets,  others  jerkins,  with  long  knives  in  their 
belts,  and  most  of  them  had  enormous  breeches  of 
similar  style  with  that  of  the  guide's.  Their 
visages,  too,  were  peculiar :  one  had  a  large  head, 
broad  face,  and  small  piggish  eyes ;  the  face  of  an 
other  seemed  to  consist  entirely  of  nose,  and  was 
surmounted  by  a  white  sugar-loaf  hat,  set  off  with 
a  little  red  cock's  tail.  They  all  had  beards  of 
various  shapes  and  colours.  There  was  one  who 
seemed  to  be  the  commander.  He  was  a  stout 
old  gentleman  with  a  weather-beaten  countenance; 
he  wore  a  laced  doublet,  broad  belt  and  hanger, 
high-crowned  hat  and  feather,  red  stockings,  and 
high-heeled  shoes  with  roses  in  them.  The  whole 
group  reminded  Rip  of  the  figures  in  an  old  Fle 
mish  painting  in  the  parlour  of  Dominie  Van 
Schaick,  the  village  parson,  and  which  had  been 
brought  over  from  Holland  at  the  time  of  the  set 
tlement. 

What  seemed  particularly  odd  to  Rip  was,  that 
though  these  folks  were  evidently  amusing  them 
selves,  yet  they  maintained  the  gravest  faces,  the 
most  mysterious  silence,  and  were,  withal,  the 
most  melancholy  party  of  pleasure  he  had  ever 
witnessed.  Nothing  interrupted  the  stillness  of 
the  scene  but  the  noise  of  the  balls,  which,  when 
ever  they  were  rolled,  echoed  along  the  mountains 
like  rumbling  peals  of  thunder. 

As  Rip  and  his  companion  approached  thein, 
they  suddenly  desisted  from  their  play,  and  stared 
at  him  with  such  a  fixed  statue-like  gaze,  and  such 
strange,  uncouth,  lack-lustre  countenances,  that 
his  heart  turned  within  him,  and  his  knees  smote 
together.  His  companion  now  emptied  the  con 
tents  of  the  keg  into  large  flagons,  and  made  signs 
to  him  to  wait  upon  the  company.  He  obeyed 
with  fear  and  trembling ;  they  quaffed  the  liquor 
in  profound  silence,  and  then  returned  to  their 
game. 

By  degrees  Rip's  awe  and  apprehension  subsided. 
He  even  ventured,  when  no  eye  was  fixed  upon 
him,  to  taste  the  beverage,  which  he  found  had 
much  of  the  flavour  of  excellent  Hollands.  He 
was  naturally  a  thirsty  soul,  and  was  soon  tempted 
to  repeat  the  draught.  One  taste  provoked  an 
other,  and  he  reiterated  his  visits  to  the  flagon  so 
often,  that  at  length  his  senses  were  overpowered, 
his  eyes  swam  in  his  head,  his  head  gradually  de 
clined,  and  he  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 

On  waking,  he  found  himself  on  the  green  knoll 
from  whence  he  had  first  seen  the  old  man  of  the 
glen.  He  rubbed  his  eyes — it  was  a  bright  sunny 
morning.  The  birds  were  hopping  and  twittering 
among  the  bushes,  and  the  eagle  was  wheeling 
aloft,  and  breasting  the  pure  mountain  breeze. 


WASHINGTON    IRVING. 


213 


"  Surely,"  thought  Rip,  « I  have  not  slept  here  all 
night."  He  recalled  the  occurrences  before  he  fell 
asleep.  The  strange  man  with  the  keg  of  liquor — 
the  mountain  ravine — the  wild  retreat  among  the 
rocks — the  wo-begone  party  at  nine-pins — the  fla 
gon — «  Oh  !  that  wicked  flagon  !"  thought  Rip — 
"  what  excuse  shall  I  make  to  Dame  Van  Winkle  1" 
He  looked  round  for  his  gun,  but  in  place  of  the 
clean,  well-oiled  fowling-piece,  he  found  an  old 
firelock  lying  by  him,  the  barrel  encrusted  with 
rust,  the  lock  falling  oft",  the  stock  worm-eaten. 
He  now  suspected  that  the  grave  roysters  of  the 
mountain  had  put  a  trick  upon  him,  and  having 
dosed  him  with  liquor,  had  robbed  him  of  his 
gun.  Wolf  too  had  disappeared,  but  he  might 
have  strayed  away  after  a  squirrel  or  partridge. 
He  whistled  after  him,  and  shouted  his  name,  but 
all  in  vain ;  the  echoes  repeated  his  whistle  and 
shout,  but  no  dog  was  to  be  seen. 

He  determined  to  revisit  the  scene  of  the  last 
evening's  gambol,  and  if  he  met  with  any  of  the 
party,  to  demand  his  dog  and  gun.  As  he  rose 
to  walk,  he  found  himself  stiff  in  the  joints,  and 
wanting  in  his  usual  activity.  "  These  mountain 
beds  do  not  agree  with  me,"  thought  Rip,  "  and  if 
this  frolic  should  lay  me  up  with  a  fit  of  the  rheu 
matism,  I  shall  have  a  blessed  time  with  Dame 
Van  Winkle."  With  some  difficulty  he  got  down 
into  the  glen ;  he  found  the  gully  up  which  he 
and  his  companion  had  ascended  the  preceding 
evening;  but  to  his  astonishment  a  mountain 
stream  was  now  foaming  down  it,  leaping  from 
rock  to  rock,  and  filling  the  glen  with  babbling 
murmurs.  He,  however,  made  shift  to  scramble 
up  its  sides,  working  his  toilsome  way  through 
thickets  of  birch,  sassafras,  and  witch-hazel ;  and 
sometimes  tripped  up  or  entangled  by  the  wild 
grapevines  that  twisted  their  coils  and  tendrils 
from  tree  to  tree,  and  spread  a  kind  of  network  in 
his  path. 

At  length  he  reached  to  where  the  ravine  had 
opened  through  the  cliffs  to  the  amphitheatre ;  but 
no  traces  of  such  opening  remained.  The  rocks 
presented  a  high  impenetrable  wall,  over  which 
the  torrent  came  tumbling  in  a  sheet  of  feathery 
foam,  and  fell  into  a  broad  deep  basin,  black  from 
the  shadows  of  the  surrounding  forest.  Here,  then, 
poor  Rip  was  brought  to  a  stand.  He  again  called 
and  whistled  after  his  dog :  he  was  only  answered 
by  the  cawing  of  a  flock  of  idle  crows,  sporting 
high  in  air  about  a  dry  tree  that  overhung  a  sunny 
precipice ;  and  who,  secure  in  their  elevation, 
seemed  to  look  down  and  scoff  at  the  poor  man's 
perplexities.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  The  morn 
ing  was  passing  away,  and  Rip  felt  famished  for 
want  of  his  breakfast.  He  grieved  to  give  up  his 
dog  and  gun  ;  he  dreaded  to  meet  his  wife ;  but  it 
would  not  do  to  starve  among  the  mountains.  He  I 
shook  his  head,  shouldered  the  rusty  fire-lock,  and,  | 
with  a  heart  full  of  trouble  and  anxiety,  turned 
his  steps  homeward. 

As  he  approached  the  village  he  met  a  number 
of  people,  but  none  whom  he  knew,  which  some 
what  surprised  him,  for  he  had  thought  himself 
acquainted  with  every  one  in  the  country  round. 


Their  dress,  too,  was  of  a  different  fashion  from 
that  to  which  he  was  accustomed.  They  all  stared 
at  him  with  equal  marks  of  surprise,  and  when 
ever  they  cast  eyes  upon  him,  invariably  stroked 
their  chins.  The  constant  recurrence  of  this  ges 
ture,  induced  Rip  involuntarily  to  do  the  same, 
when>  to  his  astonishment,  he  found  his  beard  had 
grown  a  foot  long ! 

He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  village. 
A  troop  of  strange  children  ran  at  his  heels  hoot 
ing  after  him,  and  pointing  at  his  gray  beard.  The 
dogs,  too,  not  one  of  which  he  recognised  for  an 
old  acquaintance,  barked  at  him  as  he  passed.  The 
very  village  was  altered :  it  was  larger  and  more 
populous.  There  were  rows  of  houses  which  he 
had  never  seen  before,  and  those  which  had  been 
his  familiar  haunts  had  disappeared.  Strange 
names  were  over  the  doors — strange  faces  at  the 
windows — every  thing  was  strange.  His  mind 
now  misgave  him;  he  began  to  doubt  whether 
both  he  and  the  world  around  him  were  not  be 
witched.  Surely  this  was  his  native  village,  which 
he  had  left  but  a  day  before.  There  stood  the 
Kaatskill  mountains — there  ran  the  silver  Hudson 
at  a  distance — there  was  every  hill  and  dale  pre 
cisely  as  it  had  always  been — Rip  was  sorely  per 
plexed — "  That  flagon  last  night,"  thought  he, 
"  has  addled  my  poor  head  sadly  !" 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  he  found  the 
way  to  his  own  house,  which  he  approached  with 
silent  awe,  expecting  every  moment  to  hear  the 
shrill  voice  of  Dame  Van  Winkle.  He  found  the 
house  gone  to  decay — the  roof  fallen  in,  the  win 
dows  shattered,  and  the  doors  off  the  hinges.  A 
half-starved  dog,  that  looked  like  Wolf,  was  skulk 
ing  about  it.  Rip  called  him  by  name,  but  the 
cur  snarled,  showed  his  teeth,  and  passed  on. 
This  was  an  unkind- cut  indeed. — "  My  very  dog," 
sighed  poor  Rip,  "  has  forgotten  me !" 

He  entered  the  house,  which,  to  tell  the  truth, 
Dame  Van  Winkle  had  always  kept  in  neat  order. 
It  was  empty,  forlorn,  and  apparently  abandoned. 
This  desolateness  overcame  all  his  connubial  fears 
— he  called  loudly  for  his  wife  and  children — the 
lonely  chambers  rang  for  a  moment  with  his  voice, 
and  then  all  again  was  silence. 

He  now  hurried  forth  and  hastened  to  his  old 
resort,  the  village  inn — but  it  too  was  gone.  A 
large  rickety  wooden  building  stood  in  its  place, 
with  great  gaping  windows,  some  of  them  broken, 
and  mended  with  old  hats  and  petticoats,  and  over 
the  door  was  painted, "  The  Union  Hotel,  by  Jona 
than  Doolittle."  Instead  of  the  great  tree  that 
used  to  shelter  the  quiet  little  Dutch  inn  of  yore, 
there  now  was  reared  a  tall  naked  pole,  with  some 
thing  on  the  top  that  looked  like  a  red  night-cap, 
and  from  it  was  fluttering  a  flag,  on  which  was  a 
singular  assemblage  of  stars  and  stupes—  all  this 
was  strange  and  incomprehensible.  He  recog 
nised  on  the  sign,  however,  the -ruby  face  of  King 
George,  under  which  he  had  smoked  so  many  a 
peaceful  pipe,  but  even  this  was  singularly  meta 
morphosed.  The  red  coat  was  changed  for  one 
of  blue  and  buff,  a  sword  was  held  in  the  hand 
instead  of  a  sceptre,  the  head  was  decorated  with 


214 


WASHINGTON   IRVING. 


a  cocked  hat,  and  underneath  was  painted,  in  large 
characters,  GENERAL  WASHINGTON. 

There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folk  about  the 
door,  but  none  that  Rip  recollected.  The  very  cha 
racter  of  the  people  seemed  changed.  There  was 
a  busy,  bustling,  disputatious  tone  about  it,  instead 
of  the  accustomed  phlegm  and  drowsy  tranquillity. 
He  looked  in  vain  for  the  sage  Nicholas  Vedder, 
with  his  broad  face,  double  chin,  and  fair  long 
pipe,  uttering  clouds  of  tobacco  smoke,  instead  of 
idle  speeches,  or  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster, 
doling  forth  the  contents  of  an  ancient  newspaper. 
In  place  of  these,  a  lean  bilious-looking  fellow, 
with  his  pockets  full  of  handbills,  was  haranguing 
vehemently  about  rights  of  citizens — election — 
members  of  Congress — liberty — Bunker's  hill — 
heroes  of  seventy-six — and  other  words  that  were 
a  perfect  Babylonish  jargon  to  the  bewildered  Van 
Winkle. 

The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long  grizzled 
beard,  his  rusty  fowling-piece,  his  uncouth  dress, 
and  the  army  of  women  and  children  that  had  ga 
thered  at  his  heels,  soon  attracted  the  attention  of 
the  tavern  politicians.  They  crowded  round  him, 
eyeing  him  from  head  to  foot,  with  great  curiosity. 
The  orator  bustled  up  to  him,  and  drawing  him 
partly  aside,  inquired  "  on  which  side  he  voted  1" 
Rip  stared  in  vacant  stupidity.  Another  short  but 
busy  little  fellow  pulled  him  by  the  arm,  and  ris 
ing  on  tiptoe,  inquired  in  his  ear  "  whether  he  was 
Federal  or  Democrat."  Rip  was  equally  at  a  loss 
to  comprehend  the  question ;  when  a  knowing, 
self-important  old  gentleman  in  a  sharp  cocked-hat 
made  his  way  through  the  crowd,  putting  them  to 
the  right  and  left  with  his  elbows  as  he  passed, 
and  planting  himself  before  Van  Winkle,  with 
one  arm  a-kimbo,  the  other  resting  on  his  cane, 
his  keen  eyes  and  sharp  hat  penetrating  as  it  were 
into  his  very  soul,  demanded  in  an  austere  tone, 
"  what  brought  him  to  the  election  with  a  gun  on 
his  shoulder,  and  a  mob  at  his  heels,  and  whether 
he  meant  to  breed  a  riot  in  the  village '?" 

"  Alas !  gentlemen,"  cried  Rip,  somewhat  dismay 
ed,  "  I  am  a  poor  quiet  man,  a  native  of  the  place, 
and  a  loyal  subject  of  the  King,  God  bless  him !" 

Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  bystanders 
— "  a  tory  !  a  tory  !  a  spy !  a  refugee !  hustle  him ! 
away  with  him !"  It  was  with  great  difficulty 
that  the  self-important  man  in  the  cocked-hat  re 
stored  order ;  and  having  assumed  a  tenfold  auste 
rity  of  brow,  demanded  again  of  the  unknown 
culprit,  what  he  came  there  for,  and  whom  he  was 
seeking.  The  poor  man  humbly  assured  him  that 
he  meant  no  harm,  but  merely  came  there  in  search 
of  some  of  his  neighbours  who  used  to  keep  about 
the  tavern. 

«  Well — who  are  they  1 — name  them." 

Rip  bethought  himself  a  moment  and  inquired, 
<  Where's  Ni-holas  Vedder  1" 

There  was  a  si  1  race  for  a  little  while,  when  an 
old  man  replied  in  a  thin  piping  voice,  "  Nicholas 
Vedder  ?  why  iie  is  dead  and  gone  these  eighteen 
years!  There  was  a  wooden  tombstone  in  the 
church-yard  that  used  to  tell  all  about  him,  but 
that's  rotten  and  gone  too." 


«  Where's  Brom  Butcher  ?" 

"  Oh,  he  went  off  to  the  army  in  the  beginning 
of  the  war ;  some  say  he  was  killed  at  the  storm 
ing  of  Stony-Point — others  say  he  was  drowned 
in  the  squall  at  the  foot  of  Antony's  Nose.  I 
don't  know — he  never  came  back  again." 

"Where's  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster  1" 

"  He- went  off  to  the  wars  too,  was  a  great  mili 
tia-general,  and  is  now  in  Congress." 

Rip's  heart  died  away  at  hearing  of  these  sad 
changes  in  his  home  and  friends,  and  rinding  him 
self  thus  alone  in  the  world.  Every  answer  puz 
zled  him,  too,  by  treating  of  such  enormous  lapses 
of  time,  and  of  matters  which  he  could  not  under 
stand  :  war — Congress — Stony-Point ! — he  had  no 
courage  to  ask  after  any  more  friends,  but  cried 
out  in  despair,  "  Does  nobody  here  know  Rip  Van 
Winkle  ]" 

"Oh,  Rip  Van  Winkle!"  exclaimed  two  or 
three,  "  Oh,  to  be  sure  !  that's  Rip  Van  Winkle 
yonder,  leaning  against  the  tree." 

Rip  looked  and  beheld  a  precise  counterpart  of 
himself  as  he  went  up  to  the  mountain ;  appa 
rently  as  lazy,  and  certainly  as  ragged.  The  poor 
fellow  was  now  completely  confounded.  He 
doubted  his  own  identity,  and  whether  he  was 
himself  or  another  man.  In  the  midst  of  his  be 
wilderment,  the  man  in  the  cocked-hat  demanded 
who  he  was,  and  what  was  his  name  1 

"  God  knows,"  exclaimed  he  at  his  wit's  end ; 
"  I'm  not  myself — I'm  somebody  else — that's  me 
yonder — no — that's  somebody  else,  got  into  my 
shoes — I  was  myself  last  night,  but  I  fell  asleep 
on  the  mountain,  and  they've  changed  my  gun, 
and  every  thing's  changed,  and  I'm  changed,  and 
I  can't  tell  what's  my  name,  or  who  I  am  !" 

The  bystanders  began  now  to  look  at  each  other, 
nod,  wink  significantly,  and  tap  their  fingers  against 
their  foreheads.  There  was  a  whisper,  also,  about 
securing  the  gun,  and  keeping  the  old  fellow  from 
doing  mischief;  at  the  very  suggestion  of  which, 
the  self-important  man  with  the  cocked-hat  retired 
with  some  precipitation.  At  this  critical  moment 
a  fresh  comely  woman  passed  through  the  throng 
to  get  a  peep  at  the  gray-bearded  man.  She  had 
a  chubby  child  in  her  arms,  which,  frightened  at 
his  looks,  began  to  cry.  «  Hush,  Rip,"  cried  she, 
"  hush,  you  little  fool,  the  old  man  won't  hurt 
you."  The  name  of  the  child,  the  air  of  the  mo 
ther,  the  tone  of  her  voice,  all  awakened  a  train  of 
recollections  in  his  mind.  "  What  is  your  name, 
my  good  woman  1"  asked  he. 

"Judith  Garde nier." 

"And  your  father's  name?" 

"  Ah,  poor  man,  his  name  was  Rip  Van  Win 
kle  ;  it's  twenty  years  since  he  went  away  from 
home  with  his  gun,  and  never  has  been  heard  of 
since — his  dog  came  home  without  him;  but  whe 
ther  he  shot  himself,  or  was  carried  away  by  the 
Indians,  nobody  can  tell.  I  was  then  but  a  little 
girl." 

Rip  had  but  one  question  more  to  ask ;  but  he 
put  it  with  a  faltering  voice  : 

"  Where's  your  mother]" 

"  Oh,  she  too  had  died  but  a  short  time  since : 


WASHINGTON    IRVING 


215 


she  broke  a  blood-vessel  in  a  fit  of  passion  at  a 
New  England  pedlar." 

There  was  a  drop  of  comfort,  at  least,  in  this 
intelligence.  The  honest  man  could  contain  him 
self  no  longer.  He  caught  his  daughter  and  her 
child  in  his  arms.  "  I  am  your  father !"  cried  he 
— "  Young  Rip  Van  Winkle  once — old  Rip  Van 
Winkle  now  ! — Does  nobody  know  poor  Rip  Van 
Winkle  I" 

All  stood  amazed,  until  an  old  woman,  tottering 
out  from  among  the  crowd,  put  her  hand  to  her 
brow,  and  peering  under  it  in  his  face  for  a  mo 
ment,  exclaimed,  "  Sure  enough!  it  is  Rip  Van 
Winkle — it  is  himself.  Welcome  home  again, 
old  neighbour — Why,  where  have  you  been  these 
twenty  long  years'?" 

Rip's  story  was  soon  told,  for  the  whole  twenty 
years  had  been  to  him  but  as  one  night.  The 
neighbours  stared  when  they  heard  it ;  some  were 
seen  to  wink  at  each  other,  and  put  their  tongues 
in  their  cheeks ;  and  the  self-important  man  in  the 
cocked  hat,  who,  when  the  alarm  was  over,  had 
returned  to  the  field,  screwed  down  the  corners  of 
his  mouth,  and  shook  his  head — upon  which  there 
was  a  general  shaking  of  the  head  throughout  the 
assemblage. 

It  was  determined,  however,  to  take  the  opinion 
of  old  Peter  Vanderdonk,  who  was  seen  slowly 
advancing  up  the  road.  He  was  a  descendant  of 
the  historian  of  that  name,  who  wrote  one  of  the 
earliest  accounts  of  the  province.  Peter  was  the 
most  ancient  inhabitant  of  the  village,  and  well 
versed  in  all  the  wonderful  events  and  traditions 
of  the  neighbourhood.  He  recollected  Rip  at  once, 
and  corroborated  his  story  in  the  most  satisfactory 
manner.  He  assured  the  company  that  it  was  a 
fact,  handed  down  from  his  ancestor  the  historian, 
that  the  Kaatskill  mountains  had  always  been 
haunted  by  strange  beings.  That  it  was  affirmed 
that  the  great  Hendrick'Hudson,  the  first  discoverer 
of  the  river  and  country,  kept  a  kind  of  vigil  there 
every  twenty  years,  with  his  crew  of  the  Half- 
moon,  being  permitted  in  this  way  to  revisit  the 
scenes  of  his  enterprise,  and  keep  a  guardian  eye 
upon  the  river  and  the  great  city  called  by  his 
name.  That  his  father  had  once  seen  them  in 
their  old  Dutch  dresses  playing  at  nine-pins  in  a 
hollow  of  the  mountain ;  and  that  he  himself  had 
heard,  one  summer  afternoon,  the  sound  of  their 
balls  like  distant  peals  of  thunder. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  company  broke 
up  and  returned  to  the  more  important  concerns 
of  the  election.  Rip's  daughter  took  him  home  to 
live  with  her;  she  had  a  snug,  well-furnished 
house,  and  a  stout  cheery  farmer  for  a  husband, 
whom  Rip  recollected  for  one  of  the  urchins  that 
used  to  climb  upon  his  back.  As  to  Rip's  son 
and  heir,  who  was  the  ditto  of  himself,  seen  lean 
ing  against  the  tree,  he  was  employed  to  work  on 
the  farm ;  but  evinced  a  hereditary  disposition  to 
attend  to  any  thing  else  but  his  business. 

Rip  now  resumed  his  old  walks  and  habits;  he 
soon  found  many  of  his  former  cronies,  though  all 
rather  the  worse  for  the  wear  and  tear  of  time ; 
and  preferred  making  friends  among  the  rising 


generation,  with  whom  he  soon  grew  into  great 
favour. 

Having  nothing  to  do  at  home,  and  being  arrived 
at  that  happy  age  when  a  man  can  do  nothing 
with  impunity,  he  took  his  place  once  more  on  the 
bench  at  the  inn  door,  and  was  reverenced  as  one 
of  the  patriarchs  of  the  village,  and  a  chronicle  of 
the  old  times  "  before  the  war."  It  was  some  time 
before  he  could  get  into  the  regular  track  of  gossip, 
or  could  be  made  to  comprehend  the  strange  events 
that  had  taken  place  during  his  torpor.  How  that 
there  had  been  a  revolutionary  war — that  the 
countiy  had  thrown  off  the  yoke  of  old  England  - 
and  that,  instead  of  being  a  subject  of  his  majesty, 
George  the  Third,  he  was  now  a  free  citizen  of 
the  United  States.  Rip  in  fact  was  no  politician ; 
the  changes  of  states  and  empires  made  but  little 
impression  on  him ;  but  there  was  one  species  of 
despotism  under  which  he  had  long  groaned,  and 
that  was — petticoat  government.  Happily,  that 
was  at  an  end ;  he  had  got  his  neck  out  of  the 
yoke  of  matrimony,  and  could  go  in  and  out  when 
ever  he  pleased  without  dreading  the  tyranny  of 
Dame  Van  Winkle.  Whenever  her  name  was 
mentioned,  however,  he  shook  his  head,  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  and  cast  up  his  eyes ;  which  might 
pass  either  for  an  expression  of  resignation  to  his 
fate,  or  joy  at  his  deliverance. 

He  used  to  tell  his  story  to  every  stranger  that 
arrived  at  Mr.  Doolittle's  hotel.  He  was  observed 
at  first  to  vary  on  some  points  every  time  he  told 
it,  which  was  doubtless  owing  to  his  having  so  re 
cently  awaked.  It  at  last  settled  down  precisely 
to  the  tale  I  have  related,  and  not  a  man,  woman, 
or  child  in  the  neighbourhood  but  knew  it  by  heart. 
Some  always  pretended  to  doubt  the  reality  of  it, 
and  insisted  that  Rip  had  been  out  of  his  head, 
and  that  this  was  one  point  on  which  he  always 
remained  flighty.  The  old  Dutch  inhabitants, 
however,  almost  universally  gave  it  full  credit. 
Even  to  this  day,  they  never  hear  a  thunder-storm 
of  a  summer  afternoon  about  the  Kaatskill,  but 
they  say  Hendrick  Hudson  and  his  crew  are  at 
their  game  of  nine-pins ;  and  it  is  a  common  wish 
of  all  henpecked  husbands  in  the  neighbourhood, 
when  life  hangs  heavy  on  their  hands,  that  they 
might  have  a  quieting  draught  out  of  Rip  Van 
Winkle's  flagon. 


THE  WIFE. 

PROM     THE     SAME. 

I  HAVE  often  had  occasion  to  remark  the  forti 
tude  with  which  women  sustain  the  most  over 
whelming  reverses  of  fortune.  Those  disasters 
which  break  down  the  spirit  of  a  man  and  pros 
trate  him  in  the  dust,  seem  to  call  forth  all  the 
energies  of  the  softer  sex,  and  give  such  intrepidity 
and  elevation  to  their  character,  that  at  times  it 
approaches  to  sublimity.  Nothing  can  be  more 
touching  than  to  behold  a  soft  and  tender  female, 
who  had  been  all  weakness  and  dependence,  and 
alive  to  every  trivial  roughness  while  treading  the 
prosperous  paths  of  life,  suddenly  rising  in  mental 


216 


WASHINGTON    IRVING. 


force  to  be  the  comforter  and  supporter  of  her  hus 
band  under  misfortune,  and  abiding  with  unshrink 
ing  firmness,  the  bitterest  blast  of  adversity. 

As  the  vine  which  has  long  twined  its  graceful 
foliage  about  the  oak,  and  been  lifted  by  it  in  sun 
shine,  will,  when  the  hardy  plant  is  rifted  by  the 
thunderbolt,  cling  round  it  with  its  caressing  ten 
drils  and  bind  up  its  shattered  boughs ;  so  is  it 
beautifully  ordered  by  Providence,  that  woman, 
who  is  the  mere  dependant  and  ornament  of  man 
in  his  happier  hours,  should  be  his  stay  and  solace 
wnen  smitten  with  sudden  calamity ;  winding  her 
self  into  the  rugged  recesses  of  his  nature,  tenderly 
supporting  the  drooping  head,  and  binding  up  the 
broken  heart. 

I  was  once  congratulating  a  friend,  who  had 
around  him  a  blooming  family,  knit  together  in 
the  strongest  affection.  "  I  can  wish  you  no  bet 
ter  lot,"  said  he,  with  enthusiasm,  "  than  to  have 
a  wife  and  children. — If  you  are  prosperous,  there 
they  are  to  share  your  prosperity;  if  otherwise, 
there  they  are  to  comfort  you."  And,  indeed,  I 
have  observed  that  a  married  man  falling  into  mis 
fortune  is  more  apt  to  retrieve  his  situation  in  the 
world  than  a  single  one ;  partly  because  he  is 
more  stimulated  to  exertion  by  the  necessities  of 
the  helpless  arid  beloved  beings  who  depend  upon 
him  for  subsistence  ;  but  chiefly  because  his  spirits 
are  soothed  and  relieved  by  domestic  endearments, 
and  his  self-respect  kept  alive  by  finding  that, 
though  all  abroad  is  darkness  and  humiliation, 
yet  there  is  still  a  little  world  of  love  at  home,  of 
which  he  is  the  monarch.  Whereas  a  single  man 
is  apt  to  run  to  waste  and  self-neglect ;  to  fancy 
himself  lonely  and  abandoned,  and  his  heart  to  fall 
to  ruin  like  some  deserted  mansion  for  want  of  an 
inhabitant. 

These  observations  call  to  mind  a  little  domestic 
story,  of  which  I  was  once  a  witness.  My  inti 
mate  friend,  Leslie,  had  married  a  beautiful  and 
accomplished  girl,  who  had  been  brought  up  in 
the  midst  of  fashionable  life.  She  had,  it  is  true, 
no  fortune,  but  that  of  my  friend  was  ample ;  and 
he  delighted  in  the  anticipation  of  indulging  her 
in  every  elegant  pursuit,  and  administering  to  those 
delicate  tastes  and  fancies  that  spread  a  kind  of 
witchery  about  the  sex. — "  Her  life,"  said  he, 
"  shall  be  like  a  fairy  tale." 

The  very  difference  in  their  characters  produced 
an  harmonious  combination :  he  was  of  a  romantic 
and  somewhat  serious  cast ;  she  was  all  life  and 
gladness.  I  have  often  noticed  the  mute  rapture 
with  which  he  would  gaze  upon  her  in  company, 
of  which  her  sprightly  powers  made  her  the  de 
light  ;  and  how,  in  the  midst  of  applause,  her  eye 
would  still  turn  to  him  as  if  there  alone  she  sought 
favour  and  acceptance.  When  leaning  on  his 
arm,  her  slender  form  contrasted  finely  with  his 
tall  manly  person.  The  fond  confiding  air  with 
which  she  looked  up  to  him  seemed  to  call  forth  a 
flush  of  triumphant  pride  and  cherishing  tender 
ness,  as  if  he  doted  on  his  lovely  burden  for  its 
very  helplessness.  Never  did  a  couple  set  forward 
on  the  flowery  path  of  early  and  well-suited  mar 
riage  with  a  fairer  prospect  of  felicity. 


It  was  the  misfortune  of  my  friend,  however,  to 
have  embarked  his  property  in  large  speculations; 
and  he  had  not  been  married  many  months,  when, 
by  a  succession  of  sudden  disasters,  it  was  swept 
from  him,  and  he  found  himself  reduced  almost  to 
penury.  For  a  time  he  kept  his  situation  to  him 
self,  and  went  about  with  a  haggard  countenance 
and  a  breaking  heart.  His  life  was  but  a  pro 
tracted  agony  ;  and  what  rendered  it  more  insup 
portable  was  the  keeping  up  a  smile  in  the;  pre 
sence  of  his  wife  ;  for  he  could  not  bring  himself 
to  overwhelm  her  with  the  news.  She  saw,  how 
ever,  with  the  quick  eyes  of  affection,  that  all  was 
not  well  with  him.  She  marked  his  altered  looks 
and  stifled  sighs,  and  was  not  to  be  deceived  by 
his  sickly  and  vapid  attempts  at  cheerfulness.  She 
tasked  all  her  sprightly  powers  and  tender  blan 
dishments  to  win  him  back  to  happiness ;  but  she 
only  drove  the  arrow  deeper  into  his  soul.  The 
more  he  saw  cause  to  love  her,  the  more  torturing 
was  the  thought  that  he  was  soon  to  make  her 
wretched.  A  little  while,  thought  he,  and  the 
smile  will  vanish  from  the  cheek — the  song  will 
die  away  from  those  lips — the  lustre  of  those  eyes 
will  be  quenched  with  sorrow;  and  the  happy 
heart  which  now  beats  lightly  in  that  bosom  will 
be  weighed  down  like  mine  by  the  cares  and  mise 
ries  of  the  world. 

At  length  he  came  to  me  one  day  and  related 
his  whole  situation  in  a  tone  of  the  deepest  despair. 
When  I  heard  him  through  I  inquired,  "  Does 
your  wife  know  all  this!" — At  the  question  he 
burst  into  an  agony  of  tears.  "  For  God's  sake !" 
cried  he,  "  if  you  have  any  pity  on  me,  don't  men 
tion  my  wife ;  it  is  the  thought  of  her  that  drives 
me  almost  to  madness  !" 

"  And  why  not1?"  said  I.  "  She  must  know  it 
sooner  or  later :  you  cannot  keep  it  long  from  her, 
and  the  intelligence  may  break  upon  her  in  a  more 
startling  manner  than  if  imparted  by  yourself;  for 
the  accents  of  those  we  love  soften  the  harshest 
tidings.  Besides,  you  are  depriving  yourself  of  the 
comforts  of  her  sympathy ;  and  not  merely  that, 
but  also  endangering  the  only ^ bond  that  can  keep 
hearts  together — an  unreserved  community  of 
thought  and  feeling.  She  will  soon  perceive  that 
something  is  secretly  preying  upon  your  mind; 
and  true  love  will  not  brook  reserve ;  it  feels  un 
dervalued  and  outraged,  when  even  the  sorrows 
of  those  it  loves  are  concealed  from  it." 

"  Oh,  but,  my  friend  !  to  think  what  a  blow  I 
am  to  give  to  all  her  future  prospects — how  I  am 
to  strike  her  very  soul  to  the  earth,  by  telling  her 
that  her  husband  is  a  beggar !  that  she  is  to  forego 
all  the  elegancies  of  life — all  the  pleasures  of  so 
ciety — to  shrink  with  me  into  indigence  and  ob 
scurity  !  To  tell  her  that  I  have  dragged  her 
down  from  the  sphere  in  which  she  might  have 
continued  to  move  in  constant  brightness — the 
light  of  every  eye — the  admiration  of  every  heart ! 
— how  can  she  bear  poverty?  she  has  been  brought 
up  in  all  the  refinement  of  opulence.  How  can 
she  bear  neglect  1  she  has  been  the  idol  of  society. 
Oh,  it  will  break  her  heart — it  will  break  her 
heart ! — " 


WASHINGTON    IRVING. 


217 


I  saw  his  grief  was  eloquent,  and  I  let  it  have 
its  flow;  for  sorrow  relieves  itself  by  words. 
When  his  paroxysm  had  subsided,  and  he  had 
relapsed  into  moody  silence,  I  resumed  the  subject 
gently,  and  urged  him  to  break  his  situation  at 
once  to  his  wife.  He  shook  his  head  mournfully, 
but  positively. 

"But  how  arc  you  to  keep  it  from  her ?  It  is 
necessary  she  should  know  it,  that  you  may  take 
the  steps  proper  to  the  alteration  of  your  circum 
stances.  You  must  change  your  style  of  living 

nay,"  observing  a  pang  to  pass  across  his 

countenance,  "don't  let  that  afflict  you.  I  am 
sure  you  have  never  placed  your  happiness  in  out 
ward  show — you  have  yet  friends,  warm  friends, 
who  will  not  think  the  worse  of  you  for  being  less 
splendidly  lodged ;  and  surely  it  does  not  require 
a  palace  to  be  happy  with  Mary — " 

"  I  could  be  happy  with  her,"  cried  he,  convul 
sively,  "  in  a  hovel ! — I  could  go  down  with  her 

into  poverty  and  the  dust ! — I  could — I  could 

God  bless  her ! — God  bless  her !"  cried  he,  burst 
ing  into  a  transport  of  grief  and  tenderness. 

"  And  believe  me,  my  friend,"  said  I,  stepping 
up  and  grasping  him  warmly  by  the  hand,  "  be 
lieve  me  she  can  be  the  same  with  you.  Ay, 
more :  it  will  be  a  source  of  piidc  and  triumph 
to  her — it  will  call  forth  all  the  latent  energies 
and  fervent  sympathies  of  her  nature ;  for  she  will 
rejoice  to  prove  that  she  loves  you  for  yourself. 
There  is  in  every  true  woman's  heart  a  spark  of 
heavenly  fire  which  lies  dormant  in  the  broad  day 
light  of  prosperity ;  but  which  kindles  up  and 
beams  and  blazes  in  the  dark  hour  of  adversity. 
No  man  knows  what  the  wife  of  his  bosom  is — no 
man  knows  what  a  ministering  angel  she  is — until 
he  has  gone  with  her  through  the  fiery  trials  of 
this  world." 

There  was  something  in  the  earnestness  of  my 
manner  and  the  figurative  style  of  my  language 
that  caught  the  excited  imagination  of  Leslie.  I 
knew  the  auditor  I  had  to  deal  with ;  and  follow 
ing  up  the  impression  I  had  made,  I  finished  by 
persuading  him  to  go  home  and  unburden  his  sad 
heart  to  his  wife. 

I  must  confess,  notwithstanding  all  I  had  said, 
I  felt  some  little  solicitude  for  the  result.  Who 
can  calculate  on  the  fortitude  of  one  whose  whole 
life  has  been  a  round  of  pleasures  ?  Her  gay  spi 
rits  might  revolt  at  the  dark  downward  path  of 
low  humility  suddenly  pointed  out  before  her,  and 
might  cling  to  the  sunny  regions  in  which  they 
had  hitherto  revelled.  Besides,  ruin  in  fashionable 
life  is  accompanied  by  so  many  galling  mortifica 
tions,  to  which  in  other  ranks  it  is  a  stranger. — In 
short,  I  could  not  meet  Leslie  the  next  morning 
without  trepidation.  He  had  made  the  disclosure. 

"  And  how  did  she  bear  it?" 

"  Like  an  angel !  It  seemed  rather  to  he  a  re 
lief  to  her  mind,  for  she  threw  her  arms  round  my 
neck  and  asked  if  this  was  all  that  had  lately  made 
mo  unhappy. — But,  poor  girl,"  added  he,  "she 
cannot  realize  the  change  we  must  undergo.  She 
has  no  idea  of  poverty  but  in  the  abstract;  she 
has  only  read  of  it  in  poetry,  where  it  is  allied  to 
23 


love.  She  feels  as  yet  no  privation ;  she  suffers 
no  loss  of  accustomed  conveniences  nor  elegancies. 
When  we  come  practically  to  experience  its  sordid 
cares,  its  paltry  wants,  its  petty  humiliations — then 
will  be  the  real  trial." 

"  But,"  said  I,  "  now  that  you  have  got  over  the 
severest  task,  that  of  breaking  it  to  her,  the  sooner 
you  let  the  world  into  the  secret  the  better.  The 
disclosure  may  be  mortifying ;  but  then  it  is  a  sin 
gle  misery,  and  soon  over :  whereas  you  otherwise 
suffer  it,  in  anticipation,  every  hour  in  the  day. 
It  is  not  poverty  so  much  as  pretence  that  harasses 
a  ruined  man — the  struggle  between  a- proud  mind 
and  an  empty  purse — the  keeping  up  a  hollow  show 
that  must  soon  come  to  an  end.  Have  the  cou 
rage  to  appear  poor,  and  you  disarm  poverty  of  its 
sharpest  sting."  On  this  point  I  found  Leslie 
perfectly  prepared.  He  had  no  false  pride  him 
self,  and  as  to  his  wife,  she  was  only  anxious  to 
conform  to  their  altered  fortunes. 

Some  days  afterward  he  called  upon  me  in  the 
evening,  He  had  disposed  of  his  dwelling-house, 
and  taken  a  small  cottage  in  the  country,  a  few 
miles  from  town.  He  had  been  busied  all  day  in 
sending  out  furniture.  The  new  establishment 
required  few  articles,  and  those  of  the  simplest 
kind.  All  the  splendid  furniture  of  his  late  resi 
dence  had  been  sold,  excepting  his  wife's  harp. 
That,  he  said,  was  too  closely  associated  with  the 
idea  of  herself;  it  belonged  to  the  little  story  of 
their  loves :  for  some  of  the  sweetest  moments  of 
their  courtship  were  those  when  he  had  leaned 
over  that  instrument,  and  listened  to  the  melting 
tones  of  her  voice.  I  could  not  but  smile  at  this 
instance  of  romantic  gallantry  in  a  doting  husband. 

He  was  now  going  out  to  the  cottage  where  his 
wife  had  been  all  day  superintending  its  arrange 
ment.  My  feelings  had  become  strongly  interested 
in  the  progress  of  this  family  story,  and,  as  it  was 
a  fine  evening,  I  offered  to  accompany  him. 

He  was  -wearied  with  the  fatigues  of  the  day, 
and,  as  we  walked  out,  fell  into  a  fit  of  gloomy 
musing. 

"  Poor  Mary !"  at  length  broke  with  a  heavy 
sigh  from  his  lips. 

"And  what  of  her?"  asked  I:  "has  any  thing 
happened  to  her?" 

"  What,"  said  he,  darting  an  impatient  glance, 
"  is  it  nothing  to  be  reduced  to  this  paltry  situa 
tion — to  be  caged  in  a  miserable  cottage — to  be 
obliged  to  toil  almost  in  the  menial  concerns  of 
her  wretched  habitation?" 

"  Has  she  then  repined  at  the  change  ?" 

"  Repined  !  she  has  been  nothing  but  sweetness 
and  good  humour.  Indeed,  she  seems  in  better 
spirits  than  I  have  ever  known  her ;  she  has  been 
to  me  all  love,  and  tenderness,  and  comfort !" 

"  Admirable  girl !"  exclaimed  I.  "  You  call 
yourself  poor,  my  friend  ;  you  never  were  so  rich 
— you  never  knew  the  boundless  treasure  of  ex 
cellence  you  possessed  in  that  woman." 

"  Oh  !  but,  my  friend,  if  this  first  meeting  at  the 
cotUgc  were  over,  I  think  I  could  then  be  com 
fortable.  But  this  is  her  first  day  of  real  expe 
rience  ;  she  has  been  introduced  into  an  humble 
T 


213 


WASHINGTON    IRVING. 


dwelling — she  has  been  employed  all  day  in  arrang 
ing  its  miserable  equipments — she  has,  for  the  first 
time,  known  the  fatigues  of  domestic  employment 
— she  has,  for  the  first  time,  looked  round  her  on 
a  home  destitute  of  every  thing  elegant, — almost 
of  every  thing  convenient ;  and  may  now  be  sit 
ting  down,  exhausted  and  spiritless,  brooding  over 
a  prospect  of  future  poverty." 

There  was  a  degree  of  probability  in  this  picture 
that  I  could  not  gainsay,  so  we  walked  on  in 
silence. 

After  turning  from  the  main  road  up  a  narrow 
lane,  so  thickly  shaded  with  forest  trees  as  to  give 
it  a  complete  air  of  seclusion,  we  came  in  sight  of 
the  cottage.  It  was  humble  enough  in  its  appear 
ance  for  the  most  pastoral  poet ;  and  yet  it  had  a 
pleasing  rural  look.  A  wild  vine  had  overrun  one 
end  with  a  profusion  of  foliage ;  a  few  trees  threw 
their  branches  gracefully  over  it;  and  I  observed 
several  pots  of  flowers  tastefully  disposed  about 
the  door  and  on  the  grass-plat  in  front.  A  small 
wicket  gate  opened  upon  a  footpath  that  wound 
through  some  shrubbery  at  the  door.  Just  as  we 
approached,  we  heard  the  sound  of  music — Leslie 
grasped  my  arm ;  we  paused  and  listened.  It  was 
Mary's  voice,  singing,  in  a  style  of*the  most  touch 
ing  simplicity,  a  little  air  of  which  her  husband 
was  peculiarly  fond. 

I  felt  Leslie's  hand  tremble  on  my  arm.  He 
stepped  forward  to  hear  more  distinctly.  His  step 
made  a  noise  on  the  gravel  walk.  A  bright,  beau 
tiful  face  glanced  out  at  the  window  and  vanished 
— a  light  footstep  was  heard — and  Mary  came  trip 
ping  forth  to  meet  us;  she  was  in  a  pretty  rural 
dress  of  white. ;  a  few  wild  flowers  were  twisted  in 
her  fine  hair ;  a  fresh  bloom  was  on  her  cheek ; 
her  whole  countenance  beamed  with  smiles — I 
had  never  seen  her  look  so  lovely. 

"  My  dear  George,"  cried  she,  "  I  am  so  glad 
you  are  come !  I  have  been  watching  and  watch 
ing  for  you ;  and  running  down  the  lane  and  look 
ing  out  for  you.  I've  set  out  a  table  under  a 
beautiful  tree  behind  the  cottage ;  and  I've  been 
gathering  some  of  the  most  delicious  strawberries, 
for  I  know  you  are  fond  of  them — and  we  have 
such  excellent  cream — and  we  have  every  thing 
so  sweet  and  still  here — Oh !"  said  she,  putting 
her  arm  within  his  and  looking  up  brightly  in  his 
face,  "  Oh,  we  shall  be  so  happy  !" 

Poor  Leslie  was  overcome. — He  caught  her  to 
his  bosom — he  folded  his  arms  round  her — he 
kissed  her  again  and  again — he  could  not  speak, 
but  the  tears  gushed  into  his  eyes ;  and  he  has 
often  assured  me  that  though  the  world  has  since 
gons  prosperously  with  him,  and  his  life  has  in 
deed  been  a  happy  one,  yet  never  has  he  expe 
rienced  a  moment  of  more  exquisite  felicity. 


THE  LOVE  OF  A  MOTHER. 

FROM   THE  SAME. 

WHO  that  has  languished,  even  in  advanced  life, 
in  sickness  and  despondency ;  who  that  has  pined 
on  a  weary  bed  in  the  neglect  and  loneliness  of  a 


foreign  land  ;  but  has  thought  on  the  mother  "  that 
looked  on  his  childhood,"  that  smoothed  his  pillow 
and  administered  to  his  helplessness  1  Oh  !  there 
is  an  enduring  tenderness  in  the  love  of  a  mother 
to  a  son  that  transcends  all  other  affections  of  the 
heart.  It  is  neither  to  be  chilled  by  selfishness, 
nor  daunted  by  danger,  nor  weakened  by  worth- 
lessness,  nor  stifled  by  ingratitude.  She  will  sacri 
fice  every  comfort  to  his  convenience ;  she  will 
surrender  every  pleasure  to  his  enjoyment;  she 
will  glory  in  his  fame,  and  exult  in  his  prosperity : 
— and,  if  misfortune  overtake  him,  he  will  be  the 
dearer  to  her  from  his  misfortunes ;  and  if  disgrace 
settle  upon  his  name,  she  will  still  love  and  cherish 
him  in  spite  of  his  disgrace ;  and  if  all  the  world  be 
side  cast  him  off,  she  will  be  all  the  world  to  him. 


BROKEN  HEARTS. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

IT  is  a  common  practice  with  those  who  have 
outlived  the  susceptibility  of  early  feeling,  or  have 
been  brought  up  in  the  gay  heartlessness  of  dissi 
pated  life,  to  laugh  at  all  love  stories,  and  to  treat 
the  tales  of  romantic  passion  as  mere  fictions  of 
novelists  and  poets.  My  observations  on  human 
nature  have  induced  me  to  think  otherwise.  They 
have  convinced  me  that  however  the  surface  of 
the  character  may  be  chilled  and  frozen  by  the 
cares  of  the  world,  or  cultivated  into  mere  smiles 
by  the  arts  of  society,  still  there  are  dormant  fires 
lurking  in  the  depths  of  the  coldest  bosom,  which, 
when  once  enkindled,  become  impetuous,  and  are 
sometimes  desolating  in  their  effects.  Indeed,  I 
am  a  true  believer  in  the  blind  deity,  and  go  to 
the  full  extent  of  his  doctrines.  Shall  I  confess 
it  1 — I  believe  in  broken  hearts,  and  the  possibility 
of  dying  of  disappointed  love.  I  do  not,  however, 
consider  it  a  malady  often  fatal  to  my  own  sex ; 
but  I  firmly  believe  that  it  withers  down  many  a 
lovely  woman  into  an  early  grave. 

Man  is  the  creature  of  interest  and  ambition. 
His  nature  leads  him  forth  into  the  struggle  and 
bustle  of  the  world.  Love  is  but  the  embellish 
ment  of  his  early  life,  or  a  song  piped  in  the  inter 
vals  of  the  acts.  He  seeks  for  fame,  for  fortune, 
for  space  in  the  world's  thought,  and  dominion 
over  his  fellow-men.  But  a  woman's  whole  life 
is  a  history  of  the  affections.  The  heart  is  her 
world:  it  is  there  her  ambition  strives  for  empire; 
it  is  there  her  avarice  seeks  for  hidden  treasures. 
She  sends  forth  her  sympathies  on  adventure ;  she 
embarks  her  whole  soul  in  the  traffic  of  affection ; 
and  if  shipwrecked,  her  case  is  hopeless — for  it  is 
a  bankruptcy  of  the  heart. 

To  a  man  the  disappointment  of  love  may  occa 
sion  some  bitter  pangs :  it  wounds  some  feelings 
of  tenderness — it  blasts  some  prospects  of  felicity  ; 
but  he  is  an  active  being — he  may  dissipate  his 
thoughts  in  the  whirl  of  varied  occupation,  or 
may  plunge  into  the  tide  of  pleasure ;  or,  if  the 
scene  of  disappointment  be  too  full  of  painful 
associations,  he  can  shift  his  abode  at  will,  and 


WASHINGTON   IRVING. 


219 


taking  as  it  were  the  wings  of  the  morning,  can 
"  fly  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth,  and  be  at 
rest." 

But  woman's  is  comparatively  a  fixed,  a  secluded, 
and  a  meditative  life.  She  is  more  the  companion 
of  her  own  thoughts  and  feelings ;  and  if  they  are 
turned  to  ministers  of  sorrow,  where  shall  she  look 
for  consolation  1  Her  lot  is  to  be  wooed  and 
won ;  and  if  unhappy  in  her  love,  her  heart  is  like 
some  fortress  that  has  been  captured,  and  sacked, 
and  abandoned,  and  left  desolate. 

How  many  bright  eyes  grow  dim — how  many 
soft  cheeks  grow  pale — how  many  lovely  forms 
'  fade  away  into  the  tomb,  and  none  can  tell  the 
cause  that  blighted  their  loveliness !  As  the  dove 
will  clasp  its  wings  to  its  side,  and  cover  and  con 
ceal  the  arrow  that  is  preying  on  its  vitals,  so  it  is 
the  nature  of  woman  to  hide  from  the  world  the 
pangs  of  wounded  affection.  The  love  of  a  deli 
cate  female  is  always  shy  and  silent.  Even  when 
fortunate,  she  scarcely  breathes  it  to  herself;  but 
when  otherwise,  she  buries  it  in  the  recesses  of 
her  bosom,  and  there  lets  it  cower  and  brood 
among  the  ruins  of  her  peace.  With  her  the  de 
sire  of  the  heart  has  failed.  The  great  charm  of 
existence  is  at  an  end.  She  neglects  all  the  cheer 
ful  exercises  which  gladden  the  spirits,  quicken 
the  pulses,  and  send  the  tide  of  life  in  healthful 
currents  through  the  veins.  Her  rest  is  broken — 
the  sweet  refreshment  of  sleep  is  poisoned  by  me 
lancholy  dreams — «  dry  sorrow  drinks  her  blood," 
until  her  enfeebled  frame  sinks  under  the  slightest 
external  injury.  Look  for  her,  after  a  little  while, 
and  you  will  find  friendship  weeping  over  her  un 
timely  grave,  and  wondering  that  one  who  but 
lately  glowed  with  all  the  radiance  of  health  and 
beauty,  should  so  speedily  be  brought  down  to 
"  darkness  and  the  worm."  You  will  be  told  of 
some  wintry  chill,  some  casual  indisposition  that 
laid  her  low ;-— but  no  one  knows  of  the  mental 
malady  that  previously  sapped  her  strength,  and 
made  her  so  easy  a  prey  to  the  spoiler. 

She  is  like  some  tender  tree,  the  pride  and  beauty 
of  the  grove ;  graceful  in  its  form,  bright  in  its 
foliage,  but  with  the  worm  preying  at  its  heart. 
We  find  it  suddenly  withering  when  it  should  be 
most  fresh  and  luxuriant.  We  see  it  drooping  its 
branches  to  the  earth  and  shedding  leaf  by  leaf; 
until,  wasted  and  perished  away,  it  falls  even  in 
the  stillness  of  the  forest ;  and  as  we  muse  over 
the  beautiful  ruin,  we  strive  in  vain  to  recollect 
the  blast  or  thunderbolt  that  could  have  smitten  it 
with  decay. 


HISTORICAL  CRITICISM. 

FROM  THE   LIFE   AND  VOYAGES  OF  CHRISTOPHER  COLUMBUS. 


THERK  is  a  certain  meddlesome  spirit,  which, 
in  the  garb  of  learned  research,  goes  prying  about 
the  traces  of  history,  casting  down  its  monuments, 
arid  marring  and  mutilating  its  fairest  trophies. 
Care  should  be  taken  to  vindicate  great  names 
from  such  pernicious  erudition. 


COLUMBUS  AT  BARCELONA. 


FROM  THE  SAME. 


THE  letter  of  Columbus  to  the  Spanish  mo- 
narchs,  announcing  his  discovery,  had  produced 
the  greatest  sensation  at  court.  The  event  it  com 
municated  was  considered  the  most  extraordinary 
of  their  prosperous  reign ;  and  following  so  close 
upon  the  conquest  of  Granada,  was  pronounced  a 
signal  mark  of  divine  favour  for  that  triumph 
achieved  in  the  cause  of  the  true  faith.  The  sove 
reigns  themselves  were  for  a  time  dazzled  and  be 
wildered  by  this  sudden  and  easy  acquisition  of  a 
new  empire,  of  indefinite  extent,  and  apparently 
boundless  wealth ;  and  their  first  idea  was  to  se 
cure  it  beyond  the  reach  of  question  or  competition. 
Shortly  after  his  arrival  in  Seville,  Columbus  re 
ceived  a  letter  from  them,  expressing  their  great 
delight,  and  requesting  him  to  repair  immediately 
to  court,  to  concert  plans  for  a  second  and  more 
extensive  expedition.  As  the  summer  was  al 
ready  advancing,  the  time  favourable  for  a  voyage, 
they  desired  him  to  make  any  arrangements  at 
Seville,  or  elsewhere,  that  might  hasten  the  expe 
dition,  and  to  inform  them  by  the  return  of  the 
courier  what  was  necessary  to  be  done  on  their 
part.  This  letter  was  addressed  to  him  by  the 
title  of  "  Don  Christopher  Columbus,  our  admiral 
of  the  Ocean  sea,  and  viceroy  and  governor  of  the 
islands  discovered  in  the  Indias ;"  at  the  same  time 
he  was  promised  still  further  rewards.  Columbus 
lost  no  time  in  complying  with  the  commands  of 
the  sovereigns.  He  sent  a  memorandum  of  the 
ships,  men,  and  munitions  that  would  be  requisite ; 
and  having  made  such  dispositions  at  Seville  as 
circumstances  permitted,  set  out  on  his  journey  for 
Barcelona,  taking  with  him  the  six  Indians,  and 
the  various  curiosities  and  productions  which  he 
had  brought  from  the  New  World. 

The  fame  of  his  discovery  had  resounded  through 
out  the  nation,  and  as  his  route  lay  through  seve 
ral  of  the  finest  and  most  populous  provinces  of 
Spain,  his  journey  appeared  like  the  progress  of  a 
sovereign.  Wherever  he  passed  the  surrounding 
country  poured  forth  its  inhabitants,  who  lined  the 
road  and  thronged  the  villages.  In  the  large 
towns,  the  streets,  windows,  and  balconies  were 
filled  with  eager  spectators,  who  rent  the  air  with 
acclamations.  His  journey  was  continually  im 
peded  by  the  multitude  pressing  to  gain  a  sight  of 
him,  and  of  the  Indians,  who  were  regarded  with 
as  much  admiration  as  if  they  had  been  natives  of 
another  planet.  It  was  impossible  to  satisfy  the 
craving  curiosity  which  assailed  himself  and  his 
attendants,  at  every  stage,  with  innumerable  ques 
tions;  popular  rumour  as  usual  had  exaggerated 
the  truth,  and  had  filled  the  newly-found  country 
with  all  kinds  of  wonders. 

It  was  about  the  middle  of  April  that  Columbus 
arrived  at  Barcelona,  where  every  preparation  had 
been  made  to  give  him  a  solemn  and  magnificent 
reception.  The  beauty  and  serenity  of  the  wea 
ther  in  that  genial  season  and  favoured  climate, 
contributed  to  give  splendour  to  this  memorable 
ceremony.  As  he  drew  near  the  place,  many  of 


220 


WASHINGTON   IRVING. 


the  more  youthful  courtiers  and  hidalgos  of  gallant 
bearing,  together  with  a  vast  concourse  of  the  po 
pulace,  came  forth  to  meet  and  welcome  him.  His 
entrance  into  this  noble  city  has  been  compared  to 
one  of  those  triumphs  which  the  Romans  were 
accustomed  to  decree  to  conquerors.  First  were 
paraded  the  Indians,  painted  according  to  their 
savage  fashion,  and  decorated  with  tropical  fea 
thers,  and  with  their  national  ornaments  of  gold ; 
after  these  were  borne  various  kinds  of  live  parrots, 
together  with  stuffed  birds  and  animals  of  unknown 
species,  and  rare  plants  supposed  to  be  of  precious 
qualities :  while  great  care  was  taken  to  make  a 
conspicuous  display  of  Indian  coronets,  bracelets, 
and  other  decorations  of  gold,  which  might  give 
an  id*a  of  the  wealth  of  the  newly  discovered  re 
gions  After  these  followed  Columbus,  on  horse 
back,  surrounded  by  a  brilliant  cavalcade  of  Spanish 
chivalry.  The  streets  were  almost  impassable 
from  the  countless  multitude ;  the  windows  and 
balconies  were  crowded  with  the  fair ;  the  very 
roofs  were  covered  with  spectators.  It  seemed  as 
if  the  public  eye  could  not  be  sated  with  gazing 
on  these  trophies  of  an  unknown  world  ;  or  on  the 
remarkable  man  by  whom  it  had  been  discovered. 
There  was  a  sublimity  in  this  event  that  mingled 
a  solemn  feeling  with  the  public  joy.  It  was 
looked  upon  as  a  vast  and  signal  dispensation  of 
providence  in  reward  for  the  piety  of  the  monarchs ; 
and  the  majestic  and  venerable  appearance  of  the 
discoverer,  so  different  from  the  youth  and  buoy 
ancy  tha,t  are  generally  expected  from  roving  en 
terprise,  seemed  in  harmony  with  the  grandeur 
and  dignity  of  his  achievement. 

To  receive  him  with  suitable  pomp  and  distinc 
tion,  the  sovereigns  had  ordered  their  throne  to  be 
placed  in  public,  under  a  rich  canopy  of  brocade 
of  gold,  in  a  vast  and  splendid  saloon.  Here  the 
king  and  queen  awaited  his  arrival,  seated  in  state, 
with  the  prince  Juan  beside  them ;  and  attended 
by  the  dignitaries  of  their  court,  and  the  principal 
nobility  of  Castile,  Valentia,  Catalonia,  and  Ara- 
gon ;  all  impatient  to  behold  the  man  who  had 
conferred  so  incalculable  a  benefit  upon  the  nation. 
At  length  Columbus  entered  the  hall,  surrounded 
by  a  brilliant  crowd  of  cavaliers,  among  whom, 
says  Las  Casas,  he  was  conspicuous  for  his  stately 
and  commanding  person,  which,  with  his  counte 
nance  rendered  venerable  by  his  gray  hairs,  gave 
him  the  august  appearance  of  a  senator  of  Rome. 
A  modest  smile  lighted  up  his  features,  showing  that 
he  enjoyed  the  state  and  glory  in  which  he  came ; 
and  certainly  nothing  could  be  more  deeply  moving 
to  a  mind  inflamed  by  noble  ambition,  and  con 
scious  of  having  greatly  deserved,  than  these  testi 
monials  of  the  admiration  and  gratitude  of  a  nation, 
or  rather  of  a  world.  As  Columbus  approached, 
the  sovereigns  rose,  as  if  receiving  a  person  of  the 
highest  rank.  Bending  his  knees,  he  requested 
tc  kiss  their  hands ;  but  there  was  some  hesitation 
on  the  part  of  their  majesties  to  permit  this  act  of 
vassalage.  Raising  him  in  the  most  gracious 
manner,  they  ordered  him  to  seat  himself  in  their 
presence ;  a  xare  honour  in  this  proud  and  punc 
tilious  court. 


At  the  request  of  their  majesties,  Columbus  now 
gave  an  account  of  the  most  striking  events  of  his 
voyage,  and  a  description  of  the  islands  which  he 
had  discovered.  He  displayed  the  specimens  he 
had  brought  of  unknown  birds  and  other  animals; 
of  rare  plants  of  medicinal  and  aromatic  virtue ;  of 
native  gold  in  dust,  in  crude  masses,  or  laboured 
into  barbaric  ornaments;  and  above  all,  the  natives 
of  these  countries,  who  were  objects  of  intense  and 
inexhaustible  interest;  since  there  is  nothing  to 
man  so  curious  as  the  varieties  of  his  own  species. 
All  these  he  pronounced  mere  harbingers  of  greater 
discoveries  he  had  yet  to  make,  which  would  add 
realms  of  incalculable  wealth  to  the  dominions  of 
their  majesties  and  whole  nations  of  proselytes  to 
the  true  faith. 

The  words  of  Columbus  were  listened  to  with 
profound  emotion  by  the  sovereigns.  When  he 
had  finished,  they  sunk  on  their  knees,  and,  raising 
their  clasped  hands  to  heaven,  their  eyes  filled  with 
tears  of  joy  and  gratitude,  they  poured  forth  thanks 
and  praises  to  God  for  so  great  a  providence ;  all 
present  followed  their  example,  a  deep  and  solemn 
enthusiasm  pervaded  that  splendid  assembly,  and 
prevented  all  common  acclamations  of  triumph. 
The  anthem  of  Te  Deum  laudamm,  chanted  by 
the  choir  of  the  royal  chapel,  with  the  melodious 
accompaniments  of  the  instruments,  rose  up  from 
the  midst  in  a  full  body  of  sacred  harmony,  bear 
ing  up  as  it  were  the  feelings  and  thoughts  of  the 
auditors  to  heaven,  "  so  that,"  says  the  venerable 
Las  Casas,  "  it  seemed  as  if  in  that  hour  they  com 
municated  with  celestial  delights."  Such.was  the 
solemn  and  pious  manner  in  which  the  brilliant 
court  of  Spain  celebrated  this  sublime  event ;  offer 
ing  up  a  grateful  tribute  of  melody  and  praise,  and 
giving  glory  to  God  for  the  discovery  of  another 
world. 


A  LETTER 

FROM  MUSTAPHA  RUB-A-DUB  KELI  KHAN,  TO 
ASEM  HACCHEM.  PRINCIPAL  SLAVE-DRIVER 
TO  HIS  HIGHNESS  THE  BASHAW  OF  TRIPOLI. 

FEOM   SALMAGUNDI. 


SWEET,  O  Asem!  is  the  memory  of  distant 
friends  !  Like  the  mellow  ray  of  a  departing  sun, 
it  falls  tenderly  yet  sadly  on  the  heart.  Every 
hour  of  absence  from  my  native  land  rolls  heavily 
by,  like  the  sandy  wave  of  the  desert ;  and  the  fair 
shores  of  my  country  rise  blooming  to  my  imagina 
tion,  clothed  in  the  soft  illusive  charms  of  distance. 
I  sigh,  yet  no  one  listens  to  the  sigh  of  the  captive :  I 
shed  the  bitter  tear  of  recollection,  but  no  one  sym 
pathizes  in  the  telr  of  the  turbaned  stranger !  Think 
not,  however,  thou  brother  of  my  soul,  that  I  com 
plain  of  the  horrors  of  my  situation;  think  not  that 
my  captivity  is  attended  with  the  labours,  the  chains, 
the  scourges,  the  insults  that  render  slavery  with  us 
more  dreadful  than  the  pangs  of  hesitating,  lingering 
death.  Light,  indeed,  are  the  restraints  on  the  per 
sonal  freedom  of  thy  kinsman;  but  who  can  enter 
into  the  afflictions  of  the  mind  1  who  can  describe 
the  agonies  of  the  heart  1  They  are  mutable  as  tlfe 
clouds  of  the  air;  they  are  countless  as  the  waves 
that  divide  me  from  my  native  country. 


WASHINGTON    IRVING. 


221 


I  have,  of  late,  my  dear  Asem,  laboured  under 
an  inconvenience  singularly  unfortunate,  and  am 
reduced  to  a  dilemma  most  ridiculously  embarrass 
ing.  Why  should  I  hide  it  from  the  companion 
of  my  thoughts,  the  partner  of  my  sorrows  and  my 
joys'?  Alas!  Asem,  thy  friend  Mustapha,  the  in 
vincible  captain  of  a  ketch,  is  sadly  in  want  of  a 
pair  of  breeches !  Thou"  wilt  doubtless  smile,  O 
most  grave  Mussulman,  to  hear  me  indulge  in  such 
ardent  lamentations  about  a  circumstance  so  trivial, 
and  a  want  apparently  so  easy  to  be  satisfied :  but 
little  canst  thou  know  of  the  mortifications  attend 
ing  my  necessities,  and  the  astonishing  difficulty 
of  supplying ^them.  Honoured  by  the  smiles  and 
attentions  of  the  beautiful  ladies  of  this  city,  who 
have  fallen  in  love  with  my  whiskers  and  my  tur 
ban  ; — courted  by  the  bashaws  and  the  great  men, 
who  delight  to  have  meat  their  feasts;  the  honour 
of  my  company  eagerly  solicited  by  every  fiddler 
who  gives  a  concert ;  think  of  my  chagrin  at  being 
obliged  to  decline  the  host  of  invitations  that  daily 
overwhelm  me,  merely  for  want  of  a  pair  of  breeches ! 
Oh,  Allah  !  Allah  !  that  thy  disciples  could  come 
into  the  world  all  be-feathered  like  a  bantam,  or 
with  a  pair  of  leather  breeches  like  the  wild  deer 
of  the  forest ;  surely,  my  friend,  it  is  the  destiny 
of  man  to  be  for  ever  subjected  to  petty  evils,  which, 
however  trifling  in  appearance,  prey  in  silence  on 
this  little  pittance  of  enjoyment,  and  poison  these 
moments  of  sunshine,  which  might  otherwise  be 
consecrated  to  happiness. 

The  want  of  a  garment,  thou  wilt  say,  is  easily 
supplied  ;  and  thou  mayest  suppose  need  only  be 
mentioned  to  be  remedied  at  once  by  any  tailor  of 
the  land.  Little  canst  thou  conceive  the  impedi 
ments  which  stand  in  the  way  of  my  comfort,  and 
still  less  art  thou  acquainted  with  the  prodigious 
great  scale  on  which  every  thing  is  transacted  in 
this  country.  The  nation  moves  most  majestically 
slow  and  clumsy  in  the  most  trivial  affairs,  like  the 
unwieldy  elephant  which  makes  a  formidable  diffi 
culty  of  picking  up  a  straw  !  When  I  hinted  my 
necessities  to  the  officer  who  has  charge  of  myself 
and  my  companions,  I  expected  to  have  been  forth 
with  relieved  ;  but  he  made  an  amazingly  long  face 
— told  me  that  we  were  prisoners  of  state — that  we 
must  therefore  be  clothed  at  the  expense  of  the  go- 
'  vernment ;  that  as  no  provision  has  been  made  by 
the  Congress  for  an  emergency  of  the  kind,  it  was 
impossible  to  furnish  me  with  a  pair  of  breeches 
until  all  the  sages  of  the  nation  had  been  convened 
to  talk  over  the  matter,  and  debate  upon  the  expe 
diency  of  granting  my  request.  Sword  of  the  im 
mortal  Khalid,  thought  I,  but  this  is  great ! — this 
is  truly  sublime  !  All  the  sages  in  an  immense 
logocracy  assembled  together  to  talk  about  my 
breeches  ! — Vain  mortal  that  I  am!  I  cannot  but 
own  I  was  somewhat  reconciled  to  the  delay  which 
must  necessarily  attend  this  method  of  clothing  me, 
by  the  consideration  that  if  they  made  the  affair  a  na 
tional  act,  my  "  name  must  of  course  be  imbodied  in 
history,"  and  myself  and  my  breeches  flourish  to 
immortality  in  the  annals  of  this  mighty  empire  ! 

"  But  pray,  sir,"  said  I,  "  how  does  it  happen 
that  a  matter  so  insignificant  should  be  erected  into 


an  object  of  such  importance  as  to  employ  the  re 
presentative  wisdom  of  the  nation!  and  what  is 
the  cause  of  their  talking  so  much  about  a  trifle1?" 
"  Oh,"  replied  the  officer,  who  acts  as  our  slave- 
driver  ;  "  it  all  proceeds  from  economy.  If  the 
government  did  not  spend  ten  times  as  much  mo 
ney  in  debating  whether  it  was  proper  to  supply 
you  with  breeches  as  the  breeches  themselves  would 
cost,  the  people,  who  govern  the  bashaw  and  his 
divan,  would  straightway  begin  to  complain  of  their 
liberties  being  infringed — the  national  finances 
squandered — not  a  hostile  slang-whanger  through 
out  the  logocracy  but  would  burst  forth  like  a  bar 
rel  of  combustion — and  ten  chances  to  one  but  the 
bashaw  and  the  sages  of  his  divan  would  all  be 
turned  out  of  office  together.  My  good  Mussul 
man,"  continued  he,  « the  administration  have  the 
good  of  the  people  too  much  at  heart  to  trifle  with 
their  pockets;  and  they  would  sooner  assemble  and 
talk  away  ten  thousand  dollars  than  expend  fifty 
silently  out  of  the  treasury — such  is  the  wonderful 
spirit  of  economy  that  pervades  every  branch  of 
this  government."  "  But,"  said  I,  "  how  is  it  pos 
sible  they  can  spend  money  in  talking:  surely 
words  cannot  be  the  current  coin  of  this  country  1" 
"  Truly,"  cried  he,  smiling,  "  your  question  is  per 
tinent  enough,  for  words  indeed  often  supply  the 
place  of  cash  among  us,  and  many  an  honest  debt 
is  paid  in  promises;  but  the  fact  is,  the  grand  ba 
shaw  and  the  members  of  Congress,  or  grand  talk 
ers  of  the  nation,  either  receive  a  yearly  salary,  or 
are  paid  by  the  day." — "  By  the  nine  hundred 
tongues  of  the  great  beast  in  Mahomet's  vision, 
but  the  murder  is  out !  it  is  no  wonder  these  ho 
nest  men  talk  so  much  about  nothing  when  they 
are  paid  for  talking  like  day-labourers."  "  You 
are  mistaken,"  said  my  driver ;  « it  is  nothing  but 
economy." 

I  remained  silent  for  some  minutes,  for  this  in 
explicable  word  economy  always  discomfits  me; — 
and  when  I  flatter  myself  I  have  grasped  it,  it  slips 
through  my  fingers  like  a  jack-o'lantern.  I  have 
not,  nor  perhaps  ever  shall  acquire,  sufficient  of  the 
philosophic  policy  of  this  government  to  draw  a 
proper  distinction  between  an  individual  and  a 
nation.  If  a  man  was  to  throw  away  a  pound  in 
order  to  save  a  beggarly  penny,  and  boast  at  the 
same  time  of  his  economy,  I  should  think  him  on 
a  par  with  the  fool  in  the  fable  of  Alfangi ;  who, 
in  skinning  a  flint  worth  a  farthing,  spoiled  a  knife 
worth  fifty  times  the  sum,  and  thought  he  had  acted 
wisely.  The  shrewd  fellow  would  doubtless  have 
valued  himself  much  more  highly  on  his  economy 
could  he  have  known  that  his  example  would  one 
day  be  followed  by  the  bashaw  of  America,  and 
the  sages  of  his  divan. 

This  economic  disposition,  my  friend,  occasion 
much   fighting   of    the   spirit,    and    innumerabl 
contests  of  the  tongue  in  this  talking  assembly 
Wouldst  thou  believe  it  ?  they  were  actually  cm- 
ployed  for  a  whole  week  in  a  most  strenuous  and 
eloquent  debate  about  patching  up  a  hole  in  the 
wall  in  the  room  appropriated  to  their  meetings ! 
A  vast  profusion  of  nervous  argument  and  pomp 
ous  declamation  was  expended  on  this  occasion. 


222 


WASHINGTON   IRVING. 


Some  of  the  orators,  I  am  told,  being  rather  wag 
gishly  inclined,  were  most  stupidly  jocular  on  the 
occasion  ;  but  their  waggery  gave  great  offence,  and 
was  highly  reprobated  by  the  more  weighty  part 
of  the  assembly ;  who  hold  all  wit  and  humour 
in  abomination,  and  thought  the  business  in  hand 
much  too  solemn  and  serious  to  be  treated  lightly. 
It  was  supposed  by  some  that  this  affair  would 
have  occupied  a  whole  winter,  as  it  was  a  subject 
upon  which  several  gentlemen  spoke  who  had 
never  been  known  to  open  their  lips  in  that  place 
except  to}  say  yes  and  no. — These  silent  members 
are  by  way  of  distinction  denominated  orator  mums, 
and  are  highly  valued  in  this  country  on  account 
of  their  great  talents  for  silence ; — a  qualification 
extremely  rare  in  a  logocracy. 

Fortunately  for  the  public  tranquillity,  in  the 
hottest  part  of  the  debate,  when  two  rampant  Vir 
ginians,  brim  full  of  logic  and  philosophy,  were 
measuring  tongues,  and  syllogistically  cudgelling 
each  other  out  of  their  unreasonable  notions,  the 
president  of  the  divan,  a  knowing  old  gentleman, 
one  night  slyly  sent  a  mason  with  a  hod  of  mortar, 
who  in  the  course  of  a  few  minutes  closed  up  the 
hole,  and  put  a  final  end  to  the  argument.  Thus 
did  this  wise  old  gentleman,  by  hitting  on  a  most 
simple  expedient,  in  all  probability,  save  his  coun 
try  as  much  money  as  would  build  a  gun-boat,  or 
pay  a  hireling  slang-whanger  for  a  whole  volume 
of  words.  As  it  happened,  only  a  few  thousand 
dollars  were  expended  in  paying  these  men,  who 
are  denominated,  I  suppose  in  derision,  legislators. 

Another  instance  of  their  economy  I  relate  with 
pleasure,  for  I  really  begin  to  feel  a  regard  for  these 
poor  barbarians.  They  talked  away  the  best  parts 
of  a  whole  winter  before  they  could  determine  not 
to  expend  a  few  dollars  in  purchasing  a  sword  to 
bestow  on  an  illustrious  warrior :  yes,  Asem,  on 
that  very  hero  who  frightened  all  our  poor  old  wo 
men  and  young  children  at  Derne,  and  fully  proved 
nimself  a  greater  man  than  the  mother  that  bore 
him.*  Thus,  my  friend,  is  the  whole  collective 
wisdom  of  this  mighty  logocracy  employed  in  som 
niferous  debates  about  the  most  trivial  affairs;  as  I 
have  sometimes  seen  a  Herculean  mountebank 
exerting  all  his  energies  in  balancing  a  straw  upon 
his  nose.  Their  sages  behold  the  minutest  object 
with  the  microscopic  eyes  of  a  pismire  ;  mole-hills 
swell  into  mountains,  and  a  grain  of  mustard-seed 
will  set  the  whole  ant-hill  in  a  hubbub.  Whether 
this  indicates  a  capacious  vision,  or  a  diminutive 
mind,  I  leave  thee  to  decide;  for  my  part  I  con 
sider  it  as  another  proof  of  the  great  scale  on  which 
every  thing  is  transacted  in  this  country. 

I  have  before  told  thee  that  nothing  can  be 
done  without  consulting  the  sages  of  the  na 
tion  who  compose  the  assembly  called  the  Con 
gress.  This  prolific  body  may  not  improperly  be 
called  the  "  mother  of  inventions ;''  and  a  most 
fruitful  mother  it  is,  let  me  tell  thee,  though  its 
children  are  generally  abortions.  It  has  lately  la 
boured  with  what  was  deemed  the  conception  of  a 
mighty  navy. — All  the  old  women  and  the  good 
wives  that  assist  the  bashaw  in  his  emergencies 


'General  Eaton. 


hurried  to  head-quarters  to  be  busy,  like  midwives, 
at  the  delivery.  All  was  anxiety,  fidgeting,  and 
consultation ;  when  after  a  deal  of  groaning  and 
struggling,  instead  of  formidable  first-rates  and  gal 
lant  frigates,  out  crept  a  litter  of  sorry  little  gun 
boats.  These  are  most  pitiful  little  vessels,  par 
taking  vastly  of  the  character  of  the  grand  bashaw, 
who  has  the  credit  of  begetting  them ;  being  flat 
shallow  vessels  that  can  only  sail  before  the  wind ; 
— must  always  keep  in  with  the  land  ; — are  con 
tinually  foundering  or  running  on  shore ;  and,  in 
short,  are  only  fit  for  smooth  water.  Though  in 
tended  for  the  defence  of  the  maritime  cities,  yet 
the  cities  are  obliged  to  defend  them ;  and  they 
require  as  much  nursing  as  so  many  rickety  little 
bantlings.  They  are,  however,  the  darling  pets 
of  the  grand  bashaw,  being  the  children  of  his  do 
tage,  and,  perhaps  from  their  diminutive  size  and 
palpable  weakness,  are  called  the  "  infant  navy  of 
America."  The  art  that  brought  them  into  exist 
ence  was  almost  deified  by  the  majority  of  the  peo 
ple  as  a  grand  stroke  of  economy.  By  the  beard 
of  Mahomet,  but  this  word  is  truly  inexplicable ! 

To  this  economic  body  therefore  was  I  advised 
to  address  my  petition,  and  humbly  to  pray  that 
the  august  assembly  of  sages  would,  in  the  pleni 
tude  of  their  wisdom  and  the  magnitude  of  their 
powers,  munificently  bestow  on  an  unfortunate 
captive  a  pair  of  cotton  breeches!  "Head  of  the 
immortal  Amrou,"  cried  I,  "but  this  would  be  pre 
sumptuous  to  a  degree  : — What !  after  these  wor 
thies  have  thought  proper  to  leave  their  country 
naked  and  defenceless,  and  exposed  to  all  the  po 
litical  storms  that  rattle  without,  can  I  expect  that 
they  will  lend  a  helping  hand  to  comfort  the  ex 
tremities  of  a  solitary  captive  V  My  exclamation 
was  only  answered  by  a  smile,  and  I  was  consoled 
by  the  assurance  that,  so  far  from  being  neglected, 
it  was  every  way  probable  my  breeches  might  oc 
cupy  a  whole  session  of  the  divan,  and  set  several 
of  the  longest  heads  together  by  the  ears.  Flat 
tering  as  was  the  idea  of  a  whole  nation  being  agi 
tated  about  my  breeches,  yet  I  own  I  was  some 
what  dismayed  at  the  idea  of  remaining  in  querpo 
until  all  the  national  graybeards  should  have  made 
a  speech  on  the  occasion,  and  given  their  consent 
to  the  measure.  The  embarrassment  and  distress 
of  mind  which  I  experienced  were  visible  in  my 
countenance,  and  my  guard,  who  is  a  man  of  infi 
nite  good  nature,  immediately  suggested,  as  a  more 
expeditious  plan  of  supplying  my  wants,  a  benefit 
at  the  theatre.  Though  profoundly  ignorant  of 
his  meaning,  I  agreed  to  his  proposition,  the  result 
of  which  I  shall  disclose  in  another  letter. 

Fare  thee  well,  dear  Asem  ;  in  thy  pious  prayers 
to  our  great  prophet,  never  forget  to  solicit  thy 
friend's  return;  and  when  thou  numberest  up  the 
many  blessings  bestowed  on  thee  by  all -bountiful 
Allah,  pour  forth  thy  gratitude  that  he  has  cast  thy 
nativity  in  a  land  where  there  is  no  assembly  of 
legislative  chatterers; — no  great  bashaw,  who  be 
strides  a  gun-boat  for  a  hobby-horse  ; — where  the 
word  economy  is  unknown ; — and  where  an  un 
fortunate  captive  is  not  obliged  to  call  upon  the 
whole  nation  to  cut  him  out  a  pair  of  breeches. 


JOSEPH  STEVENS  BUCKMINSTER. 


[Born  1784.    Died  1812.] 


I  AM  inclined  to  believe  that  America  has 
produced  in  the  present  century  more  really 
eloquent  preachers  than  any  other  country. 
Although  from  the  foolish  and  wicked  custom 
which  obtains  among  some  sects  of  admitting 
uneducated  persons  to  that  profession  which 
demands  the  highest  and  most  patient  culti 
vation,  there  is  in  the  pulpit  doubtless  a  great 
deal  of  ignorance,  rant  and  fanaticism,  yet  it 
seems  to  be  the  general  opinion  among  fo 
reigners  who  have  visited  our  churches,  and 
among  travelled  Americans,  that  the  clergy  of 
no  country  in  Europe  can  be  compared  with 
ours  for  chaste,  impassioned  and  effective 
oratory.  I  write  this  with  a  vivid  recollec 
tion  of  some  of  the  masterpieces  of  French 
and  English  sermon  writing,  and  of  the  ac 
counts  which  have  been  given  of  the  manner 
in  which  they  were  delivered. 

It  would  appear  invidious  to  allude  particu 
larly  to  any  of  the  living  lights  of  the  churches, 
and  I  must  refer  even  to  Buckminster  as  the 
representative  of  a  class  rather  than  as  one  en 
titled  to  be  singled  out  from  all  others  of  his 
time  by  his  preeminent  powers  and  accom 
plishments. 

JOSEPH  STEVENS  BUCKMINSTER  was  born  on 
the  twenty-sixth  of  May,  1784,  at  Portsmouth, 
in  New  Hampshire.  His  ancestors,  both  by 
the  paternal  and  the  maternal  side,  for  several 
generations,  were  clergymen,  and  some  of 
them  were  persons  of  distinguished  reputa 
tion.  He  was  remarkably  precocious,  study 
ing  the  Latin  and  Greek  languages  before  he 
was  five  years  of  age,  and  at  twelve  being 
ready  to  enter  college.  Unwilling  however 
to  place  him  so  soon  within  the  influences 
of  a  life  at  Cambridge,  his  father  detained 
him  some  time  longer  at  the  Exeter  Acade 
my,  and  he  was  finally  admitted  to  Harvard 
nearly  a  year  in  advance  in  1797.  His  career 
here  was  equally  honourable  to  his  moral  and 
his  intellectual  character.  President  Kirk- 
land's  remark  of  Fisher  Ames  has  been  ap 
plied  to  him,  that  "  he  did  not  need  the  smart 
of  guilt  to  make  him  virtuous,  nor  the  regret 
of  folly  to  make  him  wise." 


He  received  the  degree  of  Bacheloi  ..f  Arts 
in  the  summer  of  1800,  and  devoted  the  next 
four  years  principally  to  the  study  of  theology. 
In  January,  1805,  he  was  ordained  minister  of 
the  Brattle  Street  Unitarian  Society  in  Boston, 
and  his  sermons  were  listened  to,  from  the  first, 
his  biographer  assures  us,  with  "delight  and 
wonder."  But  his  labours  were  soon  inter 
rupted  by  illness,  and  before  the  close  of  the 
summer  renewed  attacks  of  a  terrible  dis 
order  from  which  he  had  been  several  years  a 
sufferer  excited  the  most  painful  apprehen 
sions.  On  the  last  day  of  October  he  wrote 
in  his  diary :  "  Another  fit  of  epilepsy !  I 
pray  God  that  I  maybe  prepared,  not  so  much 
for  death,  as  for  the  loss  of  health,  and  perhaps 
of  mental  faculties.  The  repetition  of  these 
fits  must  at  length  reduce  me  to  idiocy.  Can 
I  resign  myself  to  the  loss  of  memory,  and 
of  that  knowledge  I  may  have  vainly  prided 
myself  upon  1  O  God  !  enable  me  to  bear 
this  thought,  and  make  it  familiar  to  my  mind, 
that  by  thy  grace  I  may  be  willing  to  endure 
life  as  long  as  thou  pleasest  to  lengthen  it  It 
is  not  enough  to  be  willing  to  leave  the  world 
when  God  pleases  ;  we  should  be  willing  even 
to  live  useless  in  it,  if  he,  in  his  holy  provi 
dence,  should  .send  such  a  calamity  upon  us.  I 
think  I  perceive  my  memory  fails  me.  O 
God,  save  me  from  that  hour!" 

In  the  spring  of  1806  the  increase  of  his 
malady  induced  him  to  make  a  voyage  to 
Europe.  In  May  he  sailed  for  Liverpool,  and 
in  August,  with  a  friend  who  had  joined  him 
in  London,  embarked  for  the  continent.  He. 
passed  rapidly  through  the  chief  cities  of  Hol 
land,  ascended  the  Rhine,  and  after  spending 
a  few  weeks  in  Switzerland,  proceeded  to  Paris, 
where  he  remained  five  months.  In  February, 
1807,  he  reached  London,  and  having  travelled 
in  England,  Scotland  and  Wales,  through  the 
spring  and  summer,  returned  to  Boston  early 
in  September.  He  was  received  with  una 
bated  affection  by  his  congregation,  and  re- 
entered  earnestly  upon  the  duties  of  his  office. 
The  remaining  years  of  his  life  were  marked 
by  few  incidents.  The  constant  calls  of  pro- 


224 


JOSEPH    STEVENS    BUCKMINSTER. 


fessional  duty  did  not  prevent  him  from  be 
ing1  a  laborious  student;  he  was  an  active 
member  of  the  chief  literary  and  charitable 
societies  of  the  city,  and  interested  in  every 
plan  for  the  elevation  of  the  intellectual,  moral 
and  religious  character  of  the  people.  In  18 1 1 
he  was  appointed  the  first  professor  of  biblical 
criticism  at  Cambridge,  and  his  lectures  were 
looked  forward  to  with  the  deepest  interest  by 
his  friends,  who  knew  how  much  attention  he 
had  given  to  the  study  of  the  interpretation  of 
the  scriptures,  and  how  very  capable  he  was  of 
communicating  the  results  of  the  most  recent 
and  most  profound  investigations  in  this  his 
favourite  department  of  learning ;  but  his  brjef 
and  brilliant  career  was  suddenly  terminated 
before  he  commenced  the  discharge  of  the  du 
ties  of  his  new  office;  a  sudden  and  violent 
return  of  his  old  malady  instantly  made  a  to 
tal  and  irrecoverable  wreck  of  his  mind ;  and 
after  lingering  a  few  days,  without  a  ray  of 
consciousness,  he  died,  on  the  ninth  of  June, 
1812,  having  just  completed  the  twenty-eighth 
year  of  his  age. 

The  memory  of  Buckminster  is  cherished 
with  singular  veneration  by  those  who  enjoyed 
his  personal  intimacy.  He  became  distin 
guished  as  a  preacher  before  the  sect  of  which 
he  was  an  ornament  embraced  so  many  gifted 
persons  as  at  present.  With  a  face  remark 
able  for  its  pure  intellectual  expression,  and  a 
silvery  voice,  the  tones  of  which  won  the  de 
vout  attention  and  haunted  the  memories  of 
all  who  listened,  it  is  not  surprising  that  in  a 
community  where  mental  power  is  so  highly 
appreciated  as  in  Boston,  the  weekly  addresses 
of  the  youthfnl  divine  attracted  large  and  en 
thusiastic  audiences.  His  manner  was  artless 
and  impressive,  and  there  was  something  about 
the  whole  man  that  irresistibly  fascinated  the 
taste  at  the  same  time  that  it  inspired  respect 
and  love.  In  social  life  he  was  remarkable 
for  his  urbane  spirit,  quick  intelligence,  and 
refined  wit.  He  was  the  centre  of  a  rare  cir 
cle  of  the  good  and  cultivated,  and  his  death  fell 
upon  the  hearts  of  his  numerous  friends  with 
the  solemn  pathos  of  a  deep  calamity.  To 
the  reader  of  his  discourses  in  whose  minds 
they  lack  the  charm  of  personal  associations, 
there  is  perhaps  a  coldness  in  their  very  beau 
ty.  Yet  few  sermons  equal  them  for  a  happy 
blending  of  good  sense  and  graceful  imagery. 


Truth  is  enforced  with  a  simple  earnestness, 
and  pious  thoughts  are  clothed  in  language 
strikingly  correct  and  impressive.  One  of  the 
most  characteristic  of  these  essays  is  the  one 
on  The  Advantages  of  Sickness.  It  was  com 
posed  after  a  dangerous  illness  of  several 
weeks.  On  the  Sabbath  morning  when  Buck- 
minster  was  to  reappear  before  the  anxious 
congregation,  atan  early  hour,  before  rising,  he 
called  for  the  necessary  materials,  and  wrote 
the  entire  sermon  in  bed,  after  having  medi 
tated  the  subject  during  the  night.  The  bell 
had  ceased  tolling  when  his  diminutive  figure 
was  seen  gliding  up  the  aisle  of  the  church, 
thronged  with  expectant  faces.  He  ascended 
the  pulpit  stairs  with  feeble  steps,  and  went 
through  the  preparatory  exercises  in  a  sup 
pressed  voice.  Still  weak  from  long  confine 
ment,  as  he  leaned  upon  the  desk  and  gave 
out  his  theme,  every  ear  hung  upon  the  cher 
ished  accents.  The  effect  of  his  address  is 
said  to  have  been  affecting  in  the  highest  de 
gree.  As  it  proceeded,  he  kindled  into  that 
cairn  and  earnest  ardour  for  which  he  was  re 
markable,  and  vindicated  the  benignity  and 
the  wisdom  of  the  heavenly  Father  who  had 
so  recently  afflicted  him,  in  a  strain  so  exalted 
and  sincere  that  to  this  day  all  who  heard 
him  dwell  with  enthusiasm  upon  the  scene. 
It  is  said  that  the  printed  remains  of  Buck- 
minster  afford  but  an  inadequate  idea  of  his 
great  mental  resources  and  classical  taste.  His 
learned  and  distinguished  friend  Mr.  Andrews 
Norton,  in  an  eloquent  eulogy  written  soon  af 
ter  his  death,  says  that  in  his  opinion  he  was 
far  beyond  all  rivalship  the  most  eminent  lite 
rary  man  of  all  those  of  whom  the  country  re 
tained  only  the  memory.  Pulpit  oratory  has 
advanced  in  this  country  since  his  day,  but  to 
readers  of  cultivation  whose  sense  of  beauty 
is  keen  and  elevated,  of  whatever  denomina 
tion,  there  is  a  moral  dignity  and  subdued 
gracefulness  of  feeling  and  style  in  his  ser 
mons  which  render  them  models  in  this  de 
partment  of  literature. 

Mr.  Buckminster  was  succeeded  as  minis 
ter  of  the  Brattle  Street  society  by  Edward 
Everett,  of  whose  life  and  genius  some  ac 
count  will  be  given  in  another  part  of  this 
volume;  and  William  Ellery  Channing  was 
chosen  in  his  place  as  lecturer  on  biblical  cri 
ticism  in  the  university. 


JOSEPH  STEVENS  BUCKMINSTER. 


225 


FAITH  TO  THE  AFFLICTED. 

FROM   SERMONS. 

WOULT)  you  know  the  value  of  this  principle 
of  faith  to  the  bereaved  ]  Go,  and  follow  a  corpse 
to  the  grave.  See  the  body  deposited  there,  and 
hear  the  earth  thrown  in  upon  all  that  remains  of 
your  friend.  Return  now,  if  you  will,  and  brood 
over  the  lesson  which  your  senses  have  given  you, 
and  derive  from  it  what  consolation  you  can. 
You  have  learned  nothing  but  an  unconsoling1 
fact.  No  voice  of  comfort  issues  from  the  tomb. 
All  is  still  there,  and  blank,  and  lifeless,  and  has 
been  so  for  ages.  You  see  nothing  hut  bodies  dis 
solving  and  successively  mingling  with  the  clods 
which  cover  them,  the  grass  growing  over  the  spot, 
and  the  trees  waving  in  sullen  majesty  over  this 
region  of  eternal  silence.  And  what  is  there  more  1 
Nothing. — Come,  Faith,  and  people  these  deserts  ! 
Come,  and  reanimate  these  regions  of  forgetful- 
ness  !  Mothers  !  take  again  your  children  to  your 
arms,  for  they  are  living.  Sons  !  your  aged  pa 
rents  are  coming  forth  in  the  vigour  of  regenerated 
years.  Friends  !  behold,  your  dearest  connections 
are  waiting  to  embrace  you.  The  tombs  are  burst. 
Generations  long  since  in  slumbers  are  awakening. 
They  are  coming  from  the  east  and  the  west,  from 
the  north  and  from  the  south,  to  constitute  the 
community  of  the  blessed. 

But  it  is  not  in  the  loss  of  friends  alone,  that 
faith  furnishes  consolations  which  are  inestimable. 
With  a  man  of  faith  not  an  affliction  is  lost,  not 
a  change  is  unimproved.  He  studies  even  his 
own  history  with  pleasure,  and  finds  it  full  of  in 
struction.  The  dark  passages  of  his  life  are  illu 
minated  with  hope  ;  and  he  sees,  that  although  he 
has  passed  through  many  dreary  defiles,  yet  they 
have  opened  at  last  into  brighter  regions  of  exist 
ence.  He  recalls,  with  a  species  of  wondering 
gratitude,  periods  of  his  life,  when  all  its  events 
seemed  to  conspire  against  him.  Hemmed  in  by 
straitened  circumstances,  wearied  with  repeated 
blows  of  unexpected  misfortunes,  and  exhausted 
with  the  painful  anticipation  of  more,  he  recollects 
years,  when  the  ordinary  love  of  life  could  not 
have  retained  him  in  the  world.  Many  a  time  he 
might  have  wished  to  lay  down  his  being  in  dis 
gust,  had  not  something  more  than  the  senses  pro 
vide  us  with,  kept  up  the  elasticity  of  his  mind. 
He  yet  lives,  and  has  found  that  light  is  sown  for  the^, 
righteous,  and  gladness  for  the  upright  in  heart. 
The  man  of  faith  discovers  some  gracious  purpose 
in  every  combination  of  circumstances.  Wherever 
he  finds  himself,  he  knows  that  he  has  a  destina 
tion — he  has,  therefore,  a  duty.  Every  event  has, 
in  his  eye,  a  tendency  and  an  aim.  Nothing  is 
accidental,  nothing  without  purpose,  nothing  un 
attended  with  benevolent  consequences.  Every 
thing  on  earth  is  probationary,  nothing  ultimate. 
He  is  poor — perhaps  his  plans  have  been  defeated 
— he  finds  it  difficult  to  provide  for  the  exigencies 
of  life — sickness  is  permitted  to  invade  the  quiet 
of  his  household — long  confinement  imprisons  his 
activity,  and  cuts  short  the  exertions  on  which 
so  many  depend — something  apparently  unlucky 
29 


mars  his  best  plans — new  failures  and  embarrass 
ments  among  his  friends  present  themselves,  and 
throw  additional  obstruction  in  his  way — the  world 
look  on  and  say  all  these  things  are  against  him. 
Some  wait  coolly  for  the  hour  when  he  shall  sink, 
under  the  complicated  embarrassments  of  his  cruel 
fortune.  Others,  of  a  kinder  spirit,  regard  him. 
with  compassion,  and  wonder  how  he  can  sustain 
such  a  variety  of  wo.  A  few  there  are,  a  very 
few,  I  fear,  who  can  understand  something  of  the 
serenity  pf  his  mind,  and  comprehend  something 
of  the  nature  of  his  fortitude.  There  are  those, 
whose  sympathetic  piety  can  read  and  interpret  the 
characters  of  resignation  on  his  brow.  There  are 
those,  in  fine,  who  have  felt  the  influence  of  faith. 
In  this  influence  there  is  nothing  mysterious, 
nothing  romantic,  nothing  of  which  the  highest 
reason  may  be  ashamed.  It  shows  the  Christian 
his  God,  in  all  the  mild  majesty  of  his  parental 
character.  It  shows  you  God,  disposing  in  still 
and  benevolent  wisdom  the  events  of  every  indi 
vidual's  life,  pressing  the  pious  spirit  with  the 
weight  of  calamity  to  increase  the  elasticity  of  the 
mind,  producing  characters  of  unexpected  worth 
by  unexpected  misfortune,  invigorating  certain  vir 
tues  by  peculiar  probations,  thus  breaking  the  fet 
ters  which  bind  us  to  temporal  things,  and 

"  From  seeming  evil  still  educing  good. 
And  better  thence  again,  and  better  still. 
In  infinite  progression." 

When  the  sun  of  the  believer's  hopes,  according 
to  common  calculations,  is  set,  to  the  eye  of  faith 
it  is  still  visible.  When  much  of  the  rest  of  the 
world  is  in  darkness,  the  high  ground  of  faith  is 
illuminated  with  the  brightness  of  religious  conso 
lation. 

Come  now,  and  follow  me  to  the  bed  of  the  dy 
ing  believer.  Would  you  see  in  what  peace  a 
Christian  can  die  ?  Watch  the  last  gleams  of 
thought  which  stream  from  his  dying  eyes.  Do 
you  see  any  thing  like  apprehension  ?  The  world, 
it  is  true,  begins  to  shut  in.  The  shadows  of  even 
ing  collect  around  his  senses.  A  dark  mist  thick 
ens,  and  rests  upon  the  objects  which  have  hither 
to  engaged  his  observation.  The  countenances  of 
his  friends  become  more  and  more  indistinct.  The 
sweet  expressions  of  love  and  friendship  are  no 
longer  intelligible.  His  ear  wakes  no  more  at  the 
well-known  voice  of  his  children,  and  the  soothing 
accents  of  tender  affection  die  away  unheard,  upon 
his  decaying  senses.  To  him  the  spectacle  of  hu 
man  life  is  drawing  to  its  close,  and  the  curtain  is 
descending,  which  shuts  out  this  earth,  its  actors, 
and  its  scenes.  He  is  no  longer  interested  in  all 
that  is  done  under  the  sun.  0 !  that  I  could  now 
open  to  you  the  recesses  of  his  soul ;  that  I  could 
reveal  to  you  the  light,  which  darts  into  the  cham 
bers  of  his  understanding.  He  approaches  that 
world  which  he  has  so  long  seen  in  faith.  The 
imagination  now  collects  its  diminished  strength, 
and  the  eye  of  faith  opens  wide.  Friends !  do  not 
stand,  thus  fixed  in  sorrow,  around  this  bed  o, 
death.  Why  are  you  so  still  and  silent  1  Fear 
not  to  move — you  cannot  disturb  the  last  vision? 
which  enchant  this  holy  spirit.  Your  lamenta- 


226 


JOSEPH    STEVENS    BUCKMINSTER. 


tions  break  not  in  upon  the  songs  of  seraphs, 
which  inwrap  his  hearing  in  ecstasy.  Crowd,  if 
you  choose,  around  his  couch — he  heeds  you  not 
— already  he  sees  the  spirits  of  the  just  advancing 
together  to  receive  a  kindred  soul.  Press  him  not 
with  importunities ;  urge  him  not  with  alleviations. 
Think  you  he  wants  now  these  tones  of  mortal 
voices — these  material,  these  gross  consolations  ? 
No !  He  is  going  to  add  another  to  the  myriads  of 
the  just,  that  are  every  moment  crowding  into  the 
portals  of  heaven  !  He  is  entering  on  a  nobler 
life.  He  leaves  you — he  leaves  you,  weeping  chil 
dren  of  mortality,  to  grope  about  a  little  longer 
among  the  miseries  and  sensualities  of  a  worldly 
life.  Already  he  cries  to  you  from  the  regions  of 
bliss.  Will  you  not  join  him  there  1  Will  you 
not  taste  the  sublime  joys  of  faith1?  There  are 
your  predecessors  in  virtue ;  there,  too,  are  places 
left  for  your  contemporaries.  There  are  seats  for 
you  in  the  assembly  of  the  just  made  perfect,  in 
the  innumerable  company  of  angels,  where  is  Je 
sus,  the  mediator  of  the  new  covenant,  and  God, 
the  judge  of  all. 


TRUE  SOURCES  OF  HAPPINESS. 

FROM  THE   SAME. 

WE  are  very  much  in  the  habit  of  keeping  our 
selves  in  ignorance  of  the  real  sources  of  our  happi 
ness.  The  unexpected  events  of  life,  and,  much 
more,  those  on  which  we  calculate,  are  far  from 
being  those  which  constitute  its  real  enjoyment. 
Even  events  of  public  good-fortune,  which  call 
forth  the  most  frequent  and  audible  acknowledg 
ments,  are,  really,  not  those  which  contribute 
most  to  our  personal  well-being ;  and  much  less 
do  we  depend,  for  our  most  valuable  happiness,  on 
what  we  call  fortunate  occurrences,  or  upon  the 
multiplication  of  our  public  amusements,  or  the 
excitement,  the  novelty,  the  ecstasy,  which  we 
make  so  essential  to  our  pleasures,  and  for  which 
we  are  always  looking  out  with  impatience.  It  is 
not  the  number  of  the  great,  dazzling,  affecting, 
and  much  talked  of  pleasures,  which  makes  up 
the  better  part  of  our  substantial  happiness ;  but 
it  is  the  delicate,  unseen,  quiet,  and  ordinary  com 
forts  of  social  and  domestic  life,  for  the  loss  of 
which,  all  that  the  world  has  dignified  with  the 
name  of  pleasure  would  not  compensate  us.  Let 
any  man  inquire,  for  a  single  day,  what  it  is  which 
has  employed  and  satisfied  him,  and  which  really 
makes  him  love  life,  and  he  will  find  that  the 
sources  of  his  happiness  lie  within  a  very  narrow 
compass.  He  will  find  that  he  depends  almost 
entirely  on  the  agreeable  circumstances  which  God 
has  made  to  lie  all  around  him,  and  which  fill  no 
place  in  the  record  of  public  events.  Indeed,  we 
may  say  of  human  happiness  what  Paul  quotes 
for  a  more  sacred  purpose,  "  It  is  not  hidden  from 
thce ;  neither  is  it  far  off;  it  is  not  in  heaven,  that 
thou  shouldst  say,  Who  shall  go  up  for  us,  and 


bring  it  unto  us  1  neither  is  it  beyond  the  sea,  that 
thou  shouldst  say,  Who  shall  go  over  the  sea  for 
us,  and  bring  it  unto  us  ]  but  is  very  nigh  unto 
thee  in  thy  mouth,  and  in  thy  heart." 


CICERO  AND  ATTICUS. 

FROM  AN  ORATION  BEFORE  THE  PHI  BETA  KAPPA   SOCIETY. 

THE  history  of  letters  does  not,  at  this  moment, 
suggest  to  me  a  more  fortunate  parallel  between 
the  effects  of  active  and  of  inactive  learning,  than 
in  the  well-known  characters  of  Cicero  and  Atti- 
cus.  Let  me  hold  them  up  to  your  observation,  not 
because  Cicero  was  faultless,  or  Atticus  always  to 
blame,  but  because,  like  you,  they  were  the  citi 
zens  of  a  republic.  They  lived  in  an  age  of  learn 
ing  and  of  dangers,  and  acted  upon  opposite  prin 
ciples,  when  Rome  was  to  be  saved,  if  saved  at  all, 
by  the  virtuous  energy  of  her  most  accomplished 
minds. 

If  we  look  now  for  Atticus,  we  find  him  in 
the  quiet  of  his  library,  surrounded  with  books ; 
while  Cicero  was  passing  through  the  regular 
course  of  public  honours  and  services,  where  all 
the  treasures  of  his  mind  were  at  the  command  of 
his  country.  If  we  follow  them,  we  find  Atticus 
pleasantly  wandering  among  the  ruins  of  Athens, 
purchasing  up  statues  and  antiques ;  while  Cicero 
was  at  home,  blasting  the  projects  of  Catiline,  and, 
at  the  head  of  the  senate,  like  the  tutelary  spirit  of 
his  country,  as  the  storm  was  gathering,  secretly 
watching  the  doubtful  movements  of  Csesar.  If 
we  look  to  the  period  of  the  civil  wars,  we  find 
Atticus  always  reputed,  indeed,  to  belong  to  the 
party  of  the  friends  of  liberty,  yet  originally  dear 
to  Sylla,  and  intimate  with  Clodius,  recommending 
himself  to  Caesar  by  his  neutrality,  courted  by  An 
tony,  and  connected  with  Octavius,  poorly  con 
cealing  the  Epicureanism  of  his  principles  under 
the  ornaments  of  literature  and  the  splendour  of 
his  benefactions  ;  till  at  last  this  inoffensive  and 
polished  friend  of  successive  usurpers  hastens  out 
of  life  to  escape  from  the  pains  of  a  lingering  dis 
ease.  Turn  now  to  Cicero,  the  only  great  man  at 
whom  Csesar  always  trembled,  the  only  great  man 
whom  falling  Rome  did  not  fear.  Do  you  tell  me 
that  his  hand  once  offered  incense  to  the  dictator  1 
Remember  it  was  the  gift  of  gratitude  only,  and 
not  of  servility  ;  for  the  same  hand  launched  its  in 
dignation  against  the  infamous  Antony,  whose 
power  was  more  to  be  dreaded,  and  whose  revenge 
pursued  him  till  this  father  of  his  country  gave 
his  head  to  the  executioner  without  a  struggle,  for 
he  knew  that  Rome  was  no  longer  to  be  saved.  If, 
my  friends,  you  would  feel  what  learning,  and  ge 
nius,  and  virtue,  should  aspire  to  in  a  day  of  peril 
and  depravity,  when  you  are  tired  of  the  factions 
of  the  city,  the  battles  of  Csesar,  the  crimes  of  the 
triumvirate,  and  the  splendid  court  of  Augustus,  do 
not  go  and  repose  in  the  easy  chair  of  Atticus,  but 
refresh  your  virtues  and  your  spirits  with  the  con 
templation  of  Cicero. 


GULIAN    C.   VERPLANCK, 


[Born  1781.    Died  1870.] 


IN  the  veins  of  GULIAN  CROMMELIN  VER 
PLANCK  mingles  the  best  blood  of  the  Holland 
er,  the  Huguenot,  and  the  Puritan.  Without 
knowing  the  exact  proportions,  we  may  sup 
pose  he  was  half  Dutch,  a  third  French,  and  a 
sixth  Yankee :  which  is  perhaps  as  good  a 
composition  for  a  man  as  has  yet  been  disco 
vered.  After  alluding  to  his  descent  from  the 
stock  of  Grotius  and  De  Witt,  in  his  Address 
at  Amherst  College,  he  remarks,  "  I  cannot  but 
remember  also  that  I  have  New  England  blood 
in  my  veins,  that  many  of  my  happiest  youth 
ful  days  were  passed  in  her  villages,  and  that 
my  best  education  was  bestowed  by  the  more 
than  parental  care  of  one  of  the  wisest  and 
most  excellent  of  her  sons.*  Imitating  there 
fore  the  language  in  which  an  ancient  scholar 
expressed  his  attachment  for  all  that  partook 
of  the  common  Gaelic  descent,  I  too  can  say 
that  Nil  Nov-Ang/icum  a  mealienumputo"] 

On  completing  his  academical  education  at 
Columbia  College,  in  his  native  city  of  New 
York,  Mr.  Verplanck  studied  the  law,  and  soon 
after  his  admission  to  the  bai  he  went  abroad, 
and  passed  several  years  in  travelling  or  resid 
ing  in  Great  Britain  and  central  Europe.  On 
his  return  he  became  interested  in  politics,  and 
in  1814  was  a  candidate  of  the  "  Malcontents"}: 
in  New  York  for  the  Assembly,  from  which  it 
may  be  inferred  that  he  was  from  the  begin 
ning  distinguished  for  that  independence  which 
has  marked  his  more  recent  public  life.  When 
the  "  Bucktails"  and  "  Clintonians"  were  the 
prominent  factions,  he  amused  himself  occa 
sionally  with  writing  satires,  and  his  State 
Triumvirate,  a  Political  Tale,  published  in 
1819,  and  other  works  of  a  similar  description, 
of  which  he  was  the  principal  or  only  author, 
are  among  the  happiest  specimens  of  this  sort 
of  composition  that  the  country  has  furnished. 

Mr.  Verplanck  acquired  at  an  early  age  an 
extraordinary  and  well-merited  reputation  for 
scholarship  and  taste ;  but  he  published  nothing 
under  his  own  name  until  1818,  when  he  de- 

*  William  Samuel  Johnson,  of  Connecticut, 
t  Alluding  to  a  passage  in  George  Buchanan. 
J  See  The  Evening  Post  for  that  year. 


livered  an  address  before  the  New  York  His 
torical  Society,  which  was  printed  and  soon 
passed  through  several  editions.  The  task 
which  he  assigned  himself  in  this  performance 
was  the  grateful  one  of  commemorating  "  some 
of  those  virtuous  and  enlightened  men  of  Eu 
rope,  who,  long  ago,  looking  with  a  prophetic 
eye  toward  the  destinies  of  this  new  world,  and 
regarding  it  as  the  chosen  refuge  of  freedom 
and  truth,  were  moved  by  a  holy  ambition  to 
become  the  ministers  of  the  most  High,  in  be 
stowing  upon  it  the  blessings  of  religion, 
morals,  letters,  and  liberty."  After  a  brief  re 
view  of  the  progress  of  Spanish  discovery  and 
conquest  on  this  continent,  and  the  scenes  of 
avarice  and  cruelty  with  which  they  were  at 
tended,  he  relieves  the  gloomy  exhibition  by  in 
troducing  a  portrait  of  the  young  ecclesiastic 
Las  Cases,  whom  he  vindicates  with  generous 
warmth  from  the  accusation  of  having,  in  mis 
taken  philanthropy,  originated  the  plan  of  ne 
gro  slavery.  Among  his  other  subjects  are 
Roger  Williams,  the  legislator  for  whom  was 
reserved  the  glory  of  setting  the  first  example 
of  a  practical  system  of  religious  freedom ; 
William  Perm,  General  Oglethorpe,  Bishop 
Berkeley,  Thomas  Hollis,  and  Louis  the  Six 
teenth.  The  whole  discourse  is  a  group  of  ad 
mirable  historical  portraits,  with  New  Eng 
land  Puritanism,  in  shadow  except  where  re 
lieved  by  the  name  of  the  founder  of  Rhode 
Island,  for  a  background,  and  glowing  sketches 
of  the  Dutch  colonists  of  New  Amsterdam  and 
the  Huguenot  settlers  of  Carolina  and  New 
York,  in  front. 

In  1820  we  find  that  Mr.  Verplanck  was  a 
prominent  member  of  the  New  York  legisla 
ture,  in  which,  as  chairman  of  the  appropriate 
committee,  he  had  the  especial  charge  of  the 
interests  of  education.  He  must  have  with 
drawn  his  attention  from  politics  soon  after, 
however,  as  he  accepted  the  professorship  of 
the  Evidences  of  Christianity  in  the  Theolo 
gical  Seminary  of  the  Protestant  Episcopal 
Church,  in  New  York,  and  for  some  time  oc 
cupied  himself  with  his  new  duties,  and  cor 
responding  studies.  In  1824  he  published, 


228 


GULIAN    C.    VERPLANCK. 


in  one  octavo  volume,  his  Essays  on  the  Na 
ture  and  Uses  of  the  Various  Evidences  of 
Revealed  Religion,  in  which  he  treats  largely 
and  in  the  most  perspicuous  and  philosophical 
manner  of  "  the  highest,  noblest  and  most 
universal  of  all  evidence,  that  which  results 
from  the  majesty  and  excellence  of  princi 
ple,"  so  much  neglected  and  indeed  contemned 
by  many  who  have  discussed  very  learnedly 
and  ably  the  critical  and  historical  testimony. 
The  work  is  written  with  simplicity  and  ele 
gance,  and  admirable  temper.  It  is  one  of  the 
very  few  books  on  this  subject  which  are  not 
by  professed  theologians  and  metaphysicians, 
and  distinguished  for%a  hue  and  tone  of  the 
closet  and  desk  which  render  them  by  no 
means  agreeable  to  readers  of  other  classes ; 
and  there  is  not  another  work  in  our  language, 
perhaps,  which  is  calculated  to  be  more  use 
ful  in  confirming  the  convictions  of  intelligent 
and  honest  inquirers,  of  the  truth  of  Christian 
ity.  In  1825  appeared  Mr.  Verplanck's  Es 
say  on  the  Doctrine  of  Contracts,  being  an  In 
quiry  how  Contracts  are  affected  in  Law  and 
Morals  by  Concealment,  Error,  or  Inadequate 
Price.  The  great  object  of  the  work  is,  to 
examine  the  propriety  and  justice  of  the  max 
im  which  the  common  law  applies  to  sales, 
and  most  other  contracts,  "  Caveat  emptor" — 
let  the  buyer  beware, — with  reference  to  those 
principles  of  expediency  and  justice  which 
should  be  the  foundation  of  all  law ;  and  the 
discussion  is  conducted  with  great  learning, 
ability,  and  impartiality. 

About  this  time  Mr.  Verplanck  and  three  of 
his  friends,  of  as  many  different  professions, 
formed  an  association  of  a  somewhat  remarka 
ble  character,  under  the  name  of  the  Literary 
Confederacy.  The  number  was  limited  to  four, 
and  they  bound  themselves  to  an  intimate  fel 
lowship,  and  to  endeavour  by  all  proper  means 
to  advance  their  mutual  and  individual  inte 
rests,  and  proposed  to  unite  from  time  to  time 
in  literary  publications.  In  the  first  year  of 
its  existence  the  Confederacy  (of  which  Mr. 
Bryant,  and  the  late  Mr.  Sands,  were  mem 
bers)  contributed  largely  to  the  literary  and 
critical  magazines,  and  the  daily  journals,  but 
in  1827,  under  the  name  and  character  of  an 
imaginary  author,  Francis  Herbert,  Esquire, 
they  published  The  Talisman,  a  decorated  mis 
cellany  of  prose  and  verse,  of  which  a  second 
and  a  third  volume  followed  in  1829  and  1830. 
Of  this  work  Mr.  Verplanck  composed  nearly 


one  half.  His  papers  are  distinguished  for 
a  quiet,  genial  and  peculiar  Jiumour,  and  seve 
ral  of  them  bear  witness  of  a  lingering  fond 
ness  for  New  York  as  it  was  before  its  social 
aspects  had  been  changed  or  obliterated  by  the 
commercial  class  and  spirit. 

For  eight  years  from  1825  Mr.  Verplanck 
was  a  member  of  Congress  for  the  city  of 
New  York.  He  did  not  very  often  take  a  part 
in  the  debates,  but  his  high  reputation  secured 
for  him  the  most  flattering  attention  when  he 
addressed  the  House,  and  several  elaborate  and 
very  able  reports  which  he  made  on  subjects 
of  general  interest  commanded  the  respectful 
consideration  of  statesmen  throughout  the 
country.  He  particularly  distinguished  him 
self  during  the  session  of  1831-32  by  his 
agency  in  procuring  the  passage  of  an  act 
which  gave  much  additional  security  to  copy 
rights,  and  more  than  doubled  the  term  of  le 
gal  protection  to  them ;  and  upon  the  adjourn 
ment  of  Congress,  a  public  dinner  was  given 
to  him  by  the  authors  and  artists  of  New  York, 
at  which  he  made  the  speech  published  in  his 
collected  Discourses,  on  the  legislation  of  the 
United  States  upon  the  subject  of  literary  pro 
perty.  Since  the  close  of  his  last  term  in 
Congress  he  had  been  several  years  a  member 
of  the  New  York  Senate,  which  until  the 
adoption  of  the  Constitution  of  1846  was  also 
the  highest  court  of  judicature  in  the  state. 

In  1833  Mr.  Verplanck  published  in  one  vo 
lume  his  Discourses  and  Addresses  on  Sub 
jects  of  American  History,  Art,  and  Literature, 
and  A  Discourse  on  the  Right  Moral  Influence 
and  Use  of  Liberal  Studies;  and  in  1834,  Dis 
courses  on  the  Connexion  of  Morals  and  Learn 
ing,  and  their  Influence  upon  Each  Other. 

The  last  and  most  important  of  Mr.  Ver 
planck's  literary  labours,  in  which  he  has  well 
sustained  his  reputation  as  a  literary  and  his 
torical  critic,  is  his  splendid  edition  of  Shak- 
speare,  of  which  the  publication  was  com 
menced  in  1844  and  completed  in  December, 
1846.  The  plates  were  destroyed  in  the  great 
fire  at  Harper's  building  in  1851.  It  was  in 
some  sort,  a  comprehensive  commentary,  em 
bracing  the  varying  opinions  of  all  the- most 
eminent  critics  upon  doubtful  readings  and  the 
points  of  literary  history  involved,  with  elabo 
rate,  acute  and  appreciatory  introductions  and 
notes  by  Mr.  Verplanck  himself,  and  pictorial 
illustrations  executed  under  the  direction  of 
his  friend  Mr.  R.  W.  Wier. 


GULIAN    C.    VERPLANCK. 


229 


MAJOR  EGERTON. 

FROM  THE  TALISMAN. 

THE  critic's  first  and  last  injunction  to  the  author 
and  the  artist  is,  to  "  copy  nature."  For  my  own 
part,  I  never  more  than  half  believed  in  this  standing 
stock  rule  of  common-place  criticism.  Nature,  and 
beautiful  nature  too,  may  be  so  very  natural,  that, 
if  too  accurately  copied,  it  will  seem  unnatural. 
This  assertion  has  a  most  paradoxical  sound,  I  con 
fess,  and  is  quite  worthy  of  a  Kantian  metaphysi 
cian.  Still  it  is  the  fact.  That  which  is  true  is  not 
always  probable.  Who  has  not  observed,  in  na 
tural  scenery,  a  brilliancy  of  colour,  or  some  sin 
gular  effect  of  form  or  light,  which,  if  faithfully 
transferred  to  the  canvas,  would  be  pronounced  at 
once,  by  ninety -nine  out  of  a  hundred,  to  be  an  ex 
travagant  and  fantastical  cappricio  of  the  art.  So, 
too,  in  real  life — occurrences  happen  every  day  be 
fore  our  eyes,  which  if  related  in  a  novel,  or  inter 
woven  in  a  drama,  would  be  branded  by  the  whole 
critical  brotherhood  as  too  far  out  of  probability  to 
be  tolerated,  even  in  professed  fiction. 

For  myself,  though  I  have  been  bandied  a  good 
deal  about  the  globe,  I  have  encountered  no  mar 
vellous  vicissitudes  of  fortune.  Yet,  if  I  were  to 
tell  nakedly,  and  without  explanation,  many  of  the 
incidents  of  my  life,  they  would  hardly  gain  cre 
dence.  For  instance,  I  have  at  different  periods 
dined  familiarly  with  five  European  kings,  played 
chess  witli  an  empress,  given  alms  to  an  archbishop 
and  had  my  soup  cooked  by  a  duke.  This  is  very 
astounding,  and  the  reader  is  doubtless  already 
either  penetrated  with  respect  for  my  high  rank, 
or  else  sets  me  down  in  his  heart  for  an  impudent 
liar.  Yet  upon  a  little  consideration,  he  may  sa 
tisfy  himself  that  within  the  last  thirty  years,  a 
plain  American  citizen  might,  without  any  marvel, 
have  relieved  the  wants  or  received  the  services  of 
a  French  temporal  or  spiritual  peer,  have  dined  at 
tables  d'hote  and  on  broad  steam-boats,  with  Lewis 
of  Holland,  Joseph  of  Spain,  Jerome  of  Westpha 
lia,  and  Gustavus  of  Sweden  ;  and  have  been  beat 
en,  at  Washington,  at  the  royal  game  of  chess,  by 
a  Mexican  ex-empress.  The  fifth,  in  my  catalogue 
of  royal  acquaintance,  is  his  present  majesty  of  the 
Netherlands,  who,  when  a  poor  prince  of  Germa 
ny,  was  a  very  conversable,  pleasant  Dutchman.  I 
might  add,  that  I  have  received  lessons  in  mathe 
matics. from  another  prince,  who  though  not  ex 
actly  the  next  in  succession,  now  looks  proudly 
towards  the  first  throne  on  the  European  conti 
nent. 

There  is  one  extraordinary  chain  of  incidents  in 
my  life,  which  I  have  often  been  tempted  (when 
seized  with  a  fit  of  authorship)  to  make  the  foun 
dation  of  a  Gil  Bias  or  Anastasius  novel.  But  I 
have  always  been  deterred  from  executing  it,  by 
the  conviction,  that  though  I  should  task  my  fancy 
solely  for  the  minor  incidents,  and  add  no  decora 
tions  but  the  necessary  colouring  of  sentiment, 
character  and  description,  the  very  skeleton  and 
ground-work  of  the  whole,  though  strictly  true, 
would  still  be  so  outrageously  improbable,  as  to 
shock  even  the  easy  credulity  of  the  novel-reader. 


My  readers  may  perhaps  anticipate  that  after 
this  deprecatory  prologue,  I  am  about  to  unfold  a 
tale  of  love  and  arms,  or  else  of  wild  adventure, 
of  which  I  am  myself  to  be  the  prince  Arthur, 
the  Amadis  or  the  Rinaldo — or  at  least  the  Gil 
Bias  or  Tom  Jones.  No,  I  am  not  the  hero  of  it. 
Right  gladly  would  I  transform  myself  into  a  hero/ 
at  the  expense  of  any  danger  or  hardships,  (so  that 
all  were  now  well  over,)  if  I  could  thus  be  enabled 
to  make  bright  eyes  weep  over  my  sorrows,  and 
lovely  forms  bend  entranced  over  the  page  that 
speaks  of  me. 

Such,  alas !  is  not  my  good  fortune.  But  to 
my  story,  which,  I  begin  to  fear,  will  scarcely  equal 
the  expectations  this  introduction  may  raise. 

It  was  longer  ago  than  I  commonly  care  to  tell 
without  special  necessity,  that,  having  finished  my 
professional  studies,  I  spent  my  first  fashionable 
winter  in  New  York.  The  gay  and  polite  society 
of  the  city,  which  every  day's  necessity  is  now  di 
viding  up  into  smaller  and  more  independent  cir 
cles,  was  then  one  very  large  one,  wherein  who 
ever  was  introduced,  circulated  freely  throughout 
the  whole.  I  of  course  went  everywhere ;  and 
everywhere  did  I  meet  with  MAJOR  EGEUTON. 
He  was  a  young  British  officer,  of  high  connec 
tions.  Not  one  of  your  Lord  Mortimers  or  Mar 
quises  de  Crillon,  who  have  so  often  taken  in  our 
title-loving  republicans  of  fashion  ;  but  a  real  offi 
cer  of  the regiment,  a  major  at  the  age  of 

twenty-six,  and  the  nephew  of  a  distinguished 
English  general ;  in  proof  of  which  he  had  brought 
the  best  letters  to  the  "  best  good  men,"  in  our 
chief  cities.  He  was  quite  the  fashion,  and  he  de 
served  to  be  so.  Most  people  thought  him  hand 
some  :  tall  and  well-made,  and  young  and  accom 
plished  he  certainly  was ;  of  easy  and  graceful 
manners,  ready  and  bold  address,  and  fluent  rat 
tling  conversation.  He  danced  to  the  admiration 
of  the  ladies ;  and  that  at  a  time  when  our  belles 
were  accustomed  to  the  incredible  performances  of 
so  many  Parisian  partners,  was  no  mean  feat  for 
an  Englishman.  He  was  overflowing  with  anec 
dotes  of  the  great  and  the  gay  of  London;  and 
listening  dinner  tables  and  drawing-rooms  hung 
upon  his  lips,  while  he  discoursed  about  the  Duch 
ess  of  Devonshire,  Lord  Dudley  and  Ward,  the 
Duke  of  Norfolk,  Lady  Louisa  Mild  may,  Mrs. 
Siddons,  Lord  Nelson,  Kemble,  and  the  Countess 
of  Derby. 

Still,  I  know  not  why,  I  liked  not  the  man. 
There  was  something  singularly  disagreeable  in 
the  tone,  or  rather  the  croak,  of  his  voice.  His 
ready  and  polite  laugh  never  came  from  the  heart 
— and  his  smile,  when  by  a  sudden  draw  of  the 
lip  he  showed  his  white  teeth,  contrasting  with 
his  black  brow  and  sallow  cheek,  had  a  covert  fe 
rocity  in  it  which  almost  made  me  shudder. 

One  evening,  at  the  theatre — it  was  when  Fen 
nel  and  Cooper  were  contending  for  the  palm  in 
Othello  and  lago — we  were  crowded  together  in  a 
corner  of  the  stage-box. 

"  Mr.  Herbert,"  said  he  suddenly  to  me,  "  you  do 
not  seem  to  know  that  you  and  I  are  quite  old  ac 
quaintances." 

L 


GULIAN   C.   VERPLANCK. 


"  I  don't  understand  you,  Major " 

"  Some  six  or  seven  years  ago  you,  then  a  lad, 
accompanied  your  father  to  the  west  on  his  mission 
as  a  commissioner  to  make  an  Indian  treaty." 

"Yes." 

"  Did  you  remember  among  the  Tuscaroras  the 
Black  Wild  Cat,  a  youth  of  white  blood,  the 
adopted  son  of  Good  Peter,  the  great  Indian  ora 
tor  1  I  mean  the  one  who,  after  giving  you  a  les 
son  on  the  bow  and  arrow,  surprised  a  reverend  di 
vine  of  your  party  by  reading  in  his  Greek  testament, 
and  then  mortified  him  by  correcting  his  pronun 
ciation  of  Latin,  which,  like  other  American  scho 
lars,  he  pronounced  in  a  way  intolerable  to  the  ears 
of  one  who  has  had  longs  and  shorts  flogged  into 
him  at  an  English  school." 

"  Certainly,  I  remember  him ;  and  it  is  a  mys 
tery  which  has  often  puzzled  me  ever  since." 

"  Then  you  have  now  the  solution  of  it.  I  am 
the  Black  Wild  Cat." 

"  You — how !" 

"  After  leaving  Harrow  I  accompanied  my  un 
cle  to  Canada.  There  a  boyish  frolic  induced  me 
to  join  an  Indian  party,  who  were  returning  home 
from  Montreal.  Good  Peter  (a  great  man  by  the 
way,  very  like  our  Erskine)  took  a  fancy  to  me,  and 
I  spent  my  time  pleasantly  enough.  It  is  certain 
ly  a  delicious  life  that  of  savages,  as  we  call  them. 
But  my  uncle  coaxed  me  back.  I  am  not  sure 
that  I  was  not  a  fool  for  accepting  his  offer,  but  I 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  the  red  coat  and 
an  epaulette.  The  old  man  has  pushed  me  on  as 
fast  as  money  and  interest  could  promote  me. 
The  rest  I  can  do  for  myself;  and  if  Pitt  will  leave 
off  his  little  expeditions  to  pick  up  colonies,  and 
give  us  a  fair  chance  on  the  continent,  the  major 
at  six  and  twenty  will  be  a  general,  and  a  peer  at 
thirty." 

Here  the  rising  of  the  curtain  interrupted  us. 
Business  called  me  to  Albany  the  next  day,  and 
before  my  return  Major  Egerton  had  sailed  for 
England. 

I  did  not,  however,  forget  him ;  and  I  often  re 
lated,  as  one  of  the  odd  vicissitudes  of  life,  the 
contrast  between  the  young  Black  Wild  Cat,  as 
I  first  saw  him  in  a  Tuscarora  wigwam,  and  the 
elegant  major,  glittering  in  scarlet  and  gold,  when 
[  met  him  again  in  the  British  Consul's  ball 
room. 

A  year  or  two  after  this  I  went  to  England ;  and 
not  long  after  my  arrival  spent  a  week  at  Bath. 
All  who  are  at  all  learned  in  English  dramatic  his 
tory,  know  that  the  Bath  company  is  commonly 
good,  the  Bath  audience  fashionable  and  critical, 
and  that  there,  many  of  the  stars  of  the  theatrical  fir 
mament  have  first  risen.  Whilst  I  was  there,  a 
first  appearance  was  announced.  Mr.  Monfort,  of 
whom  report  spoke  favourably,  was  to  make  his 
debut  as  Romeo.  I  went  with  the  crowd  to  see  it. 
Romeo  entered,  and  thunders  of  applause  welcomed 
the  handsome  and  graceful  lover. 

Could  I  believe  my  eyes  ?  Can  this  be  Major 
Egerton  ?  Yes — he  smiles — that  wicked  and  heart 
less  smile  cannot  be  mistaken  ;  and  his  voice — that 
tuneless  grating  voice. — It  is  he.  What  can  it 


mean  1  Is  it  a  joke  or  a  frolic,  or  some  strange 
caprice  of  fortune?  * 

That  grating  voice  which  betrayed  him  to  me 
ruined  him  with  the  house.  It  had  sudden  and  most 
ludicrous  breaks  from  a  high  hoarse  croak,  down  at 
once  into  a  shrill  sqfceak  ;  so  that  in  spite  of  grace 
and  figure,  and  a  tolerable  conception  of  his  author, 
he  was  fairly  laughed  down.  I  did  my  best  to 
sustain  him,  but  I  was  almost  alone  in  the  good- 
natured  attempt. 

Two  days  after,  turning  short  round  the  transept 
of  the  Abbey  church,  I  came  full  upon  Major 
Egerton,  who  was  standing  alone,  with  a  listless 
and  melancholy  air. 

"  Major,"  said  I — then  correcting  myself — "  Mr. 
Monfort" — with  an  offer  of  my  hand.  He  met 
me  boldly — "  Herbert,"  said  he,  "  I  see  you  know 
my  misfortunes."  «  Not  at  all — I  saw  you  in  Ro 
meo,  but  wherefore  you  were  Romeo  I  could  not 


"  Sheer  necessity — a  run  of  ill  luck  and  other 
misfortunes  to  which  young  soldiers  are  exposed, 
threw  me  out  of  favour  with  my  uncle  the  old 
general,  and  into  the  King's  Bench.  At  last  I 
sold  my  commission,  and  resolved  on  a  new  pro 
fession.  I  had  trusted  to  succeed  on  the  stage ;  I 
knew  that  this  husky  throat  of  mine  made  the  at 
tempt  hazardous,  yet  Gifford  and  his  brother  wags 
had  laughed  at  "the  hoarse  croak  of  Kemble's 
foggy  throat,"  and  if  art  and  taste  had  overcome 
his  defects,  why  might  they  not  mine  also]  But 
it  is  all  over  now." 

"  Then  you  do  not  mean  to  pursue  the  profes 
sion  1"  «  No — the  manager  talks  of  twelve  and 
sixpence  a  week,  and  ordered  me  to  study  Bar- 
dolph  for  Cooke's  Falstaff  on  Monday.  I  must 
seek  my  fortune  elsewhere.  If  nothing  better 
offers,  I'll  to  my  old  trade,  and  enlist  as  a  soldier. 
In  the  meanwhile  lend  me  a  guinea  for  old  ac 
quaintance  sake. 

I  did  so,  and  saw  no  more  of  him  at  Bath.  I 
soon  after  left  England  for  the  continent.  At 
Dover,  before  the  quarters  of  some  general  officer, 
I  saw  the  ci-devant  Major  Egerton  on  duty  as  a 
sentinel — a  private  soldier.  I  did  not  speak  to 
him,  nor  did  he  seem  to  observe  me ;  but  I  was 
sure  of  my  man. 

The  studies  and  the  amusements  of  Paris,  dur 
ing  the  winter,  and  the  excitement  of  travel  for 
the  rest  of  the  year,  soon  put  my  unlucky  major 
out  of  my  head ;  except  that  now  and  then  when 
I  fell  into  a  narrative  mood,  I  would  tell  his  story 
to  some  of  my  young  countrymen,  generally  end 
ing  it  with  a  Johnsonian  morality  ;  "  that  nothing 
could  supply  the  want  of  prudence,  and  that  con 
tinued  irregularity  will  make  knowledge  useless, 
wit  ridiculous,  and  talent  contemptible." 

In  those  days  it  was  not  easy  to  get  a  comforta 
ble  passage  from  France  to  the  United  States,  so 
that  I  was  obliged  to  return  home  by  the  way  of 
England.  I  therefore  crossed  from  Holland  to 
Harwich.  Not  far  from  the  road  up  to  London 
was  the  country-seat  of  a  wealthy  gentleman,  who 
had  married  a  pretty  American  cousin  of  mine. 
I  gladly  seized  the  opportunity  of  paying  Sophia 


GULIAN    C.    VERPLANCK. 


231 


a  visit,  and  as  willingly  accepted  her  husband's 
invitation  to  spend  a  day  or  two  with  them.  The 
next  day  was  Sunday. 

"  You  will  go  with  us  to  church,"  said  Sophia ; 
"your  passion  for  gothic  churches  and  old  monu 
ments  will  be  gratified  there.  We  have  an  old 
carved  pulpit,  said  to  be  without  its  match  in  Eng 
land." 

"  Yes,  cousin,  but  what  shall  we  find  in  the  pul 
pit  to-day  1" 

"  Oh,  our  rector  I  suppose.  He  is  not  quite 
such  a  preacher  as  your  Dr.  Mason,  yet  they  say 
he  is  very  agreeable  in  society  ;  though  I  know  lit 
tle  about  him,  for  my  husband  holds  him  in  per 
fect  detestation." 

So  we  went  to  the  village  church.  As  I  fol 
lowed  Sophia  up  the  aisle,  the  "  Dearly  beloved 
brethren,"  grated  on  my  ear  in  that  voice  which  I 
can  never  forget.  I  looked  up  in  amazement.  In 
the  reading  desk,  duly  attired  in  surplice  and  band, 
stood  Major  Egerton  !" 

I  could  not  allow  my  cousin  to  enter  the  pew, 
without  asking  her,  in  a  hurried  whisper :  "  Who 
is  the  clergyman  ]"  "  Mr.  Egerton,  the  rector," 
she  replied,  as  coldly  as  if  there  was  nothing 
strange  in  the  matter.  I  was  lost  in  wonder,  and 
stood  during  the  whole  service  leaning  over  the 
high  oak  pew,  gazing  at  the  rector  in  all  the  fidget- 
ty  impatience  of  curiosity.  He  rattled  through  the 
service,  psalms,  lessons,  litany  and  all,  in  little 
more  than  half  an  hour,  and  then  preached  a  ser 
mon  of  twelve  minutes,  which  I  believe  was  a  pa 
per  of  the  Rambler,  with  a  scriptural  text  substi 
tuted  for  the  classical  motto.  To  do  Egerton  jus 
tice,  there  was  nothing  of  levity  or  affectation  in 
his  manner ;  but  it  was  as  rapid,  cold,  and  mecha 
nical  as  possible. 

As  soon  as  it  was  over,  without  thinking  of  my 
friends,  or  any  one  else,  I  bustled  through  the  re 
tiring  congregation,  and  met  the  rector  alone  at 
the  foot  of  his  pulpit  stairs.  He  had  observed  me 
before,  and  now  greeted  me  with  a  laugh.  "  So," 
said  he,  "Herbert,  you  see  circumstances  have  al 
tered  with  me  since  you  saw  me  at  Dover,  a  poor 
private  in  the  49th." 

"  They  have  indeed,  but  what  does  it  mean  ?" 

"  Nothing  more  than  that  a  rich  and  noble  cousin 
was  ashamed  of  having  a  relation  and  a  godson 
who  bore  his  name,  and  had  borne  a  commission 
in  his  Majesty's  service,  now  known  to  be  a  pri 
vate  of  foot.  He  paid  my  debts,  took  me  out  of 
the  ranks,  and  was  about  to  ship  me  off  for  Sierra 
Leone,  as  clerk  of  the  courts  there,  when  this  liv 
ing,  which  is  his  gift,  became  vacant.  I  had  Greek 
and  Latin  enough  left  out  of  my  old  Harrow  stock 
for  any  ordinary  parson ;  and  the  living  is  not  bad. 
So  having  no  particular  fancy  to  spend  my  days 
'all  among  the  Hottentots  a  capering  on  shore,' 
I  begged  the  living,  and  got  myself  japanned." 

"  Japanned  /"  said  I. 

"  Yes,  got  my  red  coat  dyed  black,  you  know. 
The  Bishop  of  London  was  squeamish  about  me, 

thaugh  I  don't  see  why;  but  his  Lordship  of 

had  no  such  silly  scruples,  and  I  have  been  these 
two  months  rector  of  Buffington  cum  Norton." 


My  fair  cousin  and  her  worthy  husband  were 
waiting  for  me  at  the  church  door,  and  our  con 
versation  ended  abruptly  with  some  common-place 
offers  of  civility.  When  I  rejoined  my  friends,  the 
suspicious  looks  which  my  host  cast  at  me,  showed 
that  my  apparent  intimacy  with  his  new  rector 
was  not  at  all  calculated  to  raise  me  in  his  estima 
tion.  I  had  to  explain,  by  relating  my  former 
New  York  acquaintance  with  the  ex-major;  and 
then  by  way  of  repelling  all  suspicions  of  too  close 
intimacy,  on  our  way  home  took  occasion  to  vent 
my  indignation  at  the  system  of  church  and  state, 
which  could  tolerate  such  abuses  of  the  ecclesias 
tical  establishment.  At  last  I  grew  eloquent  and 
declamatory,  and  finished  by  quoting  Cowper: 

"  From  such  apostles,  oh  ye  mitred  heads, 
Preserve  the  church  !  and  lay  not  careless  hands 
On  skulls  that  cannot  teach  and  will  not  learn." 

The  John  Bullism  of  my  good  host  was  roused. 
He  could  not  bear  that  a  foreigner  should  censure 
any  institution  of  his  country,  whatever  he_might 
think  of  it  himself.  He  too  became  eloquent;  and 
thus  we  lost  sight  of  the  rector  in  the  dust  of  an 
argument  which  lasted  till  evening. 

On  Monday  I  went  up  to  London,  and  soon  af 
ter  returned  home. 

On  my  second  visit  to  Europe  some  years  after, 
I  became  very  intimate  with  a  party  of  young 
Cantabs,  some  of  them  rich,  and  all  of  them  well 
educated,  who  were  suffering  under  that  uneasi 
ness  at  home,  and  desire  of  locomotion  abroad, 
which  infects  idle  Englishmen  of  all  ages ;  a  ma 
lady  of  which,  by  the  way,  we  have  inherited  a 
full  share  with  our  English  blood.  Shut  out  from 
the  common  tour  of  Europe  by  the  domination 
of  Napoleon,  my  Cambridge  friends  had  planned 
a  grand  tour  to  Russia,  Greece,  Turkey,  Egypt, 
and  thence  perhaps  to  Persia  and  India.  I  was 
easily  persuaded  to  be  of  the  party. 

This,  of  course,  is  not  the  place  to  relate  my 
travels,  nor,  indeed,  is  it  necessary  that  I  should 
ever  do  it.  My  companions  have  long  ago  antici 
pated  me  in  sundry  well  printed  London  quartos, 
with  splendid  engravings ;  wherein  I  have  the 
honour  to  be  perpetuated  by  the  burin  of  Heath 
and  other  great  artists,  now,  perched  half  way  up 
a  pyramid,  then  jolting  on  the  bare  back  of  a  hard- 
trotting  camel,  and  sometimes  sitting  cross-legged 
on  the  floor  between  two  well-bearded  Turks,  at  a 
Pasha's  dinner  table,  eating  roast  lamb  and  rice 
with  my  fingers.  Meanwhile,  in  the  letter  press 
I  go  down  to  posterity  as  the  author's  "  intelligent 
friend,"  his  "  amusing  friend,"  and  even  his  "  en 
terprising  friend."  Thus,  upon  the  whole,  with 
out  the  risk  or  trouble  of  authorship,  I  have  gained 
a  very  cheap  and  agreeable  literary  immortality  T 
except,  however,  that  when  any  disaster  occurs  in 
the  tour,  I  am  somehow  made  to  bear  a  much 
larger  portion  of  it  than  I  can  recollect  to  have 
ever  actually  fallen  to  my  share.  On  all  such  oc 
casions  I  am  made  to  figure  as  "  our  unfortunate 
friend." 

It  was  not  till  we  had  again  turned  our  faces  to 
wards  civilized  Europe,  after  having  traversed  in 
all  directions  the  frozen  North  and  the  gorgeous 


232 


GULIAN    C.   VERPLANCK. 


East,  and  gazed  on  many  a  "  forest  and  field  and 
flood,  temple  and  tower,"  renowned  in  song  or  in 
story,  that  we  reached  the  land  of  Egypt. 

We  had  consumed  a  full  year  in  our  tour  more 
than  we  had  calculated  on,  and  were  all  of  us  in 
a  feverish  anxiety  to  return  home.  We  therefore, 
una  voce,  gave  up  the  thoughts  of  penetrating  to 
the  sources  of  the  Nile,  and  of  eating  live  beef 
steaks  with  Bruce's  Abyssinian  friends. 

But  the  Pyramids  and  the  Sphinx,  and  the 
other  wonders  of  antiquity  thereunto  appurtenant, 
we  could  not  return  without  seeing,  though  they 
must  be  seen  in  haste.  And  we  did  see  them. 

It  was  after  having  seen  all  the  sights,  and  ex 
plored  the  great  Pyramid  in  the  usual  way  within, 
and  clambered  to  its  top  without,  whilst  my  fatigued 
companions  were  resting  in  the  shade  with  our 
guard,  that  I,  who  am  proof  against  any  fatigue  of 
this  sort,  and  a  little  vain  too  of  being  so,  strolled 
forward  towards  the  Sphinx,  which,  as  everybody 
knows^  rears  its  ugly  colossal  head  out  the  sand 
at  some  distance  in  front  of  what  is  called  the  se 
cond  Pyramid.  I  was  standing  near  it,  making  a 
sketch,  after  my  fashion,  of  the  relative  position  of 
the  four  great  Pyramids,  when  I  was  startled 
by  the  sudden  appearance  of  a  gay  troop  of  Mame 
luke  horse,  whose  approach  had  been  hidden  from 
my  sight  by  the  ruins  of  the  small  pyramid  on  my 
left,  and  who  now  suddenly  darted  by  me  in  gal 
lant  style.  To  my  surprise,  the  leader  of  the  troop, 
who,  from  the  dazzling  splendour  of  his  equip 
ments,  seemed  to  be  a  chief  of  rank,  in  passing 
looked  me  full  in  the  face,  and  then  rapidly  wheel 
ing  twice  round  me,  sprang  from  his  horse.  In 
the  meanwhile,  his  party,  to  whom  he  gave  some 
brief  command,  went  on  at  a  slow  walk,  and  halted 
in  the  shade  of  a  neighbouring  ruin. 

The  stranger  stood  silently  before  me,  tall  and 
stately,  in  that  gorgeous  amplitude  and  splendour 
of  dress  which  Eastern  warriors  love.  His  wide 
scarlet  trowsers  marked  him  as  a  Mameluke.  A 
rich  cashmere  shawl,  such  as  an  English  Duchess 
might  have  envied,  was  fancifully  wreathed,  tur 
ban-like,  round  his  helm,  and  fell  over  his  shoul 
ders.  This,  as  well  as  his  clasped  and  silver- 
mounted  pistols  and  jewel-hilted  dagger  in  his  belt, 
and  his  crooked  cimeter  in  its  crimson  velvet 
sheath,  with  gold  bosses  and  hilt,  marked  the  rank 
and  wealth  of  the  wearer.  So  too  did  his  slender- 
limbed,  small-headed,  bright-eyed  iron-gray  Ara 
bian,  with  black  legs,  mane,  and  tail,  and  sprinkled 
all  over  with  little  stars  of  white,  who  had  a  mo 
ment  before  passed  me  with  the  swiftness  of  an  ar 
row's  flight,  and  who  now  stood  behind  his  mas 
ter,  with  the  reins  loose  on  his  neck,  gentle  and 
docile  as  a  spaniel. 

Supposing  that  this  might  be  some  Turk  whom 
1  had  known  at  Alexandria  or  Cairo,  I  looked  him 
full  in  the  face,  but  could  not  recollect  having  seen 
him  before.  He  appeared  young,  except  that  his 
coal-black  whiskers  and  beard  were  here  and  there 
grizzled  by  a  grayish  hair.  The  scar  of  a  deep 
sahre  cut  across  the  forehead  and  left  cheek,  showed 
him  no  holiday  soldier.  There  was  nothing  in  his 
manner  to  excite  alarm,  and  besides,  my  friends, 


with  a  very  strong  guard  of  horse,  were  within 
hearing. 

After  mutually  gazing  on  each  other  for  some 
moments,  the  customary  salaam  of  oriental  saluta 
tion  was  on  my  lips,  when  I  was  startled  by  his 
grasping  my  hand  with  a  genuine  English  shake, 
and  calling  me  by  name,  in  a  well-known  voice. 
Then,  too,  the  thickly  mustachioed  upper  lij,  drew 
back,  and  showed  me  the  well-remembered  tiger- 
like  smile. 

"  Egerton — can  it  he  ? — Major — "  said  I, 

"No — Hussein — Hussein  Al  Rus." 

"  Then  this  is  not  the  Reverend  Rector  of — " 
I  proceeded,  perplexed  and  confused,  though  certain 
as  to  my  man. 

"  Yes — but  that  was  six  long  years  ago.  An 
awkward  circumstance  occurred  which  made  it  ex 
pedient  for  me  to  leave  England;  as  I  had  no  fan 
cy  to  gain  posthumous  renown,  like  Dr.  Dodd,  by 
preaching  my  own  funeral  sermon  and  being  hung 
in  my  canonicals." 

"  But  how  is  it  that  you  are  in  Egypt ;  and  that, 
it  seems,  in  honour  and  affluence  V 

"  Yes.  It  goes  well  enough  with  me  here.  Ac 
cident  brought  me  to  Egypt.  The  Pasha  wanted 
men  who  knew  European  tactics,  and  I  found  a 
place  in  his  service.  Another  accident,  of  which 
I  bear  the  mark,  (passing  his  hand  across  his  fore 
head,)  placed  me  about  his  person.  JLu  rests,  I 
made  my  own  way,  and  have  a  very  pretty  com 
mand,  which  I  would  not  care  to  exchange  for  any 
regiment  in  his  Majesty's  service." 

"  But  the  language  !" 

"  Oh — I  have  a  great  facility  in  catching  Ian 
guages  by  the  ear.  I  believe  I  owe  it  to  my  Tus- 
carora  education.  Jlpropos — How  is  Good  Peter  1 
Is  the  old  man  alive  ]"  I  was  about  to  tell  him 
what  I  knew  about  Good  Peter,  when  he  again 
interrupted  me.  "  But  for  yourself — what  are 
you  doing  here  ]  Have  you  money-making  Yan 
kees  caught  the  English  folly  of  digging  up  mum 
mies,  measuring  pyramids,  and  buying  stone  cof 
fins  ? — sarcophagi  of  Alexander  and  Ptolemy,  as 
the  fools  call  them." 

"  As  respects  myself,"  I  answered,  "  it  seems 
so." 

"  Then  I  may  serve  you.  You  once  did  me  a 
favour,  perhaps  I  can  repay  it  now." 

"  I  have  no  favours  to  ask,  but  that  of  your  com 
pany,  and  the  information  you  can  give  me.  I  am 
with  an  English  party,  under  the  protection  of  the 
British  consulate  at  Cairo,  and  have  no  projects 
independent  of  my  friends." 

«  Ah  ! — is  it  so  1 — then  you  need  nothing  from 
me.  John  Bull  is  in  power  here  just  now,  and  is 
your  best  protector.  I  am  sorry  that  the  company 
you  are  in  may  prevent  my  seeing  much  of  you. 
But  we'll  meet  somewhere  again.  Good  by,"  said 
he,  leaping  on  his  Arabian.  In  a  few  minutes  he 
was  at  the  head  of  his  troop,  and  in  a  few  more, 
out  of  sight. 

«  Fare  thee  well,"  muttered  I  to  myself,  follow 
ing  him  with  my  eyes  till  he  was  out  of  their 
reach,  "  better  thus  than  as  I  saw  thee  last — better 
a  Mohammedan  renegado  than  a  profligate  priest. 


GULIAN    C.    VERPLANCK. 


233 


But  why  Hussein  ?  Zimri  should  be  your  name. 
You  are  the  very  Zimri  of  Dry  den's  glorious  satire." 

"In  the  first  rank  of  these  did  Zimri  stand; 
A.  man  so  various  as  he  seemed  to  be, 
Not  one.  but.  all  mankind's  epitome." 

Thus  musing  and  quoting  I  rejoined  my  friends ; 
whom,  by  the  way,  I  did  not  let  into  the  whole 
history  of  the  Mameluke,  as  he  had  reposed  some 
degree  of  confidence  in  me.  I  satisfied  them  with 
some  general  account  of  meeting  a  Turk  whom 
I  had  seen  before  in  England. 

We  returned  to  Cairo,  and  soon  left  Egypt. 
Six  months  after  I  landed  once  more  in  New 
York.  Years  rolled  on,  all  pregnant  with  great 
events  to  the  world,  and  with  smaller  ones  of  equal 
interest  to  myself.  I  did  not  talk  any  more  about 
Egerton  ;  for  his  transformations  had  now  become 
so  multiplied,  that  they  began  to  sound  too  like  a 
traveller's  story  to  be  told  by  as  modest  a  man  as 
I  am.  Besides  there  was  then  no  need  of  telling 
any  old  stories ;  for  those  were  the  glorious  and 
stirring  days  of  Napoleon,  when 

"Events  of  wonder  swelled  each  gale, 
And  each  day  brought  a  varying  tale." 

Meantime  my  natural  instinct  for  travel — for  it  is 
certainly  an  instinct — Dr.  Gall,  himself,  once  point 
ed  me  out  in  his  own  lecture-room  as  wholly  de 
ficient  in  the  organ  of  inhalritivcness,  and  equally 
conspicuous  for  my  capacity  for  localities.  This 
instinct,  though  long  restrained,  was  as  ardent  as 

ever ;  and  when  my  old  friend  Commodore 

invited  me  to  accompany  him  in  his  Mediterranean 
cruise,  to  try  a  new  seventy-four,  and  parade  our 
naval  force  before  Turks  and  Christians,  I  could 
not  refuse  him. 

Once  more  then  I  gazed  on  the  towers  and 
minarets  of  Constantinople.  Once  more  that  fair 
scene— but  all  that  is  in  Dr.  Clarke  and  the  other 
travellers,  and  I  hate  telling  thrice-told  tales. 

Whilst  at  Constantinople,  or  rather  in  its  su 
burbs,  with  a  party  of  American  officers,  after  hav 
ing  satisfied  our  curiosity,  as  far  as  we  could,  on 
the  shore  of  European  Turkey,  my  friends  were 
anxious  to  take  a  look  at  the  Asiatic  coast,  where 
the  true  Turk  was  to  be  seen  in  more  unadulterated 
purity.  So,  among  other  excursions  we  went  to 
Scutari.  It  is  an  old  Turkish  town,  full  of  mosques, 
and  monasteries  of  Dervishes ;  and  the  great  lion 
of  the  place  is  the  exhibition  of  the  Mehveleveh,  or 
dancing  Dervishes,  one  of  the  very  few  religious 
ceremonies  of  the  Mohammedans  which  an  infidel 
is  allowed  to  witness. 

It  is  a  strange  thing  that  there  is  so  little  varie 
ty  among  men  in  this  large  world.  Nature  is  in 
exhaustible  in  her  changes,  but  man  is  always 
alike.  Here  are  we  all,  cast,  west,  north,  and 
south,  and  have  been  these  two  thousand  years, 
telling  and  hearing  the  same  stories,  laughing  at 
the  same  jokes,  and  playing  the  fool  all  over  in  the 
same  dull  way.  That  the  business  of  life,  and  its 
science  and  its  passions,  should  be  uniform,  is  a 
matter  of  course.  People  must,  of  necessity,  till 
their  fields  and  learn  their  mathematics,  must  make 
money,  make  war,  make  shoes,  and  make  love, 
pretty  much  as  the  rest  of  the  world  do.  But 
30 


their  fancies  and  their  follies,  one  would  think, 
might  be  dissimilar,  irregular,  wild,  capricious,  and 
original.  Nevertheless  the  nonsense  of  the  world 
smacks  everywhere  of  wearisome  sameness ;  and 
wherever  the  traveller  roams,  the  only  real  variety 
he  finds  in  man  is  that  of  coat,  gown,  cloak,  or 
pelisse — hat,  cap,  helm,  or  turban — the  sitting 
cross-legged  or  on  a  chair — the  eating  dinner  with 
a  fork  or  the  fingers. 

This  nonsense  of  the  dancing  and  howling- 
Dervishes  at  Scutari,  is  very  much  the  same  non 
sense  that  many  of  my  readers  must  have  seen  at 
Lebanon  and  Niskayuna  among  our  Shakers.  It 
is  a  kind  of  dancing  by  way  of  religious  exercises, 
at  first  heavy,  and  then  becoming  more  and  more 
violent.  The  chief  difference  is,  that  the  Turks, 
when  once  excited,  have  more  violence  in  whirl 
ing  round  and  round  on  their  tip-toes,  with  shouting 
and  howling,  than  I  have  ever  seen  in  our  placid 
and  well-fed  Shaker  monks.  The  Turks  have, 
besides,  the  music  of  flutes  and  tambour,  and  the 
psalter  of  patriarchal  days,  which  they  accompany 
with  a  maniac  guttural  howling  of  Ullah-hoo,  Ul- 
lah-hoo.  Those  who  pretend  to  special  sanctity, 
add  some  slight  of  hand  tricks,  such  as  seeming  to 
drive  daggers  into  their  flesh,  and  taking  hot  irons 
into  their  mouths. 

Altogether  it  is  a  very  tedious  and  very  disgust 
ing  spectacle. 

The  emir  or  abbot  of  the  Mohammedan  monas 
tery  was  old  and  feeble,  and  the  chief  duty  of  lead 
ing  the  dance  and  setting  the  howl,  devolved  upon 
a  kind  of  aid-de-camp,  to  whom  great  respect  was 
evidently  paid.  He  had  the  ordering  of  the  whole 
ceremony,  and  the  arranging  of  spectators,  and 
was  in  fact,  as  one  of  my  naval  companions  called 
him,  the  Beau  Nash  of  the  Dervishes'  ball-room. 

He  was  a  stout  dirty  Turk,  with  bushy  gray 
locks  and  beard,  dressed  in  the  old  costume  of  his 
fraternity ;  his  brow  overshadowed  by  the  cap 
which  they  wear  instead  of  the  graceful  turban  of 
the  east,  and  his  cheek  swelled  up  with  that  tu 
mour  and  scar,  which  is  left  by  the  peculiar  dis 
temper  of  some  Syrian  cities,  and  is  called,  in  Tur 
key,  the  Aleppo  tumour.  I  remarked  too,  that  his 
eyes,  before  he  was  excited  by  the  dance,  had  that 
dreamy  vacancy,  and  his  skin  that  ghastly  pale 
glossiness,  which  indicate  the  habitual  opium-taker. 

This  fellow  eyed  our  party  frequently  and  close 
ly,  and,  as  I  thought,  seemed  to  meditate  some 
plan  for  laying  us  under  special  contribution. 

When  the  dance  was  over,  and  the  rabble,  who 
formed  the  mass  of  the  congregation,  had  gone 
off,  our  guide  proceeded  to  show  us  the  monastery, 
which  I  thought  curious  only  because  it  differed 
less  than  I  had  expected  from  the  convents  of 
Europe.  Just  as  we  were  going  off,  an  underling 
howler  pulled  me  by  the  coat,  and  pointed  to  a 
cell  with  many  gesticulations,  and  some  words 
which  I  could  not  understand.  Our  guide  told 
me  that  I  was  specially  honoured,  for  I  was  in 
vited  to  converse  separately  with  the  Dervish 
Yussuf  the  Wise,  a  most  holy  man,  and,  as  he 
said,  commonly  called  the  Wise,  because  he  was 
thought  to  be  out  of  his  senses. 


234 


GULIAN    C.    VERPLANCK. 


I  entered,  and  found  my  dirty,  dancing,  howl- 
ins:,  swelled-faced,  gray-bearded  Beau  Nash  of  the 
morning's  service,  stretched  on  a  carpet,  evidently 
overcome  with  fatigue,  and  solacing  himself  with 
a  little  box  of  Mash-Jlllah,  a  kind  of  opium  lo 
zenges.  Scarcely  were  we  atone,  than  he  rose 
with  an  air  of  dignity,  and  startled  me  by  address 
ing  me  in  English. 

"  Time  has  laid  his  hand  gently  upon  you, 
Francis  Herbert.  You  are  stouter — and  I  see 
gray  hairs  straggling  through  your  brown  curls — 
otherwise  you  are  unchanged  since  I  left  you  in 
America  twenty-five  years  ago.  I  am  old.  I  am 
old  before  my  time.  Prisons  and  battles  and  the 
plague  have  borne  me  down.  But  the  hand  of 
God  is  with  me.  He  is  great,  Mohammed  is  his 
prophet.  Mohammed  Resoul  Allah !" 

"  What — Egerton ! — Hussein ! — when — how — 
why  left  you  Egypt  1" 

"  It  was  so  written  in  the  eternal  councils  of  him 
who  fashions  all  things  to  his  will.  It  was  fore 
ordained — even  as  all  things  are  fore-ordained — 
that  I  should  escape  from  the  tyrant  and  become 
a  prophet,  and  a  holy  one.  In  that  predestination  is 
thy  fate  mysteriously  linked  to  mine." 

His  eye  kindled,  his  form  dilated,  and  he  burst 
into  the  horrible  howl  of  his  order — Ullah-hoo. 

Was  this  fanaticism  1  Was  this  lunacy  ]  Was 
it  the  temporary  intoxication  of  opium;  or  was 
this  wretched  man  masking  under  wild  enthusiasm 
some  deep  plot  of  ambition  or  fraud  ? 

I  know  not.  I  was  glad  to  leave  the  cell.  I 
left  it  wondering,  sorrowing,  disgusted,  and  have 
never  since  seen  him. 

Yet  frequently  in  crowds,  or  in  the  hurry  of 
commercial  cities,  I  have  met  faces  that  seemed 
familiar  to  me,  though  I  knew  them  not,  and  I 
have  often  fancied  some  of  them  to  be  his. 

Sometimes,  too,  I  dream  of  this  fearful  Proteus, 
and  meet  him  in  new  shapes. 

It  was  but  last  week  that  I  supped  in  company 
with  an  intelligent  English  officer,  who  had  ac 
companied  Lord  Arnherst  in  his  mission  to  Pekin, 
and  went  to  bed  with  my  head  full  of  China  and 
its  customs.  I  dreamt  that  our  government  had 
sent  out  Dr.  Mitchell  as  ambassador  to  the  Celestial 
Empire,  and  that  I  accompanied  my  learned  friend. 
The  moment  we  arrived  at  Canton,  a  fat  old  man 
darin,  with  a  blue  button  in  his  cap,  and  a  gilt 
dragon  on  his  breast,  came  on  board  our  frigate, 
flourished  his  hands  twenty  times,  and  thumped 
his  forehead  as  often  on  the  deck,  arid  then  jump 
ing  up,  burst  into  a  laugh,  and  asked  me  if  I  did  not 
recollect  the  Black  Wild  Cat,  alias  the  Reverend 
Major,  Rector,  Romeo,  Bardolph,  Hussein,  Yussuf 
Egerton. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  OXFORD. 

FROM   AN   ADDRESS   ON   THE   FINE   ARTS. 


I  WELL  remember  the  vivid  impressions  pro 
duced  upon  my  own  mind  several  years  ago,  when 
I  first  saw  the  University  of  Oxford.  The  quiet 
grandeur  and  the  pomp  of  literary  ease  which  are 


there  displayed,  did  not  wholly  disarm  that  dislike; 
I  could  not  help  feeling  towards  an  establishment, 
which,  possessing  so  much  learning  and  so  much 
real  talent,  had  for  the  last  century,  in  its  public 
and  academic  capacity,  done  so  very  little  for  the 
improvement  of  education,  and  had  so  long  been 
the  sanctuary  of  unworthy  prejudices,  and  the 
solid  barrier  against  liberal  principles.  But  when 
I  beheld  her  halls  and  chapels,  filled  with  the 
monuments,  and  statues,  and  pictures,  of  the  illus 
trious  men  who  had  been  educated  in  her  several 
colleges ;  when  I  saw  the  walls  covered  with  the 
portraits  of  those  great  scholars  and  eloquent  di 
vines,  whose  doctrines  are  taught,  or  whose  works 
are  daily  consulted  by  the  clergy  of  all  sects 
throughout  our  republic — of  the  statesmen,  and 
judges,  whose  opinions  and  decisions  are  every 
day  cited  as  authorities  at  our  bar  and  in  our  legis 
lative  bodies — of  the  poets  and  orators,  whose 
works  form  the  study  of  our  youth  and  the  amuse 
ment  of  our  leisure, — I  could  not  but  confess  that 
the  young  man  who  lived  and  studied  in  such  a 
presence  must  be  dull  and  brutal  indeed,  if  he 
was  not  sometimes  roused  into  aspirations  after 
excellence,  if  the  countenances  of  the  great  men 
who  looked  down  upon  him  did  not  sometimes 
fill  his  soul  with  generous  thoughts  and  high  con 
templations. 


THE   FUTURE. 

FROM   THE  SAME. 


FOREIGN  criticism  has  contemptuously  told  us, 
that  the  national  pride  of  Americans  rests  more 
upon  the  anticipation  of  the  future,  than  on  the 
recollections  of  the  past.  Allowing  for  a  little 
malicious  exaggeration,  this  is  not  far  from  the 
truth.  It  is  so.  It  ought  to  be  so.  Why  should 
it  not  be  so  1 

Our  national  existence  has  been  quite  long 
enough,  and  its  events  sufficiently  various,  to  prove 
the  value  and  permanence  of  our  civil  and  politi 
cal  establishments,  to  dissipate  the  doubts  of  their 
friends,  and  to  disappoint  the  hopes  of  their  ene 
mies.  Our  past  history  is  to  us  the  pledge,  the 
earnest,  the  type  of  the  greater  future.  We  may 
read  in  it  the  fortunes  of  our  descendants,  and  with 
an  assured  confidence  look  forward  to  a  long  and 
continued  advance  in  all  that  can  make  a  people 
great. 

If  this  is  a  theme  full  of  proud  thoughts,  it  is 
also  one  that  should  penetrate  us  with  a  deep  and 
solemn  sense  of  duty.  Our  humblest  honest  ef 
forts  to  perpetuate  the  liberties,  or  animate  the 
patriotism  of  this  people,  to  purify  their  morals, 
or  to  excite  their  genius,  will  be  felt  long  after  us, 
in  a  widening  and  more  widening  sphere,  until 
they  reach  a  distant  posterity,  to  whom  our  very 
names  may  be  unknown. 

Every  swelling  wave  of  our  doubling  and  still 
doubling  population,  as  it  rolls  from  the  Atlantic 
coast,  inland,  onward  toward  the  Pacific,  must 
bear  upon  its  bosom  the  influence  of  the  taste, 
learning,  morals,  freedom  of  this  generation. 


GULIAN    C.    VERPLANCK. 


235 


AMERICAN  HISTORY. 

FROM  DISCOURSE  BEFORE  THE  NEW  YORK  HISTORICAL  SOCIETY. 


THE  study  of  the  history  of  most  other  nations 
fills  the  mind  with  sentiments  not  unlike  those 
which  the  American  traveller  feels  on  entering  the 
venerable  and  lofty  cathedral  of  some  proud  old 
city  of  Europe.  Its  solemn  grandeur,  its  vastness, 
its  obscurity,  strike  awe  to  his  heart.  From  the 
richly  painted  windows,  filled  with  sacred  emblems 
and  strange  antique  forms,  a  dim  religious  light 
falls  around.  A  thousand  recollections  of  romance 
and  poetry,  and  legendary  story,  come  thronging 
in  upon  him.  He  is  surrounded  by  the  tombs  of 
the  mighty  dead,  rich  with  the  labours  of  ancient 
art,  and  emblazoned  with  the  pomp  of  heraldry. 

What  names  does  he  read  upon  them  1  Those 
of  princes  and  nobles  who  are  now  remembered  only 
for  their  vices ;  and  of  sovereigns,  at  whose  death 
no  tears  were  shed,  and  whose  memories  lived  not 
an  hour  in  the  affections  of  their  people.  There, 
too,  he  sees  other  names,  long  familiar  to  him  for 
their  guilty  or  ambiguous  fame.  There  rest,  the 
blood-stained  soldier  of  fortune — the  orator,  who 
was  ever  the  ready  apologist  of  tyranny — great 
scholars,  who  were  the  pensioned  flatterers  of 
powe*-and  poets,  who  profaned  the  high  gift  of 
genius,  to  pamper  the  vices  of  a  corrupted  court. 
Our  own  history,  on  the  contrary,  like  that 
poetical  temple  of  fame,  reared  by  the  imagination 
of  Chaucer,  and  decorated  by  the  taste  of  Pope, 
is  almost  exclusively  dedicated  to  the  memory  of 
the  truly  great.  Or  rather,  like  the  Pantheon  of 
Rome,  it  stands  in  calm  and  severe  beauty  amid 
the  ruins  of  ancient  magnificence  and  « the  toys 
of  modern  state."  Within,  no  idle  ornament  en 
cumbers  its  bold  simplicity.  The  pure  light  of 
heaven  enters  from  above  and  sheds  an  equal  and 
serene  radiance  around.  As  the  eye  wanders 
about  its  extent,  it  beholds  the  unadorned  monu 
ments  of  brave  and  good  men  who  have  bled  or 
toiled  for  their  country,  or  it  rests  on  votive  tab 
lets  inscribed  with  the  names  of  the  best  bene 
factors  of  mankind. 

Hie  manus,  ob  patriam  pugnando,  volnera  passi, 
Quique  sacerdotes  casti,  dum  vita  manebat, 
Quique  pii  vates,  el  Phoebo  digna  locuti, 
Inven'.as  aut  vitam  excoluere  per  artes, 
Quique  sui  rftemores,  alios  fecere  merendo.* 
Doubtless,  this  is  a   subject   upon  which   we 
may  be  justly  proud.     But  there  is  another  consi 
deration,  which,  if  it  did  not  naturally  arise  of  it 
self,  would  be  pressed  upon  us  by  the  taunts  of 
European  criticism. 

What  has  this  nation  done  to  repay  the  world 
for  the  benefits  we  have  received  from  others  1  We 
have  been  repeatedly  told,  and  sometimes,  too.  in 
a  tone  of  affected  impartiality,  that  the  highest 
praise  which  can  fairly  be  given  to  the  American 
mind,  is  that  of  possessing  an  enlightened  selfish 
ness;  that  if  the  philosophy  and  talents  of  this 

*  Palriots  are  here,  in  Freedom's  battles  slain, 
Priests,  whose  long  lives  were  closed  without  a  stain, 
Bards  worthy  him  who  breathed  the  poet's  mind, 
FoauderBof  arts  that  dignify  mankind, 
And  luvers  of  our  race,  whose  labours  gave 
Theii  names  a  memory  that  defies  the  grave. 

VIRGIL— From  the  MS.  of  Bryant. 


country,  with  all  their  effects,  were  for  ever  swept 
into  oblivion,  the  loss  would  be  felt  only  by  our 
selves  ;  and  that  if  to  the  accuracy  of  this  general 
charge,  the  labours  of  Franklin  present  an  illus 
trious,  it  is  still  but  a  solitary,  exception. 

The  answer  may  be  given,  confidently  and  tri 
umphantly.  Without  abandoning  the  fame  of  our 
eminent  men,  whom  Europe  has  been  slow  and 
reluctant  to  honour,  we  would  reply,  that  the  in 
tellectual  power  of  this  people  has  exerted  itself 
in  conformity  to  the  general  system  of  our  institu 
tions  and  manners;  and  therefore,  that,  for  the 
proof  of  its  existence  and  the  measure  of  its  force, 
we  must  look  not  so  much  to  the  works  of  promi 
nent  individuals,  as  to  the  great  aggregate  results ; 
and  if  Europe  has  hitherto  been  wilfully  blind  to 
the  value  of  our  example  and  the  exploits  of  our 
sagacity,  courage,  invention,  and  freedom,  the  blame 
must  rest  with  her,  and  not  with  America. 

Is  it  nothing  for  the  universal  good  of  mankind 
to  have  carried  into  successful  operation  a  system 
of  "Self-government,  uniting  personal  liberty,  free 
dom  of  opinion,  and  equality  of  rights,  with  na 
tional  power  and  dignity;  such  as  had  before 
existed  only  in  the  Utopian  dreams  of  philoso 
phers  ]  Is  it  nothing,  in  moral  science,  to  have 
anticipated  in  sober  reality,  numerous  plans  of  re 
form  in  civil  and  criminal  jurisprudence,  which 
are,  but  now,  received  as  plausible  theories  by  the 
politicians  and  economists  of  Europe  1  Is  it  no 
thing  to  have  been  able  to  call  forth  on  every  emer 
gency,  either  in  war  or  peace,  a  body  of  talents  al 
ways  equal  to  the  difficulty  1  Is  it  nothing  to  have, 
in  less  than  a  half  century,  exceedingly  improved 
the  sciences  of  political  economy,  of  law,  and  of 
medicine,  with  all  their  auxiliary  branches ;  to  have 
enriched  human  knowledge  by  the  accumulation  of 
a  great  mass  of  useful  facts  and  observations,  and 
to  have  augmented  the  power  and  the  comforts  of 
civilized  man,  by  miracles  of  mechanical  inven 
tion  ?  Is  it  nothing  to  have  given  the  world  ex 
amples  of  disinterested  patriotism,  of  political  wis 
dom,  of  public  virtue ;  of  learning,  eloquence,  and 
valour,  never  exerted  save  for  some  praiseworthy 
end  ?  It  is  sufficient  to  have  briefly  suggested 
these  considerations ;  every  mind  would  anticipate 
me  in  filling  up  the  details. 

No — Land  of  Liberty  !  thy  children  have  no 
cause  to  blush  for  thee.  What  though  the  arts 
have  reared  few  monuments  among  us,  and  scarce 
a  trace  of  the  Muse's  footstep  is  found  in  the  paths 
of  our  forests,  or  along  the  banks  of  our  rivers ; 
yet  our  soil  has  been  consecrated  by  the  blood  of 
heroes,  and  by  great  and  holy  deeds  of  peace.  Its 
wide  extent  has  become  one  vast  temple  and  hal 
lowed  asylum,  sanctified  by  the  prayers  and  bless 
ings  of  the  persecuted  of  every  sect,  and  the 
wretched  of  all  nations. 

Land  of  Refuge — Land  of  Benedictions !  Those 
prayers  still  arise,  and  they  still  are  heard :  «  May 
peace  be  within  thy  walls,  and  plenteousness 
within  thy  palaces !"  « May  there  be  no  decay, 
no  leading  into  captivity,  and  no  complaining 
n  thy  streets  !"  "  May  truth  flourish  out  of  the 
earth,  and  righteousness  look  down  from  Heaven." 


ANDREWS  NORTON. 


[Born  1786.    Died  1852.] 


Mr.  NORTON  was  born  in  Hingham,  a  rural 
town  near  Boston,  and  was  educated  at  Cam 
bridge,  where  he  received  the  degree  of  Ba 
chelor  of  Arts  in  1804.  He  subsequently 
studied  divinity,  but  never  became  a  settled 
clergyman.  He  was  for  a  time  tutor  in  Bow- 
doin  College,  and  in  1811  was  appointed  tutor 
and  librarian  in  Harvard  University,  in  which 
he  succeeded  William  Ellery  Channing  as 
lecturer  on  biblical  criticism,  in  1813,  and 
upon  the  new  organization  of  the  theological 
department,  in  1819,  was  made  the  first  Dex 
ter  Professor  of  Sacred  Literature,  which  office 
he  held  until  compelled  by  ill  health  to  resign 
it  in  1 830.  During  all  this  period  Mr.  Nor 
ton  was  a  close  student,  and  besides  the  ordi 
nary  advantages  of  American  scholars  he  had 
the  intimate  friendship  of  many  learned  men, 
and  the  constant  use  of  the  best  library  on  the 
continent.  His  attainments  were  not  merely 
scholastic.  The  cultivation  of  his  taste  and  un 
derstanding  was  as  remarkable  as  the  compass 
of  his  classical  studies.  There  were  few  sub 
jects  of  metaphysics  with  which  he  was  not 
familiar,  and  he  could  turn  from  the  driest  dis 
quisition  to  discuss  with  equal  discrimination 
the  last  new  poem  or  romance. 

Although  while  connected  with  the  uni 
versity  Mr.  Norton  wrote  many  articles  for 
the  literary  and  theological  journals,  and  in 
the  same  period  published  several  tracts,  and 
in  every  thing  displayed  exact  and  compre 
hensive  learning,  and  a  style  singularly  clear, 
compact,  and  beautiful,  yet  his  reputation  as  a 
man  of  letters  and  as  a  theologian  rests  chiefly 
upon  his  Evidences  of  the  Genuineness  of  the 
Gospels,  to  which  he  has  devoted  nearly  half 
of  his  life,  a  longer  time  than  has  been  given 
to  the  composition  of  any  other  work  in  Ame 
rican  literature.  The  first  volume  appeared 
in  1837,  eight  years  after  its  commencement, 
and  the  second  and  third  in  1844.  In  these 
are  comprised  the  historical  proofs  that  the 
gospels  were  actually  written  by  the  persons 
wnose  names  they  bear,  and  in  a  fourth  vo 
lume  he  proposes  to  discuss  the  internal  evi 
dence  of  the  same  fact. 

•230 


Although  the  subject  of  this  work  has  been 
so  fruitful  of  discussion  for  many  centuries, 
Mr.  Norton's  treatment  of  it  is  eminently  ori 
ginal  both  in  positions  and  in  scope  and  man 
ner  of  argument.  The  edifice  of  Christian 
evidence  he  has  entirely  reconstructed.  His 
object  appears  to  be  not  so  much  to  combat 
infidels,  popularly  so  called,  as  a  class  of 
nominally  Christian  critics,  most  common  in 
Germany,  who  as  if  intent  upon  astonishing 
the  world  with  the  independence  of  their  faith, 
proclaim  it  while  endeavouring  to  batter  down 
all  the  foundations  upon  which  that  of  others 
is  founded.  They  admit  that  Matthew,  Mark, 
and  Luke  were  in  some  sense  the  authors  of 
the  books  which  are  attributed  to  them,  but 
deny  that  these  books  are  their  original,  inde 
pendent,  and  uncorrupted  compositions ;  and 
while  less  doubtful  of  the  genuineness  of  the 
gospel  of  John,  are  not  prepared  to  admit  that 
it  is  beyond  controversy.  Mr.  Norton  on  the 
contrary  maintains  the  real  Christian  doctrine 
respecting  the  authorship  of  the  gospels,  and 
that  they  contain  true  narratives  of  our  Sa 
viour's  life  and  ministry ;  and  does  this  with 
such  copiousness  of  learning,  particularly  in 
Greek  philosophy  and  patristic  literature ; 
soundness  of  judgment  as  to  the  value  of  dif 
ferent  kinds  of  testimony,  and  closeness  and 
clearness  of  reasoning,  that  his  work  may  un 
doubtedly  be  ranked  with  Clarke's,  Butler's, 
Lardner's,  or  any  other  of  the  great  defences 
of  the  Christian  religion. 

Mr.  Norton  has  some  opinions  not  held  by 
the  mass  of  Christian  scholars,  but  whatever 
may  be  thought  of  them,  he  must  be  respected 
for  the  deliberation  with  which  they  were 
formed  and  are  published.  They  are  con 
tained  in  his  dissertation  on  the  Old  Testa 
ment,  in  the  remarks  prefatory  to  which  he 
observes,  that  it  seems  to  him  "a  weighty 
offence  against  society  to  advance  and  main 
tain  opinions  on  any  important  subject  con 
nected  with  religion  without  carefully  weigh 
ing  them,  and  without  feeling  assured,  as  far 
as  may  be,  that  we  shall  find  no  reason  to 
change  our  belief."  The  views  to  which 


ANDREWS    NORTON. 


237 


reference  has  been  made  were  therefore  not 
given  to  the  public  until  more  than  ten  years 
after  that  part  of  his  work  in  which  they  are 
embraced  was  originally  written.  They  have 
relation  to  the  books  of  the  Old  Testament, 
for  the  genuineness}  authenticity,  and  moral 
and  religious  teachings  of  which  he  does  not 
consider  Christianity  responsible,  any  more 
than  it  is  for  what  is  related  in  the  ecclesi 
astical  histories  of  Eusebius,  Sozomen,  and  • 
Theodoret.  He  contends  that  if  this  proposi 
tion  is  true,  it  goes  far  to  remove  difficulties 
which  have  embarrassed  Christians  in  all 
ages,  as  the  most  popular  and  effective  ob 


jections  of  unbelievers  have  been  directed  not 
against  Christianity,  but  against  the  Jewish 
writings  in  the  divine  origin  of  which  its  truth 
has  been  held  to  be  involved. 

Mr.  Norton's  style  is  chaste,  compact,  and 
nervous.  He  expresses  his  meaning  in  as  few 
and  plain  words  as  possible.  This  is  the  best 
evidence  of  true  scholarship  and  refinement 
of  taste. 

Besides  his  theological  works  and  criti 
cisms  and  other  contributions  to  periodicals, 
he  has  published  a  few  poems  of  singular 
merit,  of  which  specimens  are  included  in 
The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America.  Died  1853. 


THE  RELIGION  OF  SENTIMENT. 

FROM    THOUGHTS    ON    TRUE    AND     FALSE    RELIGION 

WHEX  the  religion  publicly  taught  is  of  such  a 
character  that  reason  turns  away  from  it,  and  re 
fuses  to  acknowledge  its  authority,  it  can  have  but 
a  weak  hold  on  the  minds  of  the  more  intelligent, 
and  exercise  but  little  influence  upon  their  habi 
tual  affections  and  daily  conduct.  But  there  is  a 
spurious  sort  of  religion  of  the  imagination  and  of 
temporary  sentiment,  which  sometimes  supplies 
the  place  of  the  religion  of  the  understanding. 
Some  of  the  infidel  writers  of  Germany  are  willing 
to  admire  Christianity  as  a  beautiful  fable.  There 
is  such  desolation  and  heartlessness  in  utter  skep 
ticism,  that  we  are  ready  to  turn  from  it  even  to  a 
shadowy,  unsubstantial  image  of  the  truth.  The 
resemblance  may  indeed  be  preferred  to  the  reality ; 
for  if  it  has  far  less  of  joy  and  hope,  it  is  also  far 
less  solemn  and  awful  and  authoritative.  Where 
real  living  religion  does  not  exercise  its  permanent, 
unremitting  influence,  we  may  often  find  in  its 
stead  a  poetical,  theatrical,  mystical  religion,  which 
may  furnish  themes  for  the  expression  of  fine  sen 
timent  and  the  indulgence  of  transient  emotion ; 
which  delights  to  talk  about  sacrifices,  but  forgets 
duties,  and  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  unnoticed 
patience  of  obscure  suffering,  the  unpraised  self- 
deriials  of  humble  goodness,  the  strong  and  silent 
feelings  of  habitual  piety  ;  or  indeed  with  any  vir 
tues  but  what  are  splendid  and  popular,  and  fit  for 
exhibition.  It  is  such  a  religion  which  the  au 
thoress  of  Delphine  has  celebrated  with  her  pas 
sionate  and  enthusiastic  eloquence.  It  is  this  religion 
which  the  writer  of  the  Philosophical  Dictionary, 
not  mention  any  work  more  infamous,  could 
introduce  into  his  tragedies ;  and  it  is  for  such  a 
religion  that  Moore  and  Byron  may  compose  sa 
cred  songs.  Nobody,  I  trust,  will  so  far  misun 
derstand  me,  as  to  suppose  it  my  intention  to  deny 
that  the  sentiments  expressed  by  such  writers  are 
sometimes  very  beautiful  and  correct.  I  only 
mean  that  there  is  a  religion,  not  of  the  under 
standing  and  not  of  the  heart,  which  terminates  in 
t.io  ixpression  of  fine  sentiments. 


REFORMERS. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

IT  is  delightful  to  remember  that  there  have 
been  men,  who,  in  the  cause  of  truth  and  virtue, 
have  made  no  compromises  for  their  own  advan 
tage  or  safety ;  who  have  recognised  "  the  hardest 
duty  as  the  highest ;"  who,  conscious  of  the  pos 
session  of  great  talents,  have  relinquished  all  the 
praise  that  was  within  their  grasp,  all  the  applause 
which  they  might  have  so  liberally  received,  if 
they  had  not  thrown  themselves  in  opposition  to 
the  errors  and  vices  of  their  fellow-men,  and  have 
been  content  to  take  obloquy  and  insult  instead ; 
who  have  approached  to  lay  on  the  altar  of  God 
"  their  last  infirmity."  They,  without  doubt,  have 
felt  that  deep  conviction  of  having  acted  right, 
which  supported  the  martyred  philosopher  of 
Athens,  when  he  asked,  "  What  disgrace  is  it  to 
me  if  others  are  unable  to  judge  of  me,  or  to  treat 
me  as  they  ought  T'  There  is  something  very 
solemn  and  sublime  in  the  feeling  produced  by 
considering  how  differently  these  men  have  been 
estimated  by  their  contemporaries,  from  the  man 
ner  in  which  they  are  regarded  by  God.  We 
perceive  the  appeal  which  lies  from  the  ignorance, 
the  folly,  and  the  iniquity  of  man,  to  the  throne 
of  Eternal  Justice.  A  storm  of  calumny  and  re 
viling  has  too  often  pursued  them  through  life, 
and  continued,  when  they  could  no  longer  feel  it, 
to  beat  upon  their  graves.  But  it  is  no  matter. 
They  had  gone  where  all  who  have  suffered,  and 
all  who  have  triumphed  in  the  same  noble  cause, 
receive  their  reward  ;  but  where  the  wreath  of  the 
martyr  is  more  glorious  than  that  of  the  conqueror. 


THE  LESSONS  OF  DEATH. 

FROM   A  PAPER   ON   BUCKMINSTER. 


IT  will  be  in  vain  for  us  to  stand  by  the  open 
grave  of  departed  worth  if  no  earthly  pa»sion 
grows  cool,  and  no  holy  purpose  gains  strength. 

We  are  liable  in  this  world  to  continual  delu 
sion  ;  to  a  most  extravagant  over-estimate  of  the 
value  of  its  objects.  With  respect  to  many  oi  our 


238 


ANDREWS    NORTON. 


cares  and  pursuits,  the  sentiment  expressed  in  the 
words  of  David  must  have  borne  with  all  its  truth 
and  force  upon  the  mind  of  every  considerate  man 
in  some  moments,  at  least,  of  serious  reflection : 
Surely  cve.ry  one  walketh  in  a  vain  show ;  surely 
they  are  disquieted  in  vain.  The  events  of  the 
next  month,  or  the  next  year,  often  assume  in  our 
eyes  a  most  disproportionate  importance,  and  al 
most  exclude  from  our  view  all  the  other  infinite 
variety  of  concerns  and  changes  which  are  to  fol 
low  in  the  course  of  an  immortal  existence.  The 
whole  happiness  of  our  being  seems  sometimes  to 
be  at  stake  upon  the  success  of  a  plan,  which, 
when  we  have  grown  but  a  little  older,  we  may 
regard  with  indifference.  These  are  subjects  on 
which  reason  too  commonly  speaks  to  us  in  vain. 
But  there  is  one  lesson  which  God  sometimes 
gives  us,  that  brings  the  truth  home  to  our  hearts. 
There  is  an  admonition  which  addresses  itself 
directly  to  our  feelings,  and  before  which  they  bow 
in  humility  and  tears.  We  can  hardly  watch  the 
gradual  decay  of  a  man  eminent  for  virtue  and 
talents,  and  hearing  him  uttering,  with  a  voice 
that  will  soon  be  heard  no  more,  the  last  expres 
sions  of  piety  and  holy  hope,  without  feeling  that 
the  delusions  of  life  are  losing  their  power  over  our 
minds.  Its  true  purposes  begin  to  appear  to  us 
in  their  proper  distinctness.  We  are  accompany 
ing  one  who  is  about  to  take  his  leave  of  present 
objects ;  to  whom  the  things  of  this  life,  merely,  are 
no  longer  of  any  interest  or  value.  The  eye,  which 
is  still  turned  to  us  in  kindness,  will  in  a  few  days 
be  closed  for  ever.  The  hand  by  which  ours  is 
still  pressed  will  be  motionless.  The  affections, 
which  are  still  warm  and  vivid — they  will  not  pe 
rish  ;  but  we  shall  know  nothing  of  their  exercise. 
We  shall  be  cut  off  from  all  expressions  and  return 
of  sympathy.  He  whom  we  love  is  taking  leave 
of  us  for  an  undefined  period  of  absence.  We 
are  placed  with  him  on  the  verge  between  this 
world  and  the  eternity  into  which  he  is  entering ; 
we  look  before  us,  and  the  objects  of  the  latter  rise 
to  view  in  all  their  vast  and  solemn  magnificence. 
There  is,  I  well  know,  an  anguish  which  may 
preclude  this  calmness  of  reflection  and  hope.  Our 
resolution  may  be  prostrated  to  the  earth ;  for  he, 
on  whom  we  are  accustomed  to  rely  for  strength 
and  support,  has  been  taken  away.  We  return 
to  the  world,  and  there  is  bitterness  in  all  it  pre 
sents  us ;  for  every  thing  bears  impressed  upon  it 
a  remembrance  of  what  we  have  lost.  It  has  one, 
and  but  one,  miserable  consolation  to  offer : 

"That  anguish  will  be  wearied  down,  I  know, 
What  pang  is  permanent  with  man  ?    From  th'  highest, 
As  from  the  vilest  thing  of  every  day. 
He  learns  to  wean  himself.    For  the  strong  hours 
Conquer  him." 

Il  is  a  consolation,  which,  offered  in  this  naked 
and  offensive  form,  we  instinctively  reject.  Our 
recollections  and  our  sorrows,  blended  as  they  are 
together,  are  far  too  dear  to  be  parted  with  upon 
such  terms.  But  God  giveth  not  as  the  world 
giveth.  There  is  a  peace  which  comes  from  him, 
and  brings  healing  to  the  heart.  His  religion 
would  not  have  us  forget,  but  cherish  our  affec 
tions  for  the  dead ;  for  it  makes  known  to  us  that 


these  affections  shall  be  immortal.  It  gradually 
takes  away  the  bitterness  of  our  recollections,  and 
changes  them  into  glorious  hopes ;  for  it  teaches 
us  to  regard  the  friend,  who  is  with  us  no  longer, 
not  as  one  whom  we  have  lost  on  earth,  but  as 
one  whom  we  shall  meet  as  an  angel  in  heaven. 

EXAMPLES  OF  THE  DEAD. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

THE  relations  between  man  and  man  cease  not 
with  life.  The  dead  leave  behind  them  their  me 
mory,  their  example,  and  the  effects  of  their  ac 
tions.  Their  influence  still  abides  with  us.  Their 
names  and  characters  dwell  in  our  thoughts  and 
hearts.  We  live  and  commune  with  them  in  their 
writings.  We  enjoy  the  benefit  of  their  labours. 
Our  institutions  have  been  founded  by  them.  We 
are  surrounded  by  the  works  of  the  dead.  Our 
knowledge  and  our  arts  are  the  fruit  of  their  toil. 
Our  minds  have  been  formed  by  their  instructions. 
We  are  most  intimately  connected  with  them  by 
a  thousand  dependencies.  Those  whom  we  have 
loved  in  life  are  still  objects  of  our  deepest  and 
holiest  affections.  Their  power  over  us  remains. 
They  are  with  us  in  our  solitary  walks ;  and  their 
voices  speak  to  our  hearts  in  the  silence  of  mid 
night.  Their  image  is  impressed  upon  our  dearest 
recollections  and  our  most  sacred  hopes.  They 
form  an  essential  part  of  our  treasure  laid  up  in 
heaven.  For,  above  all,  we  are  separated  from 
them  but  for  a  little  time.  We  are  soon  to  be 
united  with  them.  If  we  follow  in  the  path  of 
those  we  have  loved,  we  too  shall  soon  join  the 
innumerable  company  of  the  spirits  of  just  men 
made  perfect.  Our  affections  and  our  hopes  are 
not  buried  in  the  dust,  to  which  we  commit  the 
poor  remains  of  mortality.  The  blessed  retain 
their  remembrance  and  their  love  for  us  in  heaven ; 
and  we  will  cherish  our  remembrance  and  our 
love  for  them  while  on  earth. 

Creatures  of  imitation  and  sympathy  as  we  are, 
we  look  around  us  for  support  and  countenance 
even  in  our  virtues.  We  recur  for  them,  most 
securely,  to  the  examples  of  the  dead.  There  is 
a  degree  of  insecurity  and  uncertainty  about  living 
worth.  The  stamp  has  not  yet  been  put  upon  it, 
which  precludes  all  change,  and  seals  it  up  as  a 
just  object  of  admiration  for  future  times.  There 
is  no  service  which  a  man  of  commanding  intellect 
can  render  his  fellow-creatures  better  than  that  of 
leaving  behind  him  an  unspotted  example.  If  he 
do  not  confer  upon  them  this  benefit ;  if  he  leave 
a  character  dark  with  vices  in  the  sight  of  God, 
but  dazzling  with  shining  qualities  in  the  view  of 
men  ;  it  may  be  that  all  his  other  services  had  bet 
ter  have  been  forborne,  and  he  had  passed  inactive 
and  unnoticed  through  life.  It  is  a  dictate  of  wis 
dom,  therefore,  as  well  as  feeling,  when  a  man, 
eminent  for  his  virtues  and  talents,  has  been 
taken  away,  to  collect  the  riches  of  his  goodness 
and  add  them  to  the  treasury  of  human  improve 
ment.  The  true  Christian  liveth  not  for  himself, 
and  dieth  not  for  himself ;  and  it  is  thus,  in  one 
respect,  that  he  dieth  not  for  himself. 


JOHN  SANDERSON. 


[Born  1783.    Died  1844.] 


JOHN  SANDERSON,  the  son  of  a  farmer  in 
moderate  circumstances,  who  had  served  in  the 
army  through  the  Revolution,  was  born  near 
Carlisle  in  Pennsylvania,  in  1783.  There 
were  few  schools  in  the  interior,  and  he  had 
to  ride  between  seven  and  eight  miles  every 
morning  for  three  years  to  recite  lessons  to  a 
clergyman,  in  the  valley  of  the  Juniata,  who 
by  teaching  the  ancient  languages  added  some 
thing  to  a  small  income  derived  from  his  con 
gregation.  In  1806  he  went  to  Philadelphia 
and  commenced  the  study  of  the  law,  but  at 
the  end  of  two  years,  finding  it  necessary  to 
have  recourse  to  employments  more  immedi 
ately  productive,  he  accepted  the  situation  of 
assistant  teacher  in  the  Clermont  Seminary, 
then  under  the  charge  of  Mr.  John  T.  Carre, 
whose  daughter  he  subsequently  married,  and 
with  whom  he  was  many  years  associated  as 
partner.  In  this  period  he  was  a  frequent 
contributor  to  Dennie's  Port  Folio,  and  an  oc 
casional  one  to  the  Aurora  newspaper.  His 
favourite  studies  were  the  Greek,  Roman  and 
French  literatures,  and  his  chief  amusement 
music.  His  violin,  on  which  he  had  learned 
to  play  at  a  very  early  age,  was  a  cherished 
companion  to  the  end  of  his  life. 

In  1820  Mr.  Sanderson  wrote  the  first  and 
second  of  the  eight  volumes  of  the  Lives  of 
the  Signers  of  the  Declaration  of  Indepen 
dence,  a  work  composed  from  original  mate 
rials  and  therefore  of  considerable  historical 
value,  which  retains  its  place  among  the  po 
pular  collections  of  biographies.  The  sound 
ness  of  his  scholarship  and  his  love  of  learn 
ing  led  him  on  several  occasions  to  undertake 
the  defence  of  classical  studies,  and  to  combat 
that  empiricism  in  teaching,  which  has  been 
so  successfully  practised  in  different  periods 
in  most  of  our  cities.  He  put  down  by  a  pam 
phlet  a  plan  which  had  grown  into  favour  for 
a  college  from  which  Greek  and  Latin  were 
to  be  excluded,  and  by  a  series  ot  Assays  in  a 
newspaper  drove  from  the  country  ime  of  the 
most  notorious  of  those  pretender  who  are 
constantly  offering  in  a  certain  nun/ber  of  les 
sons  to  impart  a  knowledge  of  sciences  or 


arts  of  which  they  themselves  have  learned 
scarcely  more  than  the  names.  In  1833  he 
wrote  the  letters  which  appeared  under  the 
signature  of  Robertjeot,  against  the  system  of 
instruction  proposed  for  the  school  founded  by 
Stephen  Girard,  in  which  a  classical  culture  is 
insisted  upon  with  his  usual  earnestness  and 
good  judgment. 

His  health  now  began  to  fail,  and  he  reluc 
tantly  gave  up  his  school.  He  enjoyed  in  an 
eminent  degree  the  respect  and  confidence  of 
his  pupils,  in  whom  he  felt  a  parental  interest, 
and  his  success  showed  that  the  public  enter 
tained  a  just  sense  of  his  professional  charac 
ter,  abilities  and  services. 

In  the  hope  of  deriving  advantage  from  fo 
reign  travel,  he  sailed  for  Havre  on  the  first 
of  June,  1835,  and  on  the  fourth  of  the  fol 
lowing  month  arrived  in  Paris.  His  boti  horn- 
mie,  general  information,  and  scholarship  here 
made  him  a  favourite  alike  with  wits  and  men 
of  learning ;  the  time  passed  pleasantly,  his 
health  improved,  and  he  became  much  attached 
to  the  city  and  its  society,  which  he  described 
to  his  friends  at  home  in  the  series  of  letters  af 
terward  published  under  the  title  of  The  Ame 
rican  in  Paris.  At  the  end  of  a  year  he  went 
to  London,  but  the  Great  Metropolis  did  not 
please  him,  and  in  the  autumn  of  1836  he  re 
turned  to  the  United  States,  and  soon  after  re 
sumed  the  occupation  of  a  teacher  in  the  Phi 
ladelphia  High  School,  in  which  he  was 
appointed  Professor  of  the  Greek  and  Latin 
languages. 

In  1839  he  gave  to  the  public  The  Ameri 
can  in  Paris,  in  two  volumes,  which  were  soon 
after,  on  the  recommendation  of  Mr.  Theodore 
Hook,  republished  in  London,  and  in  1843  in 
Paris,  in  a  French  version  by  Jules  Janin,  from 
which  a  retranslation  appeared  in  the  same 
year  in  London  and  New  York.  He  also  com 
menced  the  preparation  of  a  work  to  be  called 
The  American  in  London,  parts  of  which  were 
printed  in  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine,  for 
which,  and  the  Lady's  Book,  he  wrote  from 
time  to  time  various  sketches  of  travel  and 
descriptive  and  humorous  essays. 


240 


JOHN    SANDERSON. 


I  became  acquainted  with  him  in  1841,  and 
few  except  the  members  of  his  own  family 
saw  more  of  him  during  the  remainder  of  his 
life.  For  some  time  he  resided  in  a  house 
nearly  opposite  to  mine,  and  frequently  in  the 
pleasant  mornings  and  evenings  we  walked 
together,  or  if  the  weather  was  unpropitious, 
discussed  the  merits  of  men,  books  and  opin 
ions,  by  the  fireside,  iiis  liui.  „  .vhite  with 
age,  but  his  eyes  reflected  his  heart,  and  had 
the  glow  oi  youth.  Though  he  continued  to 
be  a  sufferer  from  ill  health,  he  lost  none  of 
his  amiable  cheerfulness,  or  warm  sympathy 
with  all  about  him.  His  manners  were  quiet 
and  simple,  his  conversation  various,  and  en 
riched  with  learning  and  wide  observation,  and 
his  trenchant  wit  and  sportive  humour  unfail 
ing  sources  of  delight  to  all  who  could  appre 
ciate  their  keenness  and  delicacy.  No  one 
could  fail  to  perceive  that  while  he  was  sensi 
tively  alive  to  the  ludicrous,  and  sketched  foU 
lies  quaintly,  forcibly  and  effectively,  the  kind 
ness  of  nature,  which  gave  a  tone  to  his  fami 
liar  intercourse  with  the  world,  prevented  his 
ever  summoning  a  shadow  to  any  face  or  per 
mitting  a  weight  to  lie  on  any  heart.  Indeed 
an  incident  connected  with  our  first  meeting 
so  well  illustrates  his  social  character  that  it 
will  serve  better  than  any  thing  else  I  can 
write  to  make  the  reader  acquainted  with  him. 
For  some  reason  I  retired  at  an  early  hour  from 
a  party  given  by  a  common  friend,  at  which 
he  was  present  and  had  satirized  with  a  free 
dom  unusual  to  him  a  person  in  public  life 
with  whom,  he  heard  in  the  course  of  the  even 
ing,  I  was  personally  intimate.  His  gayety 
was  at  an  end,  and  after  the  middle  of  the  night, 
while  a  storm  was  raging,  he  called  to  express 
his  regrets  ;  he  "  could  not  sleep  with  any  such 
annoying  recollection."  His  observations  had 
been  so  good  natured  and  ingenius  that  even 
the  subject  of  them  could  not  have  been  of 
fended,  and  it  happened  afterward  that  he  and 
Sanderson  regarded  each  other  with  great  re 
spect  and  kindness. 

No  man  was  ever  more  fond  of  his  children. 
He  was  particularly  attached  to  a  daughter, 
who  superintended  his  house;  for  hi/ wife, 
whose  memory  he  fondly  cherished,  was  dead, 
and  he  should  "  sleep  well  beside  her !" — he 
rose  suddenly,  with  averted  face,  from  my  ta 
ble,  one  day,  as  he  said  these  words,  and  soon, 
from  the  window  by  the  street,  I  saw  him  en 


tering  his  own  door.  I  understood  that  silent 
language,  and  when  we  met  again,  a  few 
hours  after,  it  was  felt  that  no  explanation  was 
needed.  The  last  time  I  saw  him  we  took  tea 
together  at  the  house  of  an  eminent  lawyer,  and 
it  has  been  often  mentioned  since,  that  on  that 
occasion  he  playfully  exacted  from  me,  and 
made  our  host  and  his  family  witnesses  of  it, 
a  promise  to  be  the  recorder  of  his  virtues 
after  his  death.  I  am  able  to  fulfil  the  readily 
given  pledge  but  imperfectly.  I  can  only  hope 
to  renew  in  the  minds  of  some  who  knew  him 
the  remembrance  of  his  admirable  qualities. 
He  died  very  suddenly  in  the  following  week, 
on  the  fifth  of  April,  1844,  in  consequence  of 
a  slight  cold  which  I  believe  he  received  that 
very  night. 

In  the  beginning  of  his  book  on  Paris,  on 
which  principally  rests  his  reputation  as  a 
writer,  he  says  that  he  will  be  a  Boswell  to 
that  city.  The  work  is  certainly  unsurpassed 
in  its  way,  a  very  mirror  of  that  home  of  the 
gay,  the  brilliant  and  profound,  of  all  in  life  or 
art  that  attracts  the  man  of  genius,  learning,  or 
taste.  It  displays  excellent  humour,  accura 
cy  of  observation,  and  skill  in  character  writ-  . 
ing ;  and  occasionally  a  compass  of  know 
ledge,  a  judicious  philanthropy,  and  a  sound 
ness  of  judgment,  for  which  those  who  had 
little  knowledge  of  him  would  not  have  been 
likely  to  give  him  credit.  His  essays,  enti 
tled  The  French  and  English  Kitchen,  and 
miscellaneous  magazine  papers,  are  not  less  ad 
mirable  in  their  way  ;  and  the  anonymous  sa 
tires,  in  which  at  an  earlier  period  he  assailed 
popular  absurdities  and  abuses,  show  how 
well  he  could  have  kept  fools  and  knaves  in 
a  restraining  terror,  had  not  his  good  nature, 
and  delicate  taste  and  perception,  led  him  to 
the  study  of  the  beautiful. 

'  When  hearts,  whose  truth  was  proven, 

Like  thine,  are  laid  in  earth, 

There  should  a  wreath  be  woven 

To  tell  the  world  their  worth. 

"  And  I,  who  woke  each  morrow 

To  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine, 
Who  shared  thy  joy  and  sorrow, 
Whose  weal  and  wo  were  thine, — 

"  Jt  should  be  mine  to  braid  it 
Around  thy  faded  brow; 
But  I've  in  vain  essay'd  it. 
And  feel  I  cannot  now."* 


*  Lines  on  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake,  by 
Halleck. 


JOHN    SANDERSON. 


241 


TAGLIONI. 

FROM   THE   AMERICAN  IN   PARIS. 

THERE  was  a  flutter  through  the  house,  the  music 
announcing  some  great  event,  and  at  length  amidst 
a  burst  of  acclamations,  Mademoiselle  Taglioni 
stood  upon  the  margin  of  the  scene.  She  seemed 
to  have  alighted  there  from  some  other  sphere. 

I  expected  to  be  little  pleased  with  this  lady,  I 
had  heard  such  frequent  praises  of  her  accomplish 
ments,  but  was  disappointed.  Her  exceeding  beau 
ty  surpasses  the  most  excessive  eulogy.  Her 
dance  is  the  whole  rhetoric  of  pantomime  ;  its 
movements,  pauses  and  attitudes  in  their  purest 
Attic  simplicity,  chastity  and  urbanity.  She  has 
a  power  over  the  feelings  which  you  will  be  un 
willing  to  concede  to  her  art.  She  will  make 
your  heart  beat  with  joy  :  she  will  make  you  weep 
by  the  sole  eloquence  of  her  limbs.  What  inimi 
table  grace !  In  all  she  attempts  you  will  love 
her,  and  best  in  that  which  she  attempts  last.  If 
she  stands  still,  you  will  wish  her  a  statue  that  she 
may  stand  still  always ;  or  if  she  moves,  you  will 
wish  her  a  wave  of  the  sea  that  she  may  do  no 
thing  but  that — «  move  still,  still  so,  and  own  no 
other  function."  To  me  she  appeared  last  night  to 
have  filled  up  entirely  the  illusion  of  the  play — to 
have  shuffled  off  this  gross  and  clumsy  humanity, 
and  to  belong  to  some  more  airy  and  spiritual  world. 

But  my  companion,  who  is  a  professor,  and  a 
little  ecclesiastical,  and  bred  in  that  most  undancing 
country,  New  England,  was  scandalized  at  the 
whole  performance.  He  is  of  the  old  school,  and 
has  ancient  notions  of  the  stage,  and  does  not  ap 
prove  this  modern  way  of  "  holding  the  mirror  up 
to  nature."  He  was  displeased  especially  at  the 
scantiness  of  the  lady's  wardrobe.  I  was  born 
f?rther  south  and  could  better  bear  it. 

The  art  of  dressing  has  been  carried  often  by 
the  ladies  to  a  blamable  excess  of  quantity;  so 
much  so,  that  a  great  wit  said  in  his  day,  woman 
was  "  the  least  part  of  herself."  Taglioni's  sins, 
it  is  true,  do  not  lie  on  this  side  of  the  category ; 
she  produced  last  evening  nothing  but  herself — 
Mademoiselle  Taglioni  in  the  abstract.  Ovid 
would  not  have  complained  of  her.  Her  lower 
limbs  wore  a  light  silk,  imitating  nature  with  un- 
distinguishable  nicety,  and  her  bosom  a  thin  gauze 
which  just  relieved  the  eye,  as  you  have  seen  a  fine 
fleecy  cloud  hang  upon  the  dazzling  sun.  But 
there  is  no  gentleman  out  of  New  England  who 
would  not  have  grieved  to  see  her  spoilt  by  villari- 
ous  mantuamakers.  She  did  not,  moreover,  exceed 
what  the  courtesy  of  nations  has  permitted,  and  what 
is  necessary  to  the  proper  exhibition  of  her  art. . . . 

Dancing,  you  know,  is  a  characteristic  amuse 
ment  of  the  French,  and  you  may  suppose  they 
have  accommodations  to  gratify  their  taste  to  its 
fullest  extent.  There  are  elegant  rotundas  for 
dancing  in  nearly  all  the  public  gardens,  as  at 
"Tivoli,"  «  Waxhal  d'  Ete,"1md  the  «  Chaumiere 
de  Mont  Parnasse."  Besides  there  are  "Guin- 
guetles"  at  every  Barriere ;  and  in  the  "  Village 
Fetes,"  which  endure  the  whole  summer,  dancing  is 
the  chief  amusement-  and  public  ball-rooms  are 


distributed  through  every  quarter  of  Paris,  suited 
to  every  one's  rank  and  fortune.  The  best  socie 
ty  of  Paris  go  to  the  balls  of  Ranelah,  Auteuil  and 
St.  Cloud.  The  theatres,  too,  are  converted  into 
ball-rooms,  especially  for  the  masquerades,  from 
the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the  Carnival. 

I  hired  a  cabriolet  and  driver  the  other  night, 
and  went  with  a  lady  from  New  Orleans,  to  see 
the  most  famous  of  the  «  Guinguettes."  Here  all 
the  little  world  seemed  to  me  completely  and 
reasonably  happy  ;  behaving  with  all  the  decen 
cy,  and  dancing  with  almost  the  grace  of  high 
life.  We  visited  half  a  dozen,  paying  only  ten 
sous  at  each  for  admission.  I  must  not  tell  you 
it  was  Sunday  night;  it  is  so  difficult  to  keep 
Sunday  all  alone,  and  without  any  one  to  help 
you  ;  the  clergy  find  a  great  deal  of  trouble  to 
keep  it  themselves  here,  there  is  so  little  encou 
ragement.  On  Sunday  only  these  places  are  seen 
to  advantage.  I  am  very  far  from  approving  of 
dancing  on  this  day,  if  one  can  help  it  ;  but  I  have 
no  doubt  that  in  a  city  like  Paris,  the  dancers 
are  more  taken  from  the  tavern  and  gin  shops 
than  from  the  churches.  I  do  not  approve,  either, 
of  the  absolute  denunciation  this  elegant  amuse 
ment  incurs  from  many  of  our  religious  classes  in 
America.  If  human  virtues  are  put  up  at  too  high 
a  price  no  one  will  bid  for  them.  Not  a  word 
is  said  against  dancing  in  the  Old  or  New  Testa 
ment,  and  a  great  deal  in  favour.  Miriam  danced, 
you  know  how  prettily;  and  David  danced  "be 
fore  the  Lord  with  all  his  might  ;"  to  be  sure  the 
manner  of  his  dancing  was  not  quite  so  commend 
able  according  to  the  fashion  of  our  climates.  If 
you  will  accept  classical  authority  I  will  give  you 
pedantry  pardessus  la  lete.  The  Greeks  ascribed 
to  dancing  a  celestial  origin,  and  they  admitted  it 
even  amongst  the  accomplishments  and  amuse 
ments  of  their  divinities.  The  Graces  are  repre 
sented  almost  always  in  the  attitude  of  dancing  ; 
and  Apollo,  the  most  amiable  of  the  gods,  and  the 
god  of  wisdom  too,  is  called  by  Pindar  the  "  dan 
cer."  Indeed,  I  could  show  you,  if  I  pleased,  that 
Jupiter  himself  sometimes  took  part  in  a  cotillon, 
and  on  one  occasion  danced  a  gavot. 


<5'o>p^£jro  Trarrip  avfywvTE  Qewvrt. 

There  it  is  proved  to  you  from  an  ancient  Greek 
poet.  I  could  show  you,  too,  that  Epaminondas, 
amongst  his  rare  qualities,  is  praised  by  Cornelius 
Nepos  for  his  skill  in  dancing  ;  and  that  Themis- 
tocles,  in  an  evening  party  at  Athens,  passed  for 
a  clown  for  refusing  to  take  a  share  in  a  dance. 
But  it  is  so  foppish  to  quote  Greek  and  to  be  talking 
to  women  about  the  ancients.  Don't  say  that 
dancing  is  not  a  natural  inclination,  or  I  will  set 
all  the  savages  on  you  of  the  Rocky  Mountains; 
and  I  don't  know  how  many  of  the  dumb  animals 
—  especially  the  bears,  who,  even  on  the  South 
Sea  Islands,  where  they  could  not  have  any  rela 
tions  with  the  Academic  Royale  de  Musique,  al 
ways  express  their  extreme  joy,  Captain  Cook 
says,  by  this  agreeable  agitation  of  limbs.  And 
if  you  won't  believe  all  this,  I  will  take  you  to  see 
a  Negro  holiday  on  the  Mississippi. 


242 


JOHN   SANDERSON. 


DINING  IN  PARIS. 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  AND  ENGLISH  KITCHEN. 

THE  English  are  before  all  nations  in  bull-dogs; 
perhaps  also  in  morals ;  but  for  the  art  of  dressing 
themselves  and  their  dinners  the  first  honours  are 
chae  by  general  acknowledgement  to  the  French. 
The  French  are  therefore  entitled  to  our  first  and 
most  serious  consideration. 

The  Revolution  having  broken  up  the  French 
clerical  nobility,  cookery  was  brought  out  from  the 
cloisters,  and  made  to  breathe  the  free  and  venti 
lated  air  of  common  life,  and  talents  no  longer 
engrossed  by  the  few  were  forced  into  the  service 
of  the  community.  A  taste  was  spread  abroad, 
and  a  proper  sense  of  gastronomy  impressed  upon 
the  public  rnind.  Eating-houses,  or  restaurans 
and  cafes,  multiplied,  and  skill  was  brought  out  by 
competition  to  the  highest  degree  of  cultivation  and 
development.  The  number  of  such  houses  now 
in  Paris  alone,  exceeds  six  thousand.  But  the 
shortest  way  to  give  value  to  a  profession  is  to  be 
stow  honour  and  reward  upon  those  who  adminis 
ter  its  duties,  and  to  this  policy,  nowhere  so  well 
understood  as  in  Paris,  the  French  kitchen  chiefly 
owes  its  celebrity.  I  begin  therefore  with  a  brief 
notice  of  some  of"  its  mo^t  distinguished  artists. 

I  must  premise,  however,  that  in  fine  arts  gene 
rally,  and  eating  in  particular,  America  lags  behind 
the  civilization  of  Europe,  a  deficiency  the  more  to 
be  deplored  that  ingenious  foreigners  who  visit  us 
do  not  fail  to  infer  from  it  a  low  state  of  morals  and 
intellect.  How,  indeed,  entertain  a  favourable 
opinion  of  a  nation  which  gives  us  bad  dinners !  I 
must  observe,  too,  that  women  are  the  natural  pio 
neers  in  this  and  other  matters  of  taste,  and  that 
their  special  province  is  to  take  care  their  country 
be  not  justly  at  least  subjected  to  these  injurious 
imputations.  Men,  it  is  true,  are  accounted  the 
best  cooks,  and  the  kitchen,  like  the  grammar,  pre 
fers  the  masculine  to  the  feminine  gender;  but 
this  argues  no  incapacity  in  the  sex,  as  I  shall  show 
hereafter,  but  a  mere  physical  inferiority.  The 
best  culinary  critics  and  natural  legislators  in  this 
department  are  indisputably  women.  And  farther, 
it  is  scarcely  possible  to  impress  the  world  with  an 
idea  of  one's  gentility  without  a  studied  knowledge 
of  this  science,  its  very  language  having  become 
a  part  of  the  vocabulary  of  polite  conversation.  All 
over  Europe  it  is  ranked  with  the  liberal  sciences, 
and  has  its  apparatus,  its  technology  like  the  rest. 
Indeed,  a  very  sensible  French  writer,  president  of 
the  court  of  Cassation,  has  declared  gastronomy  to 
be  of  greater  use  and  dignity  than  astronomy  ; "  for," 
says  he,  "  we  have  stars  enough,  and  we  can  never 
have  enough  of  dishes."  Nor  is  it  to  be  looked  at 
03  a  mere  accomplishment  to  him  or  her  who  visits 
Paris,  but  a  dire  necessity.  How  often,  alas,  have 
I  seen  a  poor  countryman  seated  in  despair  at  a 
French  table,  scratching  his  head  over  its  crabbed 
catalogue  of  hard  names,  as  a  wrecked  voyager  who 
looks  from  his  plank  upon  the  desolate  sea  for  some 
signs  of  safety — upon  its  fifty  soups,  its  consomme  ; 
pure  a  la  julienne  ;  its  casserole,  gre'twuiUes,  poulets 
en  blanquettcs,  fyc.  Nothing  can  he  see,  for  the  life 


of  him,  in  all  this,  but  castor  oil,  green  owls,  and 
chickens  in  blankets. 

Some  writers  do  indeed  pretend  that  republican 
ism  is  of  a  gross  nature,  and  opposed  to  any  high 
degree  of  polish  in  this  and  the  other  arts.  But  it 
is  sheer  assertion  without  a  shadow  of  evidence. 
Surely,  the  Roman  who  dined  at  Lucullus's,  with 
Tully  and  Pompeius  Magnus,  in  the  "Hall  of 
Apollo;"  and  surely  the  Athenian,  who  passed  his 
morning  at  an  oration  of  Pericles  in  the  senate, 
who  strolled  after  dinner  with  Phidias  to  the  Pan 
theon,  who  went  to  the  new  piece  of  Sophocles  at 
night,  and  to  complete  his  day  supped  with  Aspa- 
sia,  was  not  greatly  to  be  pitied  or  contemned  by 
the  most  flagrant  gourmands  of  Crockford's  or 
Tortoni's.  These  are  but  foreign  and  monarchical 
prejudices,  which  will  wear  away  under  the  slow 
but  sure  influence  ot  time  and  the  ladies.  Indeed, 
if  I  am  not  greatly  mistaken,  there  is  a  revolution 
in  eating  silently  going  on  in  this  country  at  this 
very  time.  Many  persons  in  our  large  cities  begin 
already  to  show  taste  in  culinary  inquiries,  and  a 
proper  appreciation  of  the  dignity  of  the  subject; 
and,  in  some  instances,  a  degree  of  the  enthusiasm 
which  always  accompanies  and  intimates  srenius, 
and  which  leaves  the  question  about  capacity  for 
the  higher  attainments  indisputable.  I  know  a 
lady  of  this  city — a  Quaker  lady — who  never  speaks 
of  terrapins  without  placing  her  hand  upon  her 
heart.  I  shall  now  proceed,  without  any  apology  for 
selecting  the  "  Lady's  Book"  as  a  proper  medium, 
to  offer  some  remarks  upon  this  interesting  subject. 

The  classical  school  has  at  its  head  the  name  of 
Beauvilliers,  of  the  Rue  Richelieu,  No.  20.  He 
was  in  great  vogue  at  the  end  of  the  imperial  go 
vernment,  and  in  1814-15,  shared  with  Very  the 
favour  of  "  our  friends  the  enemy,"  as  he  used  to 
call  the  allies.  He  left  a  standard  work,  in  one 
vol.  8vo,  on  the  Jlrt  de  Cuisine,  and  closed  his  il 
lustrious  career  the  same  year  as  Napoleon,  and 
his  monument  rivals  those  of  the  heroes  of  Wag- 
ram  and  Rivoli,  at  Pere  la  Chaise.  He  died,  too, 
of  a  good  old  age,  in  the  course  of  nature ;  while 
the  tap  of  the  drum  was  thy  death  larum,  Prince 
of  Moscow. 

At  the  head  of  the  romantic  school,  and  ahead  at 
no  moderate  distance,  is  Jean  de  Careme,  whose 
works  are  in  the  hands  of  every  one,  and  whose 
name  is  identified  with  the  great  personages  of  his 
age.  His  descent  is  from  the  famous  Chief  of 
Leo  X.,  and  is  called  Jean  de  Careme,  (Jack  of 
Lent,)  in  honour  of  a  soupe  niaigre  he  invented  for 
his  holiness  during  the  abstemious  season.  He  be 
gan  his  studies  with  a  regular  course  of  roasting, 
under  celebrated  professors,  served  his  time  to  sauces 
under  Richaut,  of  the  House  of  the  Prince  de 
Conde,  and  finished  his  studies  with  Robert  the 
elder,  author  of  "  Elegance  Moderne,"  a  person  re 
markable  not  only  for  his  great  invention,  but  for 
a  bad  memory,  as  you  may  see  in  his  epitaph — 

Qui  des  1'age  le  plus  tenclre, 
Tnventa  la  soupe  Robert  ; 
Mais  jamais  il  ne  peut  apprendre 
Ni  son  Credo  ni  son  Pater. 

After  refusing  nearly  all  the  sovereigns  of  Europe, 
he  was  prevailed  upon  to  become  chief  to  George 


JOHN    SANDERSON. 


243 


IV.  at  1 600  guineas  per  annum.  But  at  Carlton 
House,  he  was  before  the  age,  and  quit  after  a  few 
months,  indignant  at  wasting  his  time  upon  a  na 
tion  so  imperfectly  able  to  appreciate  his  services. 
On  his  return  he  accepted  an  appointment  from  the 
Baron  Rothschild,  and  remained  with  "the  Jew," 
dining  the  best  men  of  a  glorious  age,  and  acquiring 
new  laurels  till  the  close  of  life,  with  the  conscious 
pride  of  having  consecrated  his  entire  mind  to  the 
advantage  and  honour  of  his  native  country. — Drop 
a  tear,  gentle  reader,  if  thou  hast  ever  tasted  a  soupe 
maigre  a  la  Pape  Pie-sept,  or  Potage  d  la  Roths 
child — a  tear  upon  the  memory  of  Jack  of  Lent ! 
Very,  of  the  Palais  Royal,  also  is  of  this  school, 
and  belongs  to  the  haute  cuisine.  He  feasted  the 
allied  sovereigns,  and  has  a  monument  at  Pere  la 
Chaise,  on  which  you  will  read  this  simple  inscrip 
tion, 

"  His  life  was  devoted  to  the  useful  arts." 

This  is  a  name  also  to  be  revered  wherever  eat 
ing  is  held  in  proper  veneration — a  veritable  and 
authentic  artist,  seeking  fame  by  no  diplomatic 
trick,  no  ruse  de  atisine,  but  honestly  and  instinct 
ively  obeying  the  impulses  of  his  splendid  abilities. 
He  employed  his  mornings  and  heat  of  imagina 
tion  in  composing — pouring  out  a  vast  number  of 
dishes,  as  Virgil  used  to  do  verses  of  the  ^Eneid, 
and  giving  his  afternoons,  when  fancy  was  cool  and 
judgment  predominated,  to  revisal,  correction,  and 
experiment.  A  person  came  in  once  of  a  morning 
inconsiderately  to  consult  him,  and  addressing  the 
waiter,  "  Pas  visible,  Monsieur"  replied  the  gar- 
p on,  with  an  air  significative  of  his  sense  of  the 
impropriety,  "  11  compose ;" — and  the  gentleman 
with  an  apologetic  bow  retired. 

I  omit  many  others  of  nearly  equal  dignity,  for 
want  of  space.  There  is  one,  however,  of  the  old 
school,  who  like  Homer  or  Hesiod,  announced  from 
afar  the  future  glory  of  his  country,  whom  I  cannot 
pass  altogether  in  silence — Vatel.  While  in  Paris, 
I  went  out  to  Chantilly — thelltica  of  the  gourmands 
— not,  as  you  may  conceive,  to  see  the  races,  or  the 
stables  of  the  great  Conde,  that  cost  thirty  mil 
lions,  or  his  rnagnifique  maison  de  Plaisance,  which 
opened  its  folding  doors  to  a  thousand  guests  of  a 
night,  but ...  I  stood  in  the  very  spot  in  which  the 
illustrious  Martyr  fell  upon  his  sword — the  very 
spot  in  which  he  screamed  in  glorious  agony — 
"  Quoi  le  marais  n*  arrive  pas  encore  /"  and  died. 
Poor  fellow  !  scarce  had  they  drawn  the  fatal  knife 
from  his  throat  when  the  codfish  arrived.  I  would 
give  more  of  this  tragical  history,  but  it  is  told  in 
its  beautiful  details  by  Madame  de  Sevigne,  to 
whom  the  reader  is  respectfully  referred  ...  I  must 
hasten  to  other  branches  of  my  subject. 

Houses  of  established  notoriety  in  Paris  are  quite 
numerous,  beginning,  most  of  them,  upon  the  fame 
of  a  single  dish,  and  many  new  ones  are  struggling 
into  notice  by  some  specific  excellence.  So  inge 
nious  persons  often  practise  one  of  the  virtues,  and 
thereby  get  up  a  reputation  for  all  the  others.  For 
ices  you  go  to  Tortoni's,  of  course ;  for  a  vol-an- 
vent,  to  the  Provincial  Brothers ;  for  a  delicious 
salmi,  to  the  Cafe  de  Paris ;  to  Very's  for  truffle*, 


and  to  the  Rocher  Cancale  for  turbots,  frogs,  and 
its  exquisite  wines.  The  great  repute  of  this  house 
(the  Rocher)  was  originally  founded  upon  oysters. 
It  first  overcame  the  prejudice  against  those  months 
which  are  undistinguished  by  the  letter  r,  serving 
its  oysters  equally  delicious  in  all  the  months  of 
the  year.  It  gave  a  dinner  in  1819,  which  was 
the  topic  of  general  conversation  for  one  month— 
about  two  weeks  more  than  is  given  in  Paris  to  a 
revolution.  The  bill  is  published  for  the  eye  of  the 
curious  in  the  Jllmanach  des  Gourmands.  Frogs 
having  been  made  to  talk  by  J3sop,  and  looking 
so  very  like  little  babies,  when  swimming  in  their 
ponds,  many  dilettanti,  especially  ladies,  feel  an 
aversion  to  eating  them  ;  and  the  French,  being  the 
first  of  the  moderns  to  introduce  them  generally 
upon  the  table,  have  infixed  thereby  a  stigma  inde 
libly  upon  the  French  name,  their  bactrachony- 
mical  designation  being  now  as  significative  as  the 
"John  Bull"  of  a  neighbouring  kingdom.  An 
Englishman  being  compelled  lately  to  go  to  Paris 
on  business,  and  holding  frogs  in  abhorrence,  espe 
cially  French  frogs,  carried  his  provisions  with  him. 
I  take  the  occasion  to  state  that  this  was  an  idle 
apprehension,  and  that  Paris  not  only  has  other 
provisions  now,  but  that  this  quadruped  is  even  less 
common,  perhaps,  in  the  French  than  the  Eng 
lish  kitchen.  But,  indeed,  to  the  refined  and  in 
genious  it  is  in  good  esteem,  always — especially  to 
professors,  doctors,  savans,  and  diplomatists,  the 
classes  most  addicted  to  gourmandize  in  all  coun 
tries.  These  do  not  forget  that  the  same  immortal 
bard  who  sang  of  heroes  and  the  gods,  sang  also 
of  bulfrogs. 

The  French  being  naturally  a  more  social  people 
than  the  English,  and  being  less  wealthy,  and  hav 
ing  less  comfortable  homes,  frequent  more  pub 
lic-houses;  so  that  these  establishments  are,  of 
course,  made  to  excel  in  decoration  and  conveni 
ence  as  well  as  science.  Indeed,  cookery  at  home, 
and  many  other  things  at  home,  will  always  want 
the  stimulus  necessary  to  a  very  high  state  of  im 
provement.  No  one  of  the  arts  has  attained  emi 
nence  ever,  unless  fostered^  by  rivalship  and  public 
patronage,  and  brought  under  the  popular  inspec 
tion.  Much  is  said  about  the  undomesticated  way 
of  the  French  living,  but  certain  it  is  that  the  social 
qualities  have  gained  more  than  the  domestic  have 
lost,  and  it  is  certain  that  the  wealthy  and  fashion 
able  French  are  after  all  less  erratic  in  their  habits 
and  less  discontented  with  their  homes  than  the 
domestic  and  comfortable  English.  Comfort !  com 
fort  !  nothing  but  comfort !  To  escape  they  wan 
der  everywhere  upon  the  broad  sea  and  land,  and 
reside  among  the  Loo-koos,  Creeks,  and  Negroes 
— everywhere  disgusted.  Where — into  what  un 
civilized  nook  of  earth  can  you  go  without  finding 
even  their  women  ] 

!'  If  to  the  west  you  roam, 
There  some  blue  's  'at  home' 

Among  the  blacks  of  Carolina. 
Or  fly  you  to  the  east,  you  see 
Some  Mrs.  Hopkins  at  her  tea 

And  toast,  upon  the  walls  of  China." 

The  very  genteel  Parisians  do  not  encumber  their 
houses  with  kitchens  at  all,  and  that  ugly  hebdoma- 


244 


JOHN    SANDERSON. 


dal  event,  a  washday,  is  totally  unknown  in  the 
Parisian  domestic  economy.  The  families  dine  out 
in  a  family  group,  or  by  appointment  with  friends, 
or  the  dinner  is  served  in  their  apartments — a  duty 
which  is  assigned  to  an  individual  you  meet  every 
where  in  a  white  nightcap  and  apron,  and  whom 
they  call  a  traiteur.  Not  a  fellow  to  be  quartered 
and  his  head  set  up  on  the  Temple  Bar,  but  a  loyal 
subject,  very  welcome  in  the  best  houses,  and  dig 
nified  as  the  entrepreneur  general  of  diplomatic 
dinners. 

What  a  gay  and  animated  picture  the  Parisian 
restaurant  with  its  spacious  mirrors,  and  marble 
tables  gracefully  distributed,  with  its  pretty  woman 
at  the  comptoir,  erected  for  her  often  at  the  expense 
of  many  thousand  francs,  and  with  its  linen  of  the 
winnowed  snow,  the  whole  displayed  at  night  un 
der  a  blaze  of  glittering  chandeliers,  and  alive  with 
its  joyous  and  various  company  !  The  custom  of 
dining  the  best  bred  ladies  in  these  public  saloons 
gives  them  an  air  of  elegance,  decency  and  vivacity 
it  is  in  vain  to  hope  for  under  any  direction  where 
there  is  a  public  separation  of  the  sexes,  as  m  Eng 
land  and  America. 

Cooking,  like  the  drama,  will  conform  with  pub 
lic  opinion,  and  bad  eaters  and  bad  judges  of  a  play 
are  alike  the  ruin  of  good  houses,  and  the  reputa 
tion  of  the  artists.  Wo  to  the  gastronomy  of  a 
people  whose  public  taste  is  gross  and  uncultivated. 
In  those  countries  where  men  dine  with  cynical 
voracity  in  fifteen  minutes,  why  talk  of  it] — dine, 
as  Careme  eloquently  and  indignantly  expresses  it, 
as  if  they  had  craws  for  the  comminution  of  their 
food  after  its  deglutition. 

I  remember  about  five  hundred  dyspeptics  who 
used  to  group  themselves  about  the  Red  Sulphur, 
(which  they  preferred  of  all  the  Virginia  Springs 
for  the  abundance  of  its  table ;)  how  they  used  to 
saunter  about  in  little  squads,  or  huddle  altogether 
at  the  source  of  the  little  ruby  and  sulphurous  foun 
tain,  and  discourse  the  live-long  day  of  gastric 
juices,  peristaltic  motions,  kneading  of  stomachs, 
virtues  of  aliments  and  remedies,  inquiring  dili 
gently  into  the  cause  that  might  be  assigned  for  the 
almost  epidemic  prevalence  of  this  disease;  some 
blaming  the  stars,  some  hot  rolls,  others  the  caco- 
chymical  qualities  of  our  American  climate,  and  a 
few  threatened  to  leave  the  country.  Two  Virgi 
nia  members  believed  it  was  the  exciting  nature  of 
our  institutions,  and  they  sat  about  upon  stumps, 
(these  gentlemen  having  a  great  affinity  for  stumps,) 
pale,  abdominous,  and  wan,  and  nearly  disgusted 
with  republicanism;  and  there  was  an  Irish  gen 
tleman,  who  had  a  strong  suspicion  he  might  have 
been  changed  at  nurse,  for  he  was  a  healthy  baby. 

These  things  are  better  managed  in  China. 
Chewing  is  done,  they  say,  at  a  large  Chinese  or 
dinary,  by  a  kind  of  isochronical  movement,  regu 
lated  by  music.  They  have  a  leader,  as  at  our 
concerts,  and  up  go  the  jaws  upon  sharp  F,  and 
down  upon  G  flat.  I  wish  our  "  Conscript  Fathers" 
at  Washington,  if  it  would  not  interfere  too  much 
with  the  liberty  of  the  subject,  would  take  this 
matter  under  consideration,  and  if,  themselves,  they 
would  chew  and  digest  a  little  more  their  dinners 


and  speeches,  I  beg  leave  to  intimate,  it  would  be 
not  only  a  personal  comfort,  but  an  economy  of  the 
money  and  reputation  of  the  republic.  The  des 
tiny  of  a  nation,  says  a  sensible  French  writer,  may 
depend  upon  the  digestion  of  the  first  minister. 
Who  knows,  then,  but  the  distress  that  has  fallen, 
without  any  assignable  cause,  like  a  blight  upon 
our  prosperity;  that  the  contentious  ill-humours  of 
our  two  houses ;  their  sparrings,  duellings,  flog 
gings,  removal  of  deposits,  expungings,  vetoings, 
and  disruption  of  cabinets,  may  not  be  chiefly 
owing  to  an  imperfect  mastication  by  the  two  ho 
nourable  bodies,  the  president,  secretaries,  and 
others  intrusted  with  the  mismanagement  of  the 
country.  Legislation  on  such  subjects  is  not  withr 
out  respectable  precedent.  The  emperor  Domi- 
tian  had  it  brought  regularly  before  his  senate  what 
sauce  he  should  employ  upon  a  turbot.  It  was 
put  to  vote  in  committee  of  the  whole,  and  the 
decree  (as  related  by  Tacitus,  and  translated  by 
the  Almanack  des  Gourmands)was&  sauce  piquante. 

The  entire  force  of  appetite  is  concentrated  in 
Paris,  upon  two  meals,  and  an  infinite  variety  of 
dishes  is  sought  to  give  enjoyment  to  these  two 
meals.  To  dine  on  a  single  dish  the  French  call 
an  "  atrocity."  The  precept  of  the  gourmand  is  to 
economize  appetite  and  prolong  pleasure,  and  there 
fore  intermediate  refreshments  of  all  kinds  are 
strictly  forbidden.  Cake-shops  are  patronized  by 
foreigners  only.  Madame  Felix — alas,  how  diffi 
cult  to  resist  her  seducing  little  pies  ! — sells  15,000 
daily  !  If  you  offer  to  touch  one  in  company  with 
a  Frenchwoman,  she  insists  on  your  not  impairing 
the  integrity  of  your  appetite  for  the  regular  meals ; 
and  she  only  remarks,  «  C'est  pour  les  Anglais" 
WThile  the  allies  stayed  in  Paris,  Madame  Sullot  sold 
from  her  room,  twelve  feet  square,  of  her  incom 
parable  petit  spates  12,000  per  day.  The  English 
man  will  have  his  breakfast,  will  have  his  lunch, 
his  dinner  and  supper,  and  thus  anticipating  hun 
ger  has  no  meal  at  all  of  enjoyment.  So,  also,  is 
he  morose  and  peevish,  snuffing  with  suspicious 
nose  the  flavour  of  his  wine,  and  approaching  his 
dishes  with  a  degustatory  fastidiousness,  not  unlike 
that  town  mouse  so  well  described  by  Lafontaine. 
In  the  cafes  you  see  him  alone  at  his  table,  spoon 
ing  his  soup,  and  encouraging  appetite  by  prelimi 
nary  excitements,  or  with  newspaper,  eating  and 
perusing,  apparently  seeing  no  one,  with  an  air  that 
intimates  the  very  great  honour  he  does  the  French 
nation  by  dining  at  all.  Moreover,  they  do  not 
in  Paris,  as  in  London,  under  pretext  of  giving  an 
appetite,  cozen  you  out  of  your  dinner  by  oysters. 
A  Frenchman,  on  a  visit  to  England,  once  tried 
this  experiment ;  but,  after  eating  three  dozen,  he 
declared  he  did  not  feel  in  the  least  more  hungry 
than  when  he  began. 

The  rules  of  eating  of  the  French  table  are  as 
accurately  defined  as  axioms  of  geometry — but 
these  rules  I  defer  to  another  occasion. 

The  French  breakfast. — It  is  not  your  ghost  of 
a  breakfast,  tea  and  toast  and  the  newspaper,  to 
guests  eating  in  their  sleep.  It  is  late ;  it  is  at 
eleven;  above  all  it  is  with  appetite  sharp  from 
early  exercise ;  it  is  the  ornamental  butter  of  gold 


JOHN    SANDERSON. 


245 


;n  a  fine  frost-work,  as  if  winter  herself  had  wo 
ven  it,  spicy  as  Epping  or  Goshen,  and  the  little 
ioaf  and  heaving  omelet,  the  agreeable  ragout,  the 
fruit  and  fragrant  Burgundy,  spread  as  by  the  fair 
hand  of  Ceres  herself  upon  the  snowy  linen,  bor 
dered  blue  or  red,  to  enhance  its  immaculate  white- 
Siess.  And  for  those  who  love  better  Araby  and 
the  Indies,  coffee  poured  from  the  strainer,  fresh 
and  aromatic,  into  the  gilded  porcelain,  with  rich 
cream,  or  of  a  strength  to  be  diluted  with  more  than 
half  milk,  poured  out  exactly  at  the  point  of  ebul 
lition  ; — but  the  Chambertin  or  Burgundy  to  re 
fined  tastes  is  better.  Coffee,  pure,  and  at  its  side 
the  little  glass  of  Cognac  or  Maraschino,  worth  a 
pilgrimage  to  Mocha,  is  the  glorious  appendix  of 
the  dinner. 

The  French  Dinner. — Atmosphere  from  13  to  16 
degrees,  Reaumur.  Dining-room  simple,  with  only 
mirrors  and  a  few  agreeable  pictures  by  Teniers. 
A  light  soup  introduces  this  meal,  by  all  means 
without  bread,  followed  by  a  gentle  glass  of  claret. 
A  rich  and  heavy  soup,  where  any  thing  else  is  to 
be  served,  is  a  total  misconception  of  a  dinner. 
Then  follow,  with  a  nice  regard  to  succession  and 
analogy,  fish,  poultry,  roasts,  with  the  entremets, 
and  finally  game.  A  delicate  eater  may  begin 
with  a  pate  of  larks  or  other  petit  plat,  and  over 
leap  the  fish,  which  deadens  somewhat  the  sense  of 
delicious  aromas ;  and  the  dessert  is  spared  always 
by  the  very  prudent  of  both  sexes.  The  monstrous 
desserts  are  superseded  by  a  better  taste.  Instead 
of  the  Louvre  or  St.  Peter's,  of  such  dimensions  as 
required  sometimes  the  ceiling  to  be  removed,  you 
have  now  for  the  robust  olfactories  a  little  Gruer 
cheese — or  for  the  softer  sex,  perhaps,  an  ice,  a 
creme  souffle,  and  you  may  offer  a  Dutch  lady  an 
accompaniment  to  her  coffee,  a  little  Cupid  just 
starting  from  sugar  candy  into  life.  Each  service 
must  have  the  air  of  abundance.  Any  apprehen 
sion  of  deficiency,  or  the  being  obliged  to  refuse 
out  of  politeness,  would  check  the  appetite  and 
natural  impulses  of  the  guests.  All  that  you  ad 
mit  upon  your  plate  is  to  be  eaten ;  in  your  glass 
to  be  drunk  ;  you  intimate  otherwise  the  badness 
of  the  fare,  and  insult  your  host ;  besides,  to  have 
the  eyes  larger  than  the  appetite  is  proverbially 
vulgar.  No  solos  are  allowed,  or  "  long  yarn,"  as 
it  is  styled,  and  lions  are  in  bad  taste.  Also,  there 
is  no  rush  of  waiters ;  servants  at  the  slightest 
hint  anticipate  your  wants,  and  a  tender  conversa 
tion  is  never  interrupted  by  the  untimely  interpo 
sition  or  removal  of  a  dish;  observing  always  that 
a  sentence,  though  two-thirds  gone,  should  it  even 
be  a  declaration,  is  to  be  suspended  at  the  entrance 
of  a  dinde  aux  truffes.  No  one  at  table  descants 
on  the  excellence  of  a  dish  or  the  wine.  There 
is  no  surprise  at  what  one  is  used  to  daily.  In 
conversation  gentlemen  are  to  be  without  preten 
sion,  and  ladies,  if  possible,  without  coquetry,  and 
the  mind,  by  all  means,  left  to  its  natural  impulses. 
No  one  is  pressed — all  is  «  fortuitous  elegance  and 
unstudied  grace ;"  this  is  one  of  Johnson's  defini 
tions  of  happiness.  In  the  first  course  the  guest 
is  required  to  be  polite  merely ;  he  is  expected  to 
be  gallant  in  the  second,  and  at  the  dessert  he  may 


be  affectionate ;  but  after  the  champagne  . .  .  (no 
rules  of  propriety  are  laid  down  in  any  of  the  books.) 

In  the  drawing-room  is  merry  conversation  and 
music,  if  excellent,  tea  of  a  rich  flavour,  or  punch 
of  the  best.  Together  at  eleven — in  bed  at  mid 
night. 

The  English  and  French  hare  with  truffles,  is  a 
delicacy  well  worth  our  ^canvas-backs.  The  Ro 
man  ladies  believed  the  food  of  hares  improved 
beauty.  Martial,  in  an  epigram,  tells  of  a  woman 
so  ugly  in  his  time,  as  to  set  hares  at  defiance.  I 
do  not  know  if  the  modern  hare  inherits  this  beau 
tifying  quality,  and  few  of  my  female  acquaintances 
have  any  interest  in  the  inquiry.  Many  sensible 
people,  however,  believe  there  is  such  efficacy  in 
nourishment,  and  it  is  worth  consideration.  Achil 
les,  they  remind  us,  was  fed  on  lion's  marrow,  and 
Madame  Grisi,  I  have  heard  said,  was  nourished 
in  her  tender  years  upon  nightingales'  tongues,  a 
diet  much  to  be  recommended  to  others  of  the  quire, 
some  of  whom  seem  to  have  been  brought  up  upon 
bulfrogs. 

It  is  a  matter  of  much  interest  to  those  who 
would  dine  out  to  have  their  sense  of  eating,  as  far 
as  possible,  refined.  By  rich  persons,  who  enter 
tain,  bad  eaters  are  held  in  a  kind  of  horror,  and 
shunned  as  much  as  tuneless  ears  by  musicians. 
To  serve  an  exquisite  dish  to  a  face  that  expresses 
no  rapture — it  is  Timotheus'  song  to  the  Scythian, 
who  preferred  the  neighing  of  a  horse.  And  well- 
bred  gourmands  are  known  to  have  applied  often 
certain  diagnostics  by  which  to  detect  indifferent 
or  refined  eaters.  When  a  dish  of  indisputable 
excellence  is  served,  it  is  expected  the  very  aspect 
of  it  will  excite  in  a  well-organized  person  all  the 
powers  of  taste,  and  any  one  who,  under  such  cir 
cumstances,  shows  no  flashes  of  desire,  no  radiant 
ecstasy  of  countenance,  is  noted  down  at  once  as 
unworthy,  and  left  out  in  subsequent  invitations. 

The  learned  author  of  the  Physiognomic  du  Gout, 
has  given  three  sets  of  dishes,  (I  beg  leave  to  trans 
late  for  your  edification,)  which  he  calls  eprouvetics 
gastronomiques,  or  tests  of  good  eaters,  suited  to 
three  several  conditions  of  fortune — for  you  are  not 
to  suppose  a  person  born  in  the  Hue  Coqucnard, 
though  equally  endowed,  should  have  the  same 
acumen  as  one  bred  au  premier  in  the  Riie  Rivoli, 
or  the  vicinity  of  the  Palais  Royal.  Here  they 


FIRST   CLASS. 

Revenue  5000  francs.     (Mediocrity.) 

A  large  veal  steak,  larded,  and  done  in  its  own  gravy. 

A  farmyard  turkey,  stuffed  with  chestnuts,  from  Lyons. 

Tame-pigeons,  fattened,  and  larded  with  a  slice  of  ba 
con,  done,  nicely. 

Eggs  it  la  neige. 

A  dish  of  sour-kraut,  garnished  with  sausages,  and 
crowned  with  bacon  from  Strasbourg. 

Expressions. — Pest !  that  looks  well :  we  must  do  it 
honour. 

SECOND   CLASS. 

Revenue  15.000  francs.     (Easy  circumstances.) 
Chine  of  beef  cceur  ros6,piqu&  done  in  its  own  gravy. 
Haunch  of  venison,  chopped-pickle-sauce. 
A  boiled  turbot. 

Leg  of  mutton,  presalb  &  la  Provengale. 
A  turkey  with  truffles. 
Karly  sweet  peas. 

Expretsiont. — Mami!  a  delicious  spectacle. — This  is 
indeed  a  regale. 

X  2 


246 


JOHN    SANDERSON. 


THIRD   CLASS. 

Revenue  30,000  francs.     (Affluence.) 

A  piece  of  poultry,  7  Ibs.,  stuffed  with  truffles  of  Peri- 
gord  till  it  becomes  a  spheroid. 

An  enormous  pie  of  Strasbourg,  in  form  of  a  bastion. 

A  large  carp  from  the  Rhine,  Ula  Chambord richly  de 
corated. 

Quails  with  truffles,  d,  laMosle,  laid  on  pieces  of  but 
tered  toast,  and  sweet  basil. 

A  rich  pike.  piqu£,  stuffed  and  soaked  in  cream  of  lob 
sters,  secundum  artem. 

A  pheasant  ti  son  point,  piqiib  en  troufet,  resting  on  a 
roast,  done  holy-alliance-fashion. 

One  hundred  asparagus,  5  or  6  lines  in  diameter,  in 
season,  sauce  d,  I'osmagome. 

Two  dozen  ortolans,  it  la  Provengale,  as  described  in 
the  secretaire,  and  cuisinier. 

A  pyramid  of  maringues,  with  vanilla  and  rose.  (This 
last  for  women  only,  and  men  of  feminine  and  delicate 
habits.) 

Expressions. — Ah,  inilord  !  An  admirable  man  is  your 
cook  !  Such  dishes  are  found  on  your  table  only. 

The  last  of  these  bills,  our  learned  author  thinks 
a  decisive  test  of  cultivated  taste  and  natural  en 
dowments.  "  I  was  lately,"  says  he,  "  at  a  dinner 
of  gourmands  of  this  third  category,  and  had  a  fair 
chance  of  verifying  the  effects.  After  a  first  course 
an  enormous  roc-vierge  de  Burbezieux,  tntffe  a  tout 
rompre,  et  un  Gibraltar  defoie  gras  de  Strasbourg, 
was  brought  in. ...  In  the  whole  assembly  this  ap 
parition  produced  a  marked  effect,  but  difficult  to 
be  described.  Something  like  the  silent  laugh  de 
scribed  by  Cooper.  In  fact  conversation  ceased 
among  all  the  guests.  Their  hearts  were  too  full ! 
The  attentions  of  all  were  soon  turned  to  the  skill 
of  the  carvers,  and  when  the  plates  of  distribution 
were  passed  round,  I  saw  succeed  each  other,  in 
every  countenance,  the  fire  of  desire,  the  ecstasy  of 
joy,  the  perfect  repose  of  beatitude  !" 

Persons  are  rarely  subject  to  these  violent  emo 
tions,  if  not  bred  in  Paris,  and  to  many  they  might 
appear  exaggerated,  but  let  them  look  into  history. 
I  will  cite  a  few  authentic  anecdotes  in  illustration 
of  this  part  of  the  subject ;  and  I  will  show,  too, 
that  these  gastronomic  emotions  and  elegant  din 
ners  do  not  appertain  exclusively  to  the  French, 
and  are  marks  of  a  high  civilization  in  all  countries. 

Fontenelle,  dining  a  friend  one  day,  and  his  po 
liteness  getting  the  better  of  his  reason,  yielded 
reluctantly  to  his  desire  of  having  the  asparagus 
dressed  with  butter  instead  of  oil,  and  went  slowly 
towards  the  head  of  the  stairs  to  give  orders  to  this 
effect.  During  the  absence  his  friend  had  fal 
len  down  in  apoplexy,  which  observing  at  his  re 
turn,  he  hastened  back  to  the  stairs :  "  Cook  !  cook  ! 
cook !"  he  cried  out  in  a  subdued  voice,  "  you  can 
dress  them  with  oil !"  and  he  afforded  then  to  his 
deceased  friend  the  due  offices  of  humanity. 

Judge  Savarin,  hunting  one  day  with  Jefferson, 
near  Paris,  caught  a  couple  of  hares,  and  they  re 
turned  home  with  their  game  late  in  the  evening. 
To  lighten  the  way,  the  American  ambassador  re 
lated  to  the  judge  various  anecdotes  of  Washing 
ton  ;  and  was  encouraged  to  continue  for  two  or 
three  miles  by  the  close  attention  and  meditative 
air  of  his  companion.  But  at  length  the  judge 
awaking  up  and  breaking  through  his  long  silence, 
said,  with  the  d^ci^ion  of  one  who  has  made  up 
his  mind,  "  Yes !  I  will  cook  them  with  truffles," 
Jefferson  bcinjj  about  half  through  the  battle  of 
the  Cowpens. 


Among  the  Latins  and  Greeks  a  great  many  in 
teresting  examples  are  recorded  of  the  same  kind. 
Cratinus  seeing  his  wine  spilt,  one  day,  died  of 
grief;  he  had  survived  the  loss  of  his  wife.  His 
fate  is  recorded  in  Aristophanes.  Jlpicius  sailed 
to  Africa  to  pass  his  life  there,  hearing  that  the 
oysters  were  better  than  in  his  native  country ;  but 
finding  them  worse,  sailed  back  again.  An  epi 
curean  is  mentioned  by  A  thenseus,  who,  having  eaten 
a  sturgeon  at  a  meal — all  but  the  head — fell  into 
indigestion,  and  was  given  up  by  the  doctors — 
says  he,  "  Well !  if  I  must  die,  I'll  thank  you  to 
bring  me  in  the  rest  of  the  fish."  Apicius,  as  it 
is  well  known,  spent  two  millions  of  dollars  upon 
his  table,  and  when  he  had  but  a  fippenny-bit  left, 
blew  out  his  brains. 

Some  very  creditable  instances  have  been  found 
even  in  England.  Pope,  the  actor,  one  day  re 
ceived  the  invitation  of  a  lord  :  "  Dear  Pope,  if 
you  can  dine  on  a  roast,  come  at  six ;  we  have 
nothing  else."  He  came  and  acted  accordingly. 
At  the  conclusion,  however,  a  truffled  hare  of  most 
appetizing  flavour  was  brought  in.  Astonishment 
and  dismay  succeeded  in  Pope's  countenance,  as 
he  looked  at  it,  scarce  believing  his  eyes.  He  took 
up  his  knife,  tried,  but  could  not ...  At  length,  af 
ter  several  vain  efforts,  pushing  his  plate  aside  and 
putting  down  his  knife,  he  said,  tears  starting  in  his 
eyes,  "  From  an  old  friend,  I  did  not  expect  this !" 

Of  Lady  Morgan's  France,  one  of  the  prettiest 
pages  by  far,  is  her  description  of  a  dinner  at  Roths 
child's  villa,  near  Paris,  served  up  by  the  celebrated 
Carbine,  at  which  she  was  present.  A  few  sen 
tences  of  which  will  show  that  the  fair  authoress 
would  have  run  no  risk  from  M.  Gerardin's  "  Gvs- 
tronomical  eprouvcttes,7'  and  furnish  proof,  if  proof 
be  wanting  in  a  matter  of  such  notoriety,  that  la 
dies  have  talents  for  eating,  when  rightly  culti 
vated,  quite  equal  to  the  other  sex. 

"  With  less  genius,"  says  her  ladyship,  "  than 
went  to  the  composition  of  this  dinner,  men  have 
written  epic  poems;  and  if  crowns  were  distributed 
to  cooks  as  to  actors,  the  wreath  of  Pesta  and  Son- 
tag  (divine  as  they  are)  was  never  more  fairly  won 
than  the  laurel  that  should  have  graced  the  brow 
of  Careme  for  this  specimen  of  the  intellectual 
perfection  of  his  art — the  standard  and  gauge  of 
modern  civilization.  Cruelty,  violence,  barbarism 
were  the  characteristics  of  men  who  fed  upon  the 
tough  fibres  of  half-fed  oxen.  Humanity,  know 
ledge,  refinement,  of  the  generation,  whose  tastes 
and  temper  are  regulated  by  the  science  of  such 
philosophers  as  Careme,  and  such  Amphytrions  as 
Rothschild." 

Of  the  dinner,  she  says,  "  It  was  in  season ;  it 
was  up  to  the  time — in  the  spirit  of  the  age.  There 
was  no  perruque  in  its  composition,  no  trace  of  the 
<  wisdom  of  our  ancestors,'  in  a  single  dish ;  no 
high-spiced  sauces,  no  sauce  blanche  :  no  flavour 
of  cayenne  and  alspice,  no  tincture  of  catsup,  and 
walnut  pickles;  no  visible  agency  of  those  vulgar 
elements  of  cookery  of  the  good  old  times.  Fire 
and  water  distillations  of  the  most  delicate  viands 
exhaled  in  silver  dews,  with  chemical  precision, 
'  On  tepid  clouds  of  rising  steam, 


JOHN    SANDERSON 


247 


formed  the  fond  of  all.  Every  meat  presented  its 
natural  aroma ;  every  vegetable  its  shade  of  verdure ; 
margonnese  was  fried  in  ice,  (as  Ninon  said  of 
Sevigne's  heart,)  and  the  tempered  chill  of  the 
plobian,  which  held  the  place  of  the  eternal  fondus 
and  soitfficts  of  an  Englishman's  table,  anticipated 
the  shock,  and  broke  it  of  the  exaggerated  ava 
lanche,"  &c.  &c. 

It  is  scarcely  fair  to  quote  farther  of  a  work  so 
accessible  to  all,  or  I  would  give  you  also  her  de 
scription  of  the  dining-room,  so  romantically  stand 
ing  apart  from  the  house,  in  the  shade  of  oranges ; 
of  the  elegant  pavilion  of  green  marble,  refreshed  j 
by  fountains  that  shot  into  the  air  through  scintil 
lating  streams.  Of  the  table  itself,  covered  with 
its  beautiful  and  picturesque  dessert,  emitting  no 
odour  that  was  not  in  perfect  conformity  with  the 
freshness  of  the  scene,  and  fervour  of  the  season. — 
"  No  burnished  gold  reflected  the  glowing  sunset, 
nor  brilliant  silver  dazzled  the  eye;  porcelain,  be 
yond  the  price  of  all  precious  metals  by  its  beauty 
and  its  fragility  ;  every  plate  a  picture,  consorted 
with  the  general  character  of  sumptuous  simplici 
ty,  which  reigned  over  the  whole,  and  showed  how 
well  the  master  of  the  feast  had  consulted  the  ge 
nius  of  the  place  in  all." 

Lady  Morgan  solicited  and  obtained  permission 
to  see  and  converse  With  the  illustrious  chef,  who 
in  the  evening  entered  the  circle  of  the  saloon, 
where  a  feeling  and  interesting  interview  ensued. 
(See  her  own  account  of  it.)  Such  honours  are 
every  day  lavished  upon  heroes,  and  surely  he  who 
teaches  to  nourish  men  is  well  worth  him  who 
teaches  to  kill  them. 

Lord  Byron  has  expressed  his  dislike  of  «  eating 
women."  But  his  lordship  had  an  infinity  of  lit 
tle  capricious  dislikes.  Monsieur  Savarin,  of  much 
better  taste  in  such  matters,  describes  his  "  pretty 
gourman  le  under  arms,"  as  one  of  the  most  inte 
resting  of  objects.  From  the  stimulus  of  eating, 
she  has  greater  brilliancy  of  eyes  and  grace  of  con 
versation  ;  the  vermilion  of  her  lips  is  of  a  deeper 
dye,  and  she  is  improved  in  all  the  attributes  of 
her  beauty,  and  in  all  respects  better  recommended 
to  our  sympathies,  as  the  honey-bee  that  sips  the 
golden  flower  is  better  liked  for  its  appetites.  No 
thing  that  is  natural  can  be  justly  called  an  imper 
fection,  and  I  would  respectfully  suggest  in  reply 
to  his  fastidious  lordship  that  the  first  temptation 
of  mankind  was  eating,  and  that  it  began  with  the 
fair  sex. 


LONDON  OMNIBUSES. 

FROM    THE    AMERICAN    IN    LONDON. 

IF  first  impressions  are  so  very  potent,  I  shall 
hate  London  abominably.  I  have  come  in  by 
the  East  End,  which  is  enough  for  ill  humour  of 
itself,  and  I  am  lodged  in  Threadneedle-street,  with 
the  instinct  of  the  owl,  who  finds  out  a  sickly  cave 


to  mope  and  be  melancholy  in.  A  single  ray  of 
sun  has  not  fallen  upon  the  island  since  I  set  foot 
on  it,  four  days  ago.  I  left  in  Paris  an  agreeable 
circle  of  friends,  bright  suns,  and  the  lilacs  of  the 
Tuileries  in  bloom,  and  am  here,  doing  penance 
in  a  back  room  of  "  Little  Britain,"  where  Boreas 

shakes  blue  devils  from  his  dripping  wings 

The  crowd  upon  the  street,  of  vehicles  crammed 
to  suffocation,  and  the  dense  mass  of  pedestrians, 
with  the  addition  of  umbrellas,  on  a  wet  day,  is 
indeed  a  spectacle.  As  I  stood  wrapped  up  in  a 
stupid  astonishment,  and  looking  on,  I  met  an  ad 
venture,  which  made  me  a  ridiculous  part  of  the 
exhibition.  I  saw  a  person  at  some  distance,  a  lit 
tle  above  the  others,  who,  with  a  most  affable  smile 
of  recognition,  beckoned  me  toward  him.  Sup 
posing  it  a  friend,  of  whom  I  had  just  now  so  much 
need,  who  had  observed  me,  I  made  haste  to  obey. 
He  had  mounted  on  the  rear  of  an  omnibus,  the 
better  to  draw  my  attention.  Close  by,  in  a  simi 
lar  situation,  was  another,  who,  as  I  approached, 
disputed  with  him  the  honour  of  my  acquaintance. 
"  This  vay,  sir !"  said  the  one ;  "  This  vay,  sir  !" 
said  the  other,  both  with  great  animation.  I  now 
thought  they  were  warning  me  of  some  imminent 
danger,  but  not  knowing  in  what  direction,  I  stood 
still,  paying  them  my  respects  alternately  ;  a  kind 
of  Scotch  reel,  setting  now  to  this  lady,  now  to 
that ;  till  at  length  I  made  up  my  mind  in  favour 
of  one,  without  giving  preference  to  either,  as  hap 
pens  often  in  love,  or  a  president's  election,  and 
stepped  in,  aided  by  the  civility  of  the  gentleman, 
who  slammed  the  door  upon  my  heels.  In  a 
French  omnibus,  you  get  in,  to  be  sure,  with  impe 
diments,  sitting  about  on  the  women's  laps  ;  but 
they  take  it  in  good  part,  and  assist  your  move 
ments,  and  you  even  sometimes  get  into  little  con 
versations  :  "  I  hope  I  have  not  hurt  you,  Ma'am  ]" 
"  JLu  contraire,  Monsieur ,"  and  the  whole  affair  is 
agreeable  enough.  But  only  think  of  running  the 
gauntlet  between  two  rows  of  Englishmen's  faces! 
"  Take  care,  sir  !" — "  Hal-loo  !"  It  is  a  cold  bath  at 
the  Yellow  Springs  !  But  I  had  no  sooner  reached 
the  back  seat,  than  I  recollected,  with  great  pre 
sence  of  mind,  that  I  had  not  the  slightest  inten 
tion  of  riding,  and  that  I  must  absolutely,  and  in 
spite  of  the  general  displeasure,  get  out.  How 
ever,  I  found  that  one  always  leaves  a  crowded  ve 
hicle  with  general  consent,  and  I  passed  out  with 
out  any  other  obstacle  than  from  the  conductor 
(classically  "  cad")  insisting  on  sixpence,  his  fee 
for  having  outwitted  me,  which  I  willingly  paid, 
and  again  set  foot  on  the  pavement.  I  observed, 
by  the  faces  of  my  fellow  passengers,  that  they  un 
derstood  the  joke,  and  enjoyed  it  at  my  expense ; 
but  swearing  a  little  French,  in  getting  out,  put 
the  scandal  upon  the  French  nation,  and  spared 
brother  Jonathan's  blushes.  The  mistake  was  na 
tural  enough,  since  neither  in  France  nor  America 
do  they  solicit  passengers  in  this  senseless  man 
ner.  . 


RICHARD  H.  DANA. 


[Born  1787.] 


IT  is  a  disgrace  to  the  literary  character  of 
this  nation  that  so  little  is  known  of  the  works 
of  RICHARD  HENRY  DANA,  who  as  a  poet  and 
as  a  novelist  is  worthy  to  be  ranked  with  any 
living1  writer  in  the  English  language.  For 
himself  he  can  afford  to  "  bide  his  time,"  but 
it  is  a  loss  as  well  as  a  dishonour  to  the  peo 
ple  that  The  Buccaneer  and  Paul  Feltori  and 
his  other  productions  are  not  more  read.  In  the 
preface  to  the  only  and  very  imperfect  edition 
of  his  prose  works  that  has  been  published  he 
says,  "To  be  liked  of  those  whose  hearts  and 
minds  I  esteem  would  be  unspeakable  comfort 
to  me,  and  would  open  sympathies  with  them 
in  my  nature,  which  lie  deep  in  the  immortal 
part  of  me,  and  which,  therefore,  though  be 
ginning  in  time,  will  doubtless  live  on  in 
eternity."  Tc  such  he  commends  himself, 
and  by  such,  so  far  as  he  is  known,  he  is  ap 
preciated  ;  but  for  more  than  ten  years,  owing 
to  our  system  of  literary  piracy,  which  by 
giving  all  foreign  works  to  American  publish 
ers  without  copy-money  shuts  out  the  native 
author  from  competition,  there  has  not  been  a 
set  of  his  poems,  tales,  or  essays  in  the  mar 
ket,  and  the  great  mass  even  of  intelligent 
readers  know  nothing  about  them. 

Mr.  Dana  comes  of  good  blood.  His  grand 
father,  Richard  Dana,  was  an  eminent  lawyer 
in  Massachusetts  and  an  active  whig  before 
the  Revolution,  and  his  father,  Francis  Dana, 
was  minister  to  Russia,  member  of 'Congress, 
and  of  the  convention  in  Massachusetts  for  the 
adoption  of  the  Federal  Constitution,  and  af 
terward  chief  justice  of  the  Commonwealth. 
His  mother's  father,  William  Ellery,  of  Rhode 
Island,  was  a  signer  of  the  Declaration  of  In 
dependence,  and  through  him  he  is  descend 
ed  from  the  early  governors,  Bradstreet  and 
Dudley. 

Mr.  Dana  was  born  at  Cambridge,  near 
Boston,  on  the  fifteenth  of  November,  1787. 
When  nine  or  ten  years  of  age  he  went  to 
Newport,  Rhode  Island,  where  he  remained 
until  within  a  year  or  two  of  entering  Har 
vard  College,  in  which  he  was  a  student  three 
years.  In  time  he  became  a  member  of  the 

248 


bar,  but  feeble  health  and  great  constitutional 
sensitiveness  soon  convinced  him  that  the 
practice  of  the  law  would  never  do  for  him, 
as  much  as  he  had  been  interested  in  the  study 
of  it.  Yet  one  would  almost  have  supposed 
he  should  have  "taken  naturally"  to  the  pro 
fession,  seeing  that  his  father  and  grandfather 
were  of  it,  and  his  mother's  father  and  grand 
father  also.  However,  he  was  long  enough 
at  the  bar  to  prevent  the  double  line  that  had 
come  down  to  him  being  broken,  and  his  two 
sons,  (the  eldest  of  whom,  Richard  H.  Dana, 
Jr.,  is  well  known  in  the  literary  world  by  his 
admirable  work  entitled  Two  Years  before 
the  Mast,)  are  now  among  the  most  success 
ful  counsellors  and  advocates  of  Boston. 

Mr.  Dana  was  of  the  glorious  .old  federal 
party,  of  which  Washington,  Hamilton,  Mar 
shall,  Jay,  Ames,  and  so  many  other  great 
men  had  been  ornaments;  and  his  first  public 
production  was  a  politico-literary  oration,  pro 
nounced  on  the  fourth  of  July,  1814.  From 
this  time  he  wrote  little,  perhaps  nothing,  for 
the  press,  until  1817,  when  he  contributed  his 
first  article  to  the  North  American  Review. 
It  was  a  brilliant  and  justly  severe  criticism 
of  the  poetry  of  Moore. x  Not  long  after,  he 
became  a  member  of  the  North  American 
Club,  and  when  his  relative,  Edward  T. 
Channing,  now  a  Harvard  professor,  was 
made  editor  of  the  Review,  he  took  some  part 
in  the  management  of  it,  according  to  an 
agreement  between  them,  and  continued  to 
do  so  until  Channing  entered  the  college,  in 
1820,  when  his  connection  with  the  work  en 
tirely  ceased.  Among  the  articles  which  he 
wrote  for  it  was  one  on  Hazlitt's  Lectures  on 
the  British  Poets,  which  excited  much  atten 
tion  at  the  time.  The  Pope  and  Queen  Anne 
school  was  then  triumphant,  and  the  dicta  of 
Jeffrey  were  law.  Dana  praised  Wordsworth 
and  Coleridge,  and  saw  much  to1  admire  in 
Byron ;  he  thought  poetry  was  something 
more  than  a  recreation;  that  it  was  some 
thing  superinduced  upon  the  realities  of  life ; 
he  believed  the  ideal  and  the  spiritual  might 
be  as  real  as  the  visible  and  the  tangible ; 


RICHARD    H.   DANA. 


249 


thought  there  were  truths  beyond  the  under 
standing  and  the  senses,  and  not  to  be  reached 
by  ratiocination ;  and  indeed  broached  many 
paradoxes  not  to  be  tolerated  by  the  literary 
men  of  Boston  and  Cambridge  then,  but 
which  now  the  same  community  has  taken 
up  and  carried  to  an  extent  at  that  time  un- 
thought  of. 

Soon  after  his  withdrawal  from  the  North 
American  Club,  Mr.  Dana  began  The  Idle 
Man,  of  which  the  first  volume  appeared  in 
1821.  In  the  following  year  came  out  what 
was  intended  for  the  first  number  of  the  second 
volume,  but  receiving  information  from  his 
publisher  that  he  was  writing  himself  into 
debt,  he  stopped.  In  The  Idle  Man  was  first 
printed  Tom  Thornton,  his  other  stories,  and 
several  essays,  with  poems  by  Bryant,  and  a 
few  pieces  by  a  third  hand.  Allston  wrote 
for  it  Monaldi,  which  would  have  formed 
part  of  the  second  volume  had  the  work  been 
continued. 

Bryant  had  also  contributed  to  the  North 
American  Review  while  Dana  was  connected 
with  it,  (among  other  things  Thanatopsis,  the 
finest  poem  ever  produced  by  a  youth  of  eight 
een,)  and  in  1825,  when  he  was  editor  of  the 
New  York  Review,  Dana  in  turn  became  a 
writer  for  that  miscellany,  in  which  he  pub 
lished  his  first  poem,  The  Dying  Raven. 

Discouraged  by  the  failure  of  The  Idle  Man, 
Dana  did  not  make  another  attempt  for  him 
self  until  1827,  when  he  gave  to  the  public 
a  small  volume  entitled  The  Buccaneer  and 
other  Poems,  which  was  well  received,  the 
popular  taste  having  in  the  five  years  which 
had  elapsed  since  the  publication  of  The  Idle 
Man  been  considerably  improved  ;  but  as  his 
publishers  failed  soon  after  it  was  printed, 
he  was  not  made  any  richer  by  it.  In  1833 
he  published  his  Poems  and  Prose  Writings, 
including  The  Buccaneer,  and  other  pieces 
embraced  in  his  previous  volume,  with  some 
new  poems,  and  The  Idle  Man  except  the  few 
papers  written  for  it  by  his  friends  For  this 
he  received  from  his  bookseller  about  enough 
to  make  up  for  the  loss  he  had  originally  sus 
tained  by  the  last  mentioned  volume. 

Here  I. must  again  refer  to  the  atrocious  sys 
tem  of  robbery  of  foreign  authors,  which,  like 
every  other  sort  of  crime,  however  impercepti 
bly,  brings  sure  punishment  to  the  criminals. 
The  printer  to  whom  the  privilege  of  snatch 
ing  the  bread  from  the  mouth  of  the  European 


author  was  secured  by  act  of  Congress,  was 
not  going  to  pay  copy  money  to  an  American. 
Had  The  Idle  Man  succeeded,  as  it  would  have 
done  if  not  undersold,  and  thus  Mr.  Dana  en 
couraged  to  go  on,  he  would  have  been  a  volu 
minous  writer,  a  benefactor  and  a  glory  to  the 
nation.  As  it  is,  indeed,  what  man  that  is  a 
man  does  not  feel  that  he  has  done  more  for 
the  substantial  advantage  and  honour  of  his 
country  than  the  greatest  of  our  heroes,  so 
called,  who  have  lived  in  this  generation. 

Since  1833  Mr.  Dana  has  published  nothing 
except  two  or  three  articles  in  the  Literary 
and  Theological  Review,  and  the  Spirit  of  the 
Pilgrims,  and  a  few  poems,  which  appeared  in 
a  magazine  of  which  the  writer  of  this  was 
editor;  but  in  the  winters  of  1839  and  1840 
h^  delivered  a  series  of  ten  lectures  upon 
Shakspeare,  in  the  cities  of  Boston,.  New 
York,  and  Philadelphia,  which  were  listened 
to  with  extreme  interest  and  satisfaction  by 
assemblies  composed  of  the  very  best  portions 
of  the  people  of  those  cities. 

Of  Mr.  Dana's  poems  I  shall  here  say  but 
Uttle.  The  Buccaneer  must  undoubtedly  be 
considered  one  of  the  first  productions  of  this 
age,  and  his  other  pieces  are  such  as  any  poet 
might  be  proud  to  have  written.  But  they 
are  not  likely  to  be  very  popular ;  they  have 
none  of  the  mawkish  sentiment  which  intro 
duces  so  many  worthless  volumes  to  the  draw 
ing-room  ;  nor  are  they  of  so  thin  a  texture 
and  so  easily  to  be  understood,  as  to  commend 
themselves  to  shop-boys  and  chambermaids. 
Whether  in  verse  or  prose  Mr.  Dana  addresses 
himself  to  men,  and  in  a  style  that  is  a  praise 
of  his  audience. 

Of  his  novels,  Tom  Thornton  was  the  first, 
and  perhaps  it  has  been  most  generally  read. 
The  hero,  a  youth  of  reckless  independence 
and  vehemence  of  character,  unrestrained  by 
principle,  but  not  without  traits  of  generosity 
and  nobleness,  leaves  a  home  in  which  the  too 
fond  indulgence  of  a  weak  mother  and  the  in 
judicious  severity  of  a  passionate  father  had 
nearly  blighted  what  in  him'was  good,  and 
caused  what  was  evil  to  grow  with  an  unna 
tural  luxuriance.  An  old  school-fellow  whom 
he  finds  in  the  city,  under  a  specious  show  of 
friend  ship  assists  him  with  money,  introduces 
him  to  votaries  of  pleasure,  and  for  selfish  pur 
poses  leads  him  from  one  difficulty  into  an 
other  until  he  is  utterly  ruined.  Discovering 
at  length  his  treachery  Thornton  murders  him, 


250 


RICHARD    H.   DANA. 


and  the  death  of  his  father  and  mother,  has 
tened  by  his  own  wickedness,  occurring-  soon 
after,  "  remorse,  defeated  pride,  prosperity  sub 
verted,"  drive  him  to  madness,  and  he  dies. 
The  story  is  one  of  extraordinary  interest,  but 
this  is  a  quality  of  secondary  importance. 
The  grossness  and  vulgar  sufferings  of  vice, 
which,  as  he  remarks  in  his  essay  on  the  po 
etry  of  Moore,  are  generally  kept  very  much 
out  of  sight  in  such  compositions,  he  has 
painted  with  startling  fidelity  and  effect. 

Edward  and  Mary  is  a  tale  of  quiet  domestic 
life,  in  which  love  is  exhibited  as  a  sentiment; 
and  The  Son,  which  is  little  more  than  a 
record  of  the  feelings  of  a  young  man  of  a 
thoughtful,  dreamy  mind,  on  the  death  of  his 
mother,  is  of  a  similar  character.  They  ap 
propriately  follow  the  powerful  and  terrible 
exhibitions  of  passion  in  Tom  Thornton  and 
Paul  Felton. 

This  last  is  altogether  the  most  striking 
and  impressive  of  his  novels.  The  hero  is  a 
moody  man,  delighting  in  self-torture,  who 
becomes  the  slave  of  the  phantoms  of  his  ima 
gination,  and  is  driven  to  acts  of  which,  a  little 
time  before,  the  prophecy  would  have  filled 
him  with  horror.  I  shall  not  attempt  an  out 
line  of  the  story.  Indeed  it  is  so  rapid  in  ac 
tion,  so  sudden  in  its  revelations  of  passion, 
in  all  respects  so  closely  woven,  as  to  seem 
itself  but  a  skilful  abstract  of  a  longer  tale. 

It  used  to  be  the  custom  with  tricksters  in 
literature  to  startle  with  the  pasteboard  horrors 
of  old  castles,  and  caverns,  and  shadowy 
woods,  and  all  the  machinery  of  the  melo 
drama.  The  time  for  this  sort  of  stuff  has 
gone  by.  Among  the  multitudes  of  readers 
there  are  scarce  any  to  be  satisfied  with  it. 
And  it  is  not  an  object  with  the  true  artist  to 
produce  such  an  effect,  though  sometimes  the 
blood  congeals  and  the  hair  stands  on  end  as 
he  lifts  the  curtain  from  the  soul  in  its  conflict 
with  sin. 

The  strength  of  Mr.  Dana  lies  very  much 
in  the  union  of  sentiment  with  imagination, 
or  perhaps  in  an*  ascendency  of  sentiment  over 
his  other  faculties.  It  is  this  which  makes 
every  character  of  his  so  actual,  as  if  he  en 
tered  into  each  with  his  own  conscience,  and 
in  himself  suffered  the  victories  over  the  will, 
and  the  remorse  which  follows  them.  There 
are  beautiful  touches  of  fancy  in  his  tales,  but 
as  in  his  poems,  the  fancy  is  inferior  and  sub- 
ject  to  the  imagination. 


He  has  a  solemn  sense  of  the  grandeur  and 
beauty  of  nature,  and  his  descriptions,  some 
times  by  a  single  sentence,  have  remarkable 
vividness  and  truth.  His  observations  on 
society  are  particular  and  profound,  and  he 
brings  his  characters  before  us  with  singular 
facility  and  distinctness,  and  invests  them,  to 
our  view,  with  the  dignity  and  destiny  of 
immortal  beings. 

Of  Mr.  Dana's  essays  that  on  Kean's  acting 
is  one  of  the  best,  though  his  unpublished  dra 
matic  lectures  are  commonly  thought  to  excel 
any  thing  in  this  way  that  he  has  printed. 
These  are  preeminently  distinguished  for  the 
ability  they  exhibit  in  the  analysis  of  the  nicest 
shades  as  well  as  of  the  boldest  traits  of  cha 
racter.  Another  that  was  printed  in  the  Idle 
Man,  is  entitled  Musings,  and  seems  to  reflect 
more  fully  and  exactly  his  own  mind  than  any 
other  single  piece  he  has  written.  It  is  an 
exhibition  of  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  a 
man  of  genius,  the  appearance  which  outward 
objects  take  from  the  assimilating  influence 
of  his  own  spirit,  his  sources  of  enjoyments, 
and  the  trials  he  must  endure  from  those  who 
cannot  understand  or  appreciate  the  workings 
of  his  mind.  Among  his  contributions  to  the 
Spirit  of  the  Pilgrims  is  an  excellent  essay 
on  a  man's  keeping  a  diary,  and  another  on 
religious  controversy. 

His  mind  is  earnest,  serious,  and  benevo 
lent,  delicately  susceptible  of  impressions  of 
beauty,  and  apt  to  dwell  upon  the  ideal  and 
spiritual.  Its  characteristics  pervade  his 
style,  which  is  pure  English,  and  has  a  cer 
tain  antique  energy  about  it,  and  an  occasional 
simple  but  deep  pathos  which  is  sure  to 
awaken  a  kindred  feeling  in  the  mind  of  the 
reader. 

— Since  this  notice  was  written,  the  re 
proach  with  which  it  opens  has  been  removed 
by  the  republication,  in  a  suitable  manner, 
of  all  Mr.  Dana's  works  that  had  been  printed 
before  1850.  We  still  have  to  look  for  the 
appearance  of  his  admirable  lectures,  the 
fruits  of  his  profoundest  studies  and  reflec 
tions,  and  perhaps  the  perfectost  flowering 
of  his  genius  and  taste. 

Mr.  Dana  resides  in  Boston,  for  the  most 
part,  during  the  winters,  and,  in  the  sum 
mers,  a  few  miles  from  the  city,  in  a  cottage 
by  the  sea ;  regarded  always,  by  as  many  as 
know  him,  with  admiration  and  the  most 
reverent  affection. 


RICHARD    H.    DANA. 


251 


KEAN'S  ACTING. 

[What  a  sad  reflection  upon  our  nature  it  is,  that  an 
amusement  so  intellectual  in  its  character,  as  seeing  a 
play  is,  and  capable  of  being  made  to  administer  so  much 
to  our  moral  siate,  should  be  so  tainted  with  impurity — 
that  the  theatre  should  be  a  place  where  congregate  the 
most  licentious  appetites  and  passions,  and  from  which 
is  breathed  out  so  foul  an  atmosphere.  Such  as  it  is,  I 
am  now  done  with  it.  I  would  sooner  forego  the  intel 
lectual  pleasure  I  might  receive  from  another  Kean, 
(were  there  ever  to  be  another  Kean,)  than  by  yielding 
to  it,  give  countenance  to  vice,  by  going  where  infecting 
and  open  corruption  sits,  side  by  side,  with  the  seemly.] 

I  HAD  scarcely  thought  of  the  theatre  for  several 
years,  when  Kean  arrived  in  this  country ;  and  it 
was  more  from  curiosity  than  from  any  other  mo 
tive,  that  I  went  to  see,  for  the  first  time,  the  great 
actor  of  the  age.  I  was  soon  lost  to  the  recollec 
tion  of  being  in  a  theatre,  or  looking  upon  a  grand 
display  of  the  "  mimic  art."  The  simplicity,  earn 
estness,  and  sincerity  of  his  acting  made  me  for 
getful  of  the  fiction,  and  bore  me  away  with  the 
power  of  reality  and  truth.  If  this  be  acting,  said 
I,  as  I  returned  home,  I  may  as  well  make  the 
theatre  my  school,  and  henceforward  study  nature 
at  second  hand. 

How  can  I  describe  one  who  is  nearly  as  versa 
tile  and  almost  as  full  of  beauties  as  nature  itself — 
who  grows  upon  us  the  more  we  are  acquainted 
with  him,  and  makes  us  sensible  that  the  first  time 
we  saw  him  in  any  part,  however  much  he  may 
have  moved  us,  we  had  but  a  vague  and  poor  ap 
prehension  of  the  many  excellencies  of  his  acting. 
We  cease  to  consider  it  as  a  mere  amusement :  It 
is  a  great  intellectual  feast ;  and  he  who  goes  to  it 
with  a  disposition  and  capacity  to  relish  it,  will 
receive  from  it  more  nourishment  for  his  mind 
than  he  would  be  likely  to  in  many  other  wajrs  in 
four-fold  the  time.  Our  faculties  are  opened  and 
enlivened  by  it;  our  reflections  and  recollections 
are  of  an  elevated  kind  ;  and  the  very  voice  which 
is  sounding  in  our  ears  long  after  we  have  left  him, 
creates  an  inward  harmony  which  is  for  our  good. 

Kean,  in  truth,  stands  very  much  in  that  rela 
tion  to  other  players  whom  we  have  seen,  that 
Shakspeare  does  to  other  dramatists.  One  player 
is  called  classical ;  another  makes  fine  points  here, 
and  another  there.  Kean  makes  more  fine  points 
than  all  of  them  together ;  but  in  him  these  are 
only  little  prominencies,  showing  their  bright  heads 
above  a  beautifully  undulated  surface.  A  constant 
change  is  going  on  in  him,  partaking  of  the  na 
ture  of  the  varying  scenes  he  is  passing  through, 
and  the  many  thoughts  and  feelings  which  are 
shifting  within  him. 

In  a  clear  autumnal  day,  we  may  see  here  and 
there  a  deep  white  cloud  shining  with  metallic 
brightness  against  a  blue  sky,  and  now  and  then 
a  dark  pine  swinging  its  top  in  the  wind  with  the 
melancholy  sound  of  the  sea ;  but  who  can  note 
the  shifting  and  untiring  play  of  the  leaves  of  the 
wood  and  their  passing  hues,  when  each  one  seems 
a  living  thing  full  of  delight,  and  vain  of  its  gaudy 
attire  1  A  sound,  too,  of  universal  harmony  is  in 
our  ears,  and  a  wide-spread  beauty  before  our  eyes, 
which  we  cannot  define ;  yet  a  joy  is  in  our  hearts. 
Our  delight  increases  in  these,  day  after  day,  the 


longer  we  give  ourselves  to  them,  till  at  last  we 
become  as  it  were  a  part  of  the  existence  without 
us.  So  it  is  with  natural  characters.  They  grow 
upon  us  imperceptibly  till  we  become  fast  bound 
up  in  them,  we  scarce  know  when  or  how.  So  it 
will  fare  with  the  actor  who  is  deeply  filled  with 
nature,  and  is  perpetually  throwing  off  her  beau 
tiful  evanescences.  Instead  of  becoming  tired  of 
him,  as  we  do,  after  a  time,  of  others,  he  will  go 
on,  giving  something  which  will  be  new  to  the 
observing  mind ;  and  will  keep  the  feelings  alive, 
because  their  action  will  be  natural.  I  have  no 
doubt  that,  excepting  those  who  go  to  a  play  as 
children  look  into  a  show-box  to  admire  and  ex 
claim  at  distorted  figures,  and  raw,  unharmonious 
colours,  there  is  no  man  of  a  moderately  warm 
temperament,  and  with  a  tolerable  share  of  insight 
into  human  nature,  who  would  not  find  his  inte 
rest  in  Kean  increasing  with  a  study  of  him.  It 
is  very  possible  that  the  excitement  would  in  some 
degree  lessen,  but  there  would  be  a  quieter  delight, 
instead  of  it,  stealing  upon  him  as  he  became  fa 
miliar  with  the  character  of  his  acting. 

The  versatility  in  his  playing  is  striking.  He 
seems  not  the  same  being,  taking  upon  him  at  one 
time  the  character  of  Richard,  at  another  that,  of 
Hamlet ;  but  the  two  characters  appear  before  you 
as  distinct  individuals,  who  had  never  known  nor 
heard  of  each  other.  So  completely  docs  he  be 
come  the  character  he  is  to  represent,  that  we  have 
sometimes  thought  it  a  reason  why  he  was  not 
universally  better  liked  here  in  Richard  ;  and  that 
because  the  player  did  not  make  himself  a  little 
more  visible,  he  must  needs  bear  a  share  of  our 
hate  toward  the  cruel  king.  And  this  may  the 
more  be  the  case,  as  his  construction  of  the  cha 
racter,  whether  right  or  wrong,  creates  in  us  an 
unmixed  dislike  of  Richard,  till  the  anguish  of  his 
mind  makes  him  the  object  of  pity ;  from  which 
moment  to  the  close,  Kean  is  allowed  to  play  the 
part  better  than  any  one  has  before  him. 

In  his  highest  wrought  passion,  when  every 
limb  and  muscle  are  alive  and  quivering,  and  his 
gestures  hurried  and  violent,  nothing  appears 
ranted  or  over-acted ;  because  he  makes  us  feel 
that,  with  all  this,  there  is  something  still  within 
him  vainly  struggling  for  utterance.  The  very 
breaking  and  harshness  of  his  voice  in  these  parts, 
though  upon  the  whole  it  were  better  otherwise, 
help  to  this  impression  upon  us,  and  make  up  in 
a  good  degree  for  the  defect. 

Though  he  is  on  the  very  verge  of  truth  in  his 
passionate  parts,  he  does  not  pass  into  extrava 
gance  ;  but  runs  along  the  dizzy  edge  of  the  roar 
ing  and  beating  sea,  with  feet  as  sure  as  we  walk 
our  parlours.  We  feel  that  he  is  safe,  for  some 
preternatural  spirit  upholds  him  as  it  hurries  him 
onward;  and  while  all  is  uptorn  and  tossing  in 
the  whirl  of  the  passions,  we  see  that  there  is  a 
power  and  order  over  the  whole. 

A  man  has  feelings  sometimes  which  can  only 
be  breathed  out;  there  is  no  utterance  for  them  in 
words.  I  had  hardly  written  this  when  the  ter 
rible  and  indistinct,  "Ha!"  with  which  Kean 
makes  Lear  hail  Cornwall  and  Regan,  as  they 


252 


RICHARD    H.    DANA. 


enter,  in  the  fourth  scene  of  the  second  act,  came 
to  my  mind.  That  cry  seemed  at  the  time  to  take 
me  up  and  sweep  me  along  in  its  wild  swell.  No 
description  in  the  world  could  give  a  tolerably  clear 
notion  of  it ;  it  must  be  formed,  as  well  as  it  may 
be,  from  what  has  just  been  said  of  its  effect. 

Kean's  playing  is  frequently  giving  instances  of 
various,  inarticulate  sounds — the  throttled  struggle 
of  rage,  and  the  choking  of  grief — the  broken  laugh 
of  extreme  suffering,  when  the  mind  is  ready  to 
deliver  itself  over  to  an  insane  joy — the  utterance 
of  over-full  love,  which  cannot,  and  would  not 
speak  in  express  words — and  that  of  bewildering 
grief,  which  blanks  all  the  faculties  of  man. 

No  other  player  whom  I  have  heard  has  at 
tempted  these,  except  now  and  then ;  and  should 
any  one  have  made  the  trial  in  the  various  ways 
in  which  Kean  gives  them,  no  doubt  he  would 
have  failed.  Kean  thrills  us  with  them  as  if  they 
were  wrung  from  him  in  his  agony.  They  have 
rio  appearance  of  study  or  artifice.  The  truth  is, 
that  the  labour  of  a  mind  of  his  genius  constitutes 
its  existence  and  delight.  It  is  not  like  the  toil  of 
ordinary  men  at  their  task -work.  What  shows 
effort  in  them,  comes  from  him  with  the  freedom 
and  force  of  nature. 

Some  object  to  the  frequent  use  of  such  sounds ; 
and  to  others  they  are  quite  shocking.  But  those 
who  permit  themselves  to  consider  that  there  are 
really  violent  passions  in  man's  nature,  and  that 
they  utter  themselves  a  little  differently  from  our 
ordinary  feelings,  understand  and  feel  their  lan 
guage,  as  they  speak  to  us  in  Kean.  Probably 
no  actor  ever  conceived  passion  with  the  intense- 
ness  and  life  that  he  does.  It  seems  to  enter  into 
him  and  possess  him,  as  evil  spirits  possessed  men 
of  old.  It  is  curious  to  observe  how  some  who 
have  sat  very  contentedly  year  after  year,  and 
called  the  face-making  which  they  have  seen  ex 
pression,  and  the  stage-stride  dignity,  and  the  noisy 
declamation,  and  all  the  rhodomontade  of  acting, 
energy  and  passion,  complain  that  Kean  is  apt  to 
be  extravagant ;  when  in  truth  he  seems  to  be 
little  more  than  a  simple  personation  of  the  feeling 
or  passion  to  be  expressed  at  the  time. 

It  has  been  so  common  a  saying,  that  Lear  is 
the  most  difficult  of  all  characters  to  personate, 
that  we  had  taken  it  for  granted  no  man  could 
play  it  so  as  to  satisfy  us.  Perhaps  it  is  the  hard 
est  to  represent.  Yet  the  part  which  has  gene 
rally  been  supposed  the  most  difficult,  the  insanity 
of  Lear,  is  scarcely  more  so  than  the  choleric  old 
king.  Inefficient  rage  is  almost  always  ridiculous ; 
and  an  old  man,  with  a  broken  down  body  and  a 
mind  falling  in  pieces  from  the  violence  of  its  un 
controlled  passions,  is  in  constant  danger  of  excit 
ing  along  with  our  pity  a  feeling  of  contempt.  It 
is  a  chance  matter  to  which  we  are  moved.  And 
this  it  is  which  makes  the  opening  of  Lear  no 
difficult 

We  may  as  well  notice  here  the  objection  which 
some  make  to  the  abrupt  violence  with  which  Kean 
begins  in  Lear.  If  this  is  a  fault,  it  is  Shakspeare, 
and  not  Kean,  who  is  to  blame.  For  we  have  no 
doub>.  that  he  has  conceived  it  according  to  his 


author.  Perhaps,  however,  the  mistake  lies  in 
this  case,  where  it  does  in  most  others — with  those 
who  put  themselves  into  the  seat  of  judgment  to 
pass  upon  greater  men. 

In  most  instances,  Shakspeare  has  given  us  the 
gradual  growth  of  a  passion  with  such  little  ac 
companiments  as  agree  with  it,  and  go  to  make 
up  the  whole  man.  In  Lear,  his  object  being  to 
represent  the  beginning  and  course  of  insanity,  he 
has  properly  enough  gone  but  a  little  back  of  it, 
and  introduced  to  us  an  old  man  of  good  feelings, 
but  one  who  had  lived  without  any  true  principle 
of  conduct,  and  whose  ungoverned  passions  had 
grown  strong  with  age,  and  were  ready,  upon  any 
disappointment,  to  make  shipwreck  of  an  intellect 
always  weak.  To  bring  this  about,  he  begins 
with  an  abruptness  rather  unusual ;  and  the  old 
king  rushes  in  before  us  with  all  his  passions  at 
their  height,  and  tearing  him  like  fiends. 

Kean  gives  this  as  soon  as  a  fit  occasion  offers 
itself.  Had  he  put  more  of  melancholy  and  de 
pression,  and  less  of  rage  into  the  character,  we 
should  have  been  very  much  puzzled  at  his  so  sud 
denly  going  mad.  It  would  have  required  the 
change  to  have  been  slower ;  and,  besides,  his  in 
sanity  must  have  been  of  another  kind.  It  must 
have  been  monotonous  and  complaining,  instead 
of  continually  varying ;  at  one  time  full  of  grief, 
at  another  playful,  and  then  wild  as  the  winds  that 
roared  about  him,  and  fiery  and  sharp  as  the  light 
ning  that  shot  by  him.  The  truth  with  which  he 
conceived  this  was  not  finer  than  his  execution  of 
it.  Not  for  an  instant,  in  his  utmost  violence,  did 
he  suffer  the  imbecility  of  the  old  man's  anger  to 
touch  upon  the  ludicrous ;  when  nothing  but  the 
most  just  conception  and  feeling  of  character  could 
have  saved  him  from  it. 

It  has  been  said  that  Lear  was  a  study  for  any 
one  who  would  make  himself  acquainted  with  the 
workings  of  an  insane  mind.  There  is  no  doubt 
of  it.  Nor  is  it  less  true,  that  the  acting  of  Kean 
was  a  complete  imbodying  of  these  workings.  His 
eye,  when  his  senses  are  first  forsaking  him,  giving 
a  questioning  look  at  what  he  saw,  as  if  all  before 
him  was  undergoing  a  strange  and  bewildering 
change  which  confused  his  brain — the  wandering, 
lost  motions  of  his  hands,  which  seemed  feeling 
for  something  familiar  to  them,  on  which  they 
might  take  hold  and  be  assured  of  a  safe  reality — 
the  under  monotone  of  his  voice,  as  if  he  was  ques 
tioning  his  own  being,  and  all  which  surrounded 
him — the  continuous,  but  slight  oscillating  motion 
of  the  body — all  these  expressed  with  fearful  truth 
the  dreamy  state  of  a  mind  fast  unsettling,  and 
making  vain  and  weak  efforts  to  fifid  its  way  back 
to  its  wonted  reason.  There  was  a  childish,  fechle 
gladness  in  the  eye,  and  a  half  piteous  smile  about 
the  mouth  at  times,  which  one  could  scarce  look 
upon  without  shedding  tears.  As  the  derange 
ment  increased  upon  him,  his  eye  lost  its  notice  of 
what  surrounded  him,  wandering  over  every  thing 
as  if  he  saw  it  not,  and  fastening  upon  the  crea 
tures  of  his  crazed  brain.  The  helpless  and  de 
lighted  fondness  with  which  he  clings  to  Edgar  p 
an  insane  brother,  is  another  instance  of  the  just 


RICHARD    H.   DANA. 


253 


ness  of  Kean's  conceptions.  Nor  does  he  lose  the 
air  of  insanity  even  in  the  fine  moralizing  parts, 
and  where  he  inveighs  against  the  corruptions 
of  the  world  :  There  is  a  madness  even  in  his 
reason. 

The  violent  and  immediate  changes  of  the  pas 
sions  in  Lear,  so  difficult  to  manage  without 
offending  us,  are  given  by  Kean  with  a  spirit  and 
with  a  fitness  to  nature  which  we  had  hardly  ima 
gined  possible.  These  are  equally  well  done  both 
before  and  after  he  loses  his  reason.  The  most 
difficult  scene,  in  this  respect,  is  the  last  interview 
between  Lear  and  his  daughters,  Goneril  and  Re 
gan — (and  how  wonderfully  does  Kean  carry  it 
through  !) — the  scene  which  ends  with  the  horrid 
shout  and  cry  with  which  he  runs  out  mad  from 
their  presence,  as  if  his  very  brain,  had  taken  fire. 

The  last  scene  which  we  are  allowed  to  have  of 
Shakspeare's  Lear,  for  the  simply  pathetic,  was 
played  by  Kean  with  unmatched  power.  We 
sink  down  helpless  under  the  oppressive  grief.  It 
lies  like  a  dead  weight  upon  our  bosoms.  We 
are  denied  even  the  relief  of  tears ;  and  are  thank 
ful  for  the  startling  shudder  that  seizes  us  when 
he  kneels  to  his  daughter  in  the  deploring  weak 
ness  of  his  crazed  grief. 

It  is  lamentable  that  Kean  should  not  be  allowed 
to  show  his  unequalled  powers  in  the  last  scene  of 
Lear,  as  Shakspeare  has  written  it ;  and  that  this 
mighty  work  of  genius  should  be  profaned  by  the 
miserable,  mawkish  sort  of  by-play  of  Edgar's  and 
Cordelia's  loves  :  Nothing  can  surpass  the  imper 
tinence  of  the  man  who  made  the  change,  but  the 
folly  of  those  who  sanctioned  it. 

When  I  began,  I  had  no  other  intention  than 
that  of  giving  a  few  general  impressions  made 
upon  me  by  Kean's  acting ;  but,  falling  accident 
ally  upon  his  Lear,  I  have  been  led  into  more  par 
ticulars  than  I  was  aware  of.  It  is  only  to  take 
these  as  some  of  the  instances  of  his  powers  in 
Lear,  and  then  to  think  of  him  as  not  inferior  in 
his  other  characters,  and  a  slight  notion  may  be 
formed  of  the  effect  of  Kean's  playing  upon  those 
who  understand  and  like  him.  Neither  this,  nor 
all  I  could  say,  would  reach  his  great  and  various 
powers. 

Kean  is  never  behind  his  author;  but  stands 
forward  the  living  representative  of  the  character 
he  has  drawn.  When  he  is  not  playing  in  Shak 
speare,  he  fills  up  where  his  author  is  wanting, 
and  when  in  Shakspeare,  he  gives  not  only  what 
is  set  down,  but  whatever  the  situation  and  cir 
cumstances  attendant  upon  the  being  he  person 
ates  would  naturally  call  forth.  He  seems,  at  the 
time,  to  have  possessed  himself  of  Shakspeare's 
imagination,  and  to  have  given  it  body  and  form. 
Read  any  scene  of  Shakspeare — for  instance,  the 
last  of  Lear  that  is  played,  and  see  how  few  words 
are  there  set  down,  and  then  remember  how  Kean 
fills  it  out  with  varied  and  multiplied  expressions 
and  circumstances,  and  the  truth  of  this  remark 
will  be  obvious  at  once.  There  are  few  men,  I 
believe,  let  them  have  studied  the  plays  of  Shaks 
peare  ever  so  attentively,  who  can  see  Kean  in 
them  without  confessing  that  he  has  helped  them 


almost  as  much  to  a  true  conception  of  the  author, 
as  their  own  labours  had  done  for  them. 

It  is  not  easy  to  say  in  what  character  Kean 
plays  best.  He  so  fits  himself  to  each  in  turn, 
that  if  the  effect  he  produces  at  one  time  is  less 
than  at  another,  it  is  because  of  some  inferiority 
in  stage-effect  in  the  character.  Othello  is  pro 
bably  the  greatest  character  for  stage-effect ;  and 
Kean  has  an  uninterrupted  power  over  us  in  play 
ing  it.  When  he  commands,  we  are  awed  ;  when 
his  face  is  all  sensitive  with  love,  and  love  thrills 
in  his  soft  tones,  all  that  our  imaginations  had  pic 
tured  to  us  is  realized.  His  jealousy,  his  hate,  his 
fixed  purposes,  are  terrific  and  deadly ;  and  the 
groans  wrung  from  him  in  his  grief  have  the  pa 
thos  and  anguish  of  Esau's  when  he  stood  before 
his  old  blind  father,  and  sent  up  "  an  exceeding 
bitter  cry." 

Again,  in  Richard,  how  does  he  hurry  forward 
to  his  object,  sweeping  away  all  between  him  and 
it !  The  world  and  its  affairs  are  nothing  to  him 
till  he  gains  his  end.  He  is  all  life,  and  action, 
and  haste — he  fills  every  part  of  the  stage,  and 
seems  to  do  all  that  is  done. 

I  have  before  said  that  his  voice  is  harsh  and 
breaking  in  his  high  tones,  in  his  rage,  but  that 
this  defect  is  of  little  consequence  in  such  places. 
Nor  is  it  well  suited  to  the  more  declamatory  parts. 
This  again  is  scarce  worth  considering ;  for  how 
very  little  is  there  of  mere  declamation  in  good 
English  plays !  But  it  is  one  of  the  finest  voices 
in  the  world  for  all  the  passions  and  feelings  which 
can  be  uttered  in  the  middle  and  lower  tones.  In 
Lear — 

"  If  you  have  poison  for  me,  I  will  drink  it." 
And  again, 

"  You  do  me  wrong  to  take  me  o'  the  grave. 
Thou  art  a  soul  in  bliss." 

Why  should  I  cite  passages?  Can  any  man 
open  upon  the  scene  in  which  these  are  contained, 
without  Kean's  piteous  looks  and  tones  being  pre 
sent  to  him]  And  does  not  the  mere  remem 
brance  of  them,  as  he  reads,  bring  tears  into  his 
eyes  ?  Yet,  once  more,  in  Othello— 

"  Had  it  pleased  heaven 
To  try  me  with  affliction,"  &c. 

In  the  passage  beginning  with — 

*•  O  now  for  ever 
Farewell  the  tranquil  mind," 

there  was  "  a  mysterious  confluence  of  sounds" 
passing  off  into  infinite  distance,  and  every  thought 
and  feeling  within  him  seemed  travelling  with  them. 

How  very  graceful  he  is  in  Othello.  It  is  not 
a  practised,  educated  grace,  but  the  "  unbought 
grace"  of  his  genius  uttering  itself  in  its  beauty 
and  grandeur  in  each  movement  of  the  outward 
man.  When  he  says  to  lago  so  touchingly, 
"  Leave  me,  leave  me,  lago,"  and  turning  from 
him,  walks  to  the  back  of  the  stage,  raising  his 
hands,  and  bringing  them  down  upon  his  head 
with-clasped  fingers,  and  stands  thus  with  his  back 
to  us,  there  is  a  grace  and  imposing  grandeur  in 
his  figure  which  we  gaze  on  with  admiration. 

Talking  of  these  things  in  Kean  is  something 
like  reading  the  "  Beauties  of  Shakspeare ;"  for  he 
Y 


254 


RICHARD    H.    DANA. 


is  as  good  in  his  subordinate  as  in  his  great  parts. 
But  he  must  be  content  to  share  with  other  men 
of  genius,  and  think  himself  fortunate  if  one  in  a 
hundred  sees  his  lesser  beauties,  and  marks  the 
truth  and  delicacy  of  his  under  playing.  For  in 
stance  ;  when  he  has  no  share  in  the  action  going 
on,  he  is  not  busy  in  putting  himself  into  attitudes 
to  draw  attention,  but  stands  or  sits  in  a  simple 
posture,  like  one  with  an  engaged  mind.  His 
countenance  is  in  a  state  of  ordinary  repose,  with 
only  a  slight,  general  expression  of  the  character 
of  his  thoughts ;  for  this  is  all  the  face  shows  when 
the  mind  is  taken  up  in  silence  with  its  own  reflec 
tions.  It  does  not  assume  marked  or  violent  ex 
pressions,  as  in  soliloquy.  When  a  man  gives 
utterance  to  his  thoughts,  though  alone,  the 
charmed  rest  of  the  body  is  broken ;  he  speaks  in 
his  gestures  too,  and  the  countenance  is  put  into 
a  sympathizing  action. 

I  was  first  struck  with  this  in  his  Hamlet ;  for 
the  deep  and  quiet  interest  so  marked  in  Hamlet, 
made  the  justness  of  Kean's  playing,  in  this  re 
spect,  the  more  obvious. 

Since  then,  I  have  observed  him  attentively, 
and  have  found  the  same  true  acting  in  his  other 
characters. 

This  right  conception  of  situation  and  its  gene 
ral  effect,  seems  to  require  almost  as  much  genius 
as  his  conceptions  of  his  characters.  He  deserves 
praise  for  it ;  for  there  is  so  much  of  the  subtilty 
of  nature  in  it,  if  I  may  so  speak,  that  while  a  very 
few  are  able  from  his  help  to  put  themselves  into 
the  situation,  and  admire  the  justness  of  his  acting 
in  it,  the  rest,  both  those  who  like  him  upon  the 
whole,  as  well  as  those  who  profess  to  see  little 
that  is  good  in  him,  will  be  very  apt  to  let  it  pass 
by  them  without  observing  it. 

Like  most  men,  however,  Kean  receives  a  par 
tial  reward,  at  least,  for  his  sacrifice  of  the  praise 
of  the  many  to  what  he  thinks  the  truth.  For 
when  he  passes  from  the  state  of  natural  repose, 
even  into  that  of  gentle  motion  and  ordinary  dis 
course,  he  is  at  once  filled  with  a  spirit  and  life 
which  he  makes  every  one  feel  who  is  not  armour 
proof  against  him.  This  helps  to  the  sparkling 
brightness  and  warmth  of  his  playing  ;  the  grand 
secret  of  which,  like  that  of  colours  in  a  picture, 
lies  in  a  just  contrast.  We  can  all  speculate  con 
cerning  the  general  rules  upon  this ;  but  when  the 
man  of  genius  gives  us  their  results,  how  few  are 
there  who  can  trace  them  out  with  an  observant 
eye,  or  look  with  a  full  pleasure  upon  the  grand 
whole.  Perhaps  this  very  beauty  in  Kean  has 
helped  to  an  opinion,  which,  no  doubt,  is  some 
times  true,  that  he  is  too  sharp  and  abrupt.  For 
I  well  remember,  while  once  looking  at  a  picture 
in  which  the  shadow  of  a  mountain  fell  in  strong 
outline  upon  a  stream,  I  overheard  some  quite 
sensible  people  expressing  their  wonder  that  the 
artist  should  have  made  the  water  of  two  colours, 
seeing  it  was  all  one  and  the  same  thing. 

Instances  of  Kean's  keeping  of  situations  were 
very  striking  in  the  opening  of  the  trial  scene  in 
the  Iron  Chest,  and  in  Hamlet  when  the  father's 
ghost  tells  the  story  of  his  death. 


The  determined  composure  to  which  he  is  bent 
up  in  the  first,  must  be  present  with  every  one 
who  saw  him.  And,  though  from  my  immediate 
purpose,  shall  I  pass  by  the  startling  and  appalling 
change,  when  madness  seized  upon  his  brain  with 
the  deadly  swiftness  and  power  of  a  fanged  mon 
ster?  Wonderfully  as  this  last  part  was  played, 
we  cannot  well  imagine  how  much  the  previous 
calm  and  the  suddenness  of  the  unlocked  for 
change  from  it  added  to  the  terror  of  the  scene. — 
The  temple  stood  fixed  on  its  foundations;  the 
earthquake  shook  it,  and  it  was  a  heap. — Is  this 
one  of  Kean's  violent  contrasts  ? 

While  Kean  listened  in  Hamlet  to  the  father's 
story,  the  entire  man  was  absorbed  in  deep  atten 
tion,  mingled  with  a  tempered  awe.  His  posture 
was  quite  simple,  with  a  slight  inclination  forward. 
The  spirit  was  the  spirit  of  his  father  whom  he 
had  loved  and  reverenced,  and  who  was  to  that 
moment  ever  present  in  his  thoughts.  The  first 
superstitious  terror  at  meeting  him  had  passed  off. 
The  account  of  his  father's  appearance  given  him 
by  Horatio  and  the  watch,  and  his  having  followed 
him  some  distance,  had  in  a  degree  familiarized 
him  to  the  sight,  and  he  stood  before  us  in  the 
stillness  of  one  who  was  to  hear,  then  or  never, 
what  was  to  be  told,  but  without  that  eager  reach 
ing  forward  which  other  players  give,  and  which 
would  be  right,  perhaps,  in  any  character  but  that 
of  Hamlet,  who  always  connects  with  the  present 
the  past  and  what  is  to  come,  and  mingles  reflec 
tion  with  his  immediate  feelings,  however  deep. 

As  an  instance  of  Kean's  familiar,  and,  if  I  may 
be  allowed  the  term,  domestic  acting,  the  first  scene 
in  the  fourth  act  of  his  Sir  Giles  Overreach  may 
be  taken.  His  manner  at  meeting  Lovcll,  and 
through  the  conversation  with  him,  the  way  in 
which  he  turns  his  chair  and  leans  upon  it,  were 
all  as  easy  and  natural  as  they  could  have  been  in 
real  life  had  Sir  Giles  been  actually  existing,  and 
engaged  at  that  moment  in  conversation  in  Lovell's 
room. 

It  is  in  these  things,  scarcely  less  than  in  the 
more  prominent  parts  of  his  playing,  that  Kean 
shows  himself  the  great  actor.  He  must  always 
make  a  deep  impression  ;  but  to  suppose  the  world 
at  large  capable  of  a  right  estimate  of  his  various 
powers,  would  be  forming  a  judgment  against 
every-day  proof.  The  gradual  manner  in  which 
the  character  of  his  playing  has  opened  upon  me, 
satisfies  me  that  in  acting,  as  in  every  thing  else, 
however  great  may  be  the  first  effect  of  genius 
upon  us,  we  come  slowly,  and  through  study,  to  a 
perception  of  its  minute  beauties  and  fine  charac 
teristics;  and  that,  after  all,  the  greater  part  of 
men  seldom  get  beyond  the  first  vague  and  gene 
ral  impression. 

As  there  must  needs  go  a  modicum  of  fault-find 
ing  along  with  commendation,  it  may  be  proper 
to  remark,  that  Kean  plays  his  hands  too  much 
at  times,  and  moves  about  the  dress  over  his  breast 
and  neck  too  frequently  in  his  hurried  and  impa 
tient  passages, — that  he  does  not  always  adhere 
with  sufficient  accuracy  to  the  received  readings 
of  Shakspeare,  and  that  the  effect  would  be  greater 


ICHARD    H.    DANA. 


255 


upon  the  whole,  were  he  to  be  more  sparing  of 
sudden  changes  from  violent  voice  and  gesticula 
tion  to  a  low  conversation  tone  and  subdued 
manner. 

His  frequent  use  of  these  in  Sir  Giles  Overreach 
is  with  great  effect,  for  Sir  Giles  is  playing  his 
part;  so,  too,  in  Lear,  for  Lear's  passions  are  gusty 
and  shifting ;  but,  in  the  main,  it  is  a  kind  of  play 
ing  too  marked  and  striking  to  bear  frequent  repe 
tition,  and  had  better  sometimes  be  spared,  where, 
considered  alone,  it  might  be  properly  enough  used 
for  the  sake  of  bringing  it  in  at  some  other  place 
with  greater  effect. 

It  is  well  to  speak  of  these^defects,  for  though 
the  little  faults  of  genius,  in  themselves  considered, 
but  slightly  affect  those  who  can  enter  into  its  true 
character,  yet  such  persons  are  made  impatient  at 
the  thought  that  an  opportunity  is  given  those  to 
carp  who  know  not  how  to  commend. 

Though  I  have  taken  up  a  good  deal  of  room,  I 
must  end  without  speaking  of  many  things  which 
occur  to  me.  Some  will  be  of  the  opinion  that  I 
have  already  said  enough.  Thinking  of  Kean  as 
I  do,  I  could  not  honestly  have  said  less ;  for  I 
hold  it  to  be  a  low  and  wicked  thing  to  keep  back 
from  merit  of  any  kind  its  due, — and,  with  Steele, 
that  "there  is  something  wonderful  in  the  narrow 
ness  of  those  minds  which  can  be  pleased,  and  be 
barren  of  bounty  to  those  who  please  them." 

Although  the  self-important,  out  of  self-concern, 
give  praise  sparingly,  and  the  mean  measure  theirs 
by  their  likings  or  dislikings  of  a  man,  and  the 
good  even  are  often  slow  to  allow  the  talents  of 
the  faulty  their  due,  lest  they  bring  the  evil  into 
repute,  yet  it  is  the  wiser  as  well  as  the  honester 
course,  not  to  take  away  from  an  excellence  be 
cause  it  neighbours  upon  a  fault,  nor  to  disparage 
another  with  a  view  to  our  own  name,  nor  to  rest 
our  character  for  discernment  upon  the  promptings 
of  an  unkind  heart.  Where  God  has  not  feared 
to  bestow  great  powers,  we  may  not  fear  giving 
them  their  due ;  nor  need  we  be  parsimonious  of 
commendation,  as  if  there  were  but  a  certain  quan 
tity  for  distribution,  and  our  liberality  would  be  to 
our  loss;  nor  should  we  hold  it  safe  to  detract 
from  another's  merit,  as  if  we  could  always  keep 
the  world  blind ;  lest  we  live  to  see  him  whom  we 
disparaged  praised,  and  whom  we  hated  loved. 

Whatever  be  his  failings,  give  every  man  a  full 
and  ready  commendation  for  that  in  which  he  ex 
cels  ;  it  will  do  good  to  our  own  hearts,  while  it 
cheers  his.  Nor  will  it  bring  our  judgment  into 
question  with  the  discerning ;  for  strong  enthusi 
asm  for  what  is  great  docs  not  argue  such  an  un 
happy  want  of  discrimination,  as  that  measured 
and  cold  approval  which  is  bestowed  alike  upon 
men  of  mediocrity,  and  upon  those  of  gifted  minds. 

CHILDREN. 

FROM   DOMESTIC   LIFE. 


"  HEAVEX  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy,"  says 
Wordsworth.  And  who  of  us  that  is  not  too  good 
to  be  conscious  of  his  own  vices,  who  has  not  felt 
rebuked  and  humbled  under  the  clear  and  open 


countenance  of  a  child  ? — who  that  has  not  felt  his 
impurities  foul  upon  him  in  the  presence  of  a  sin 
less  child  ]  These  feelings  make  the  best  lesson 
that  can  be  taught  a  man ;  and  tell  him  in  a  way, 
which  all  else  he  has  read  or  heard  never  could, 
how  paltry  is  all  the  show  of  intellect  compared 
with  a  pure  and  good  heart.  He  that  will  humble 
himself  and  go  to  a  child  for  instruction,  will  come 
away  a  wiser  man. 

If  children  can  make  us  wiser,  they  surely  can 
make  us  better.  There  is  no  .one  more  to  be  en 
vied  than  a  goodnatured  man  watching  the  work 
ings  of  children's  minds,  or  overlooking  their  play 
Their  eagerness,  curious  about  every  thing,  mak 
ing  out  by  a  quick  imagination  what  they  see  bu 
a  part  of — their  fanciful  combinations  and  magic 
inventions,  creating  out  of  ordinary  circumstances 
and  the  common  things  which  surround  them, 
strange  events  and  little  ideal  worlds,  and  these 
all  working  in  mystery  to  form  matured  thought, 
is  study  enough  for  the  most  acute  minds,  and 
should  teach  us,  also,  not  too  officiously  to  regu 
late  what  we  so  little  understand.  The  still  mus 
ing  and  deep  abstraction  in  which  they  sometimes 
sit,  affect  us  as  a  playful  mockery  of  older  heads. 
These  little  philosophers  have  no  foolish  system, 
with  all  its  pride  and  jargon,  confusing  their  brains. 
Theirs  is  the  natural  movement  of  the  soul,  in 
tense  with  new  life  and  busy  after  truth,  working 
to  some  purpose,  though  without  a  noise. 

When  children  are  lying  about  seemingly  idle 
and  dull,  we,  who  have  become  case-hardened  by 
time  and  satiety,  forget  that  they  are  all  sensation, 
that  their  outstretched  bodies  are  drinking  in  from 
the  common  sun  and  air,  that  every  sound  is  taken 
note  of  by  the  ear,  that  every  floating  shadow  and 
passing  form  come  and  touch  at  the  sleepy  eye, 
and  that  the  little  circumstances  and  the  material 
world  about  them  make  their  best  school,  and  will 
be  the  instructors  and  formers  of  their  characters 
for  life. 

And  it  is  delightful  to  look  on  and  see  how 
busily  the  whole  acts,  with  its  countless  parts  fitted 
to  each  other,  and  moving  in  harmony.  There 
are  none  of  us  who  have  stolen  softly  behind  a 
child  when  labouring  in  a  sunny  corner  digging  a 
lilliputian  well,  or  fencing  in  a  six-inch  barn-yard, 
and  listened  to  his  soliloquies  and  his  dialogues 
with  some  imaginary  being,  without  our  hearts  be 
ing  touched  by  it.  Nor  have  we  observed  the 
flush  which  crossed  his  face  when  finding  himself 
betrayed,  without  seeing  in  it  the  delicacy  and 
propriety  of  the  after  man. 

A  man  may  have  many  vices  upon  him,  and 
have  walked  long  in  a  bad  course,  yet  if  he  has  a 
love  of  children,  and  can  take  pleasure  in  their 
talk  and  play,  there  is  something  still  left  in  him 
to  act  upon — something  which  can  love  simplicity 
and  truth.  I  have  seen  one  in  whom  some  low 
vice  had  become  a  habit,  make  himself  the  play 
thing  of  a  set  of  riotous  children  with  as  much  de 
light  in  his  countenance  as  if  nothing  but  goodness 
had  ever  been  expressed  in  it ;  and  have  felt  as 
much  of  kindness  and  sympathy  toward  him  as  I 
have  of  revolting  toward  another  who  has  gone 


256 


RICHARD    H.    DANA. 


through  life  with  all  due  propriety,  with  a  cold 
and  supercilious  bearing  toward  children,  which 
makes  them  shrinking:  and  still.  I  have  known 
one  like  the  latter  attempt,  with  uncouth  conde 
scension,  to  court  an  open-hearted  child  who  would 
draw  back  with  an  instinctive  aversion ;  and  I 
have  felt  as  if  there  were  a  curse  upon  him.  Bet 
ter  to  be  driven  out  from  among  men  than  to  be 
disliked  of  children. 


THE  MURDER. 

PROM     PAUL     FELTON. 

PAUL  drew  near  the  house  and  watched  till  the 
last  light  was  put  out. — "  The  innocent  and  guilty 
both  sleep,  all  but  Paul !  Not  even  the  grave 
will  be  a  resting-place  for  me !  They  hunt  and 
drive  me  to  the  deed;  and  when  'tis  done,  will 
snatch  the  abhorred  soul  to  fires  and  tortures. 
Why  should  I  rest  more?  The  bosom  I  slept 
sweetly  on — blissful  dreams  stealing  over  me — the 
bosom  that  to  my  delighted  soul  seemed  all  fond 
and  faithful — why,  what  harboured  in  it  1  Lust 
and  deceit,  and  sly,  plotting  thoughts,'  showing 
love  where  they  most  loathed.  They  stung  me, — 
ay,  in  my  sleep,  crept  out  upon  me  and  stung  me, 
— poisoned  my  very  soul — hot,  burning  poisons ! 
— Peace,  peace,  your  promptings,  Ye  that  put  me 
to  this  deed, — drive  me  not  mad !  Am  I  not 
about  it?" 

He  walked  up  cautiously  to  the  door,  and  taking 
a  key  from  his  pocket  unlocked  it  and  went  in. 
There  was  now  a  suspense  of  all  feeling  in  him. 
He  entered  the  parlour.  His  wife's  shawl  was 
hanging  on  the  back  of  a  chair ;  books  in  which 
he  had  read  to  her  were  lying  on  the  table,  and 
her  work-table  near  it  open.  His  eye  passed  over 
them,  but  there  was  no  emotion.  He  left  the 
room  and  ascended  the  stairs  with  a  slow,  soft 
step,  stealing  through  his  own  house  cautiously  as 
a  thief.  He  unlocked  the  door  of  his  dressing- 
room,  and  passed  on  without,  noticing  any  part  of 
it.  His  hand  shook  as  he  partly  opened  his  wife's 
chamber-door.  He  listened — all  was  still.  He 
cast  his  eye  round,  then  entered  and  shut  the  door 
after  him.  He  walked  up  by  the  side  of  her  bed 
without  turning  his  eyes  toward  it,  and  seated 
himself  down  upon  it  by  her.  Then  it  was  he 
dared  to  look  on  her,  as  she  lay  in  all  ker  beauty, 
wrapt  in  a  sleep  so  gentle  he  could  not  hear  her 
breathing.  She  looked  as  if  an  angel  talked  with 
her  in  her  dreams.  Her  dark,  glossy  hair  had 
fallen  over  her  bright  fair  neck  and  bosom,  and 
the  moonlight,  striking  through  it,  pencilled  it  in 
beautiful  thready  shadows  on  her. 

Paul  sat  for  awhile  with  folded  arms,  looking 
down  on  her.  His  eye  moved  not,  and  in  his  dark 
face  was  the  unchanging  hardness  of  stone.  His 
mind  appeared  elsewhere.  There  was  no  longer 
feeling  in  him.  He  seemed  waiting  the  order  of 
some  stern  power.  The  command  at  last  came. 
He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  heart  and  felt  its  regu 
lar  beat;  then  drew  the  knife  from  his  bosom. 


Once  more  he  laid  his  hand  upon  her  heart ;  then 
put  the  point  there.  He  pressed  his  eyes  close 
with  one  hand,  and  the  knife  sunk  to  the  handle. 
There  was  a  convulsive  start  and  a  groan.  He 
looked  on  her.  A  slight  flutter  passed  over  her 
frame,  and  her  filmy  eyes  opened  on  him  once ; 
but  he  looked  as  senseless  as  the  body  that  lay 
before  him.  The  moon  shone  fully  on  the  ccrpso, 
and  on  him  that  sat  by  it ;  and  the  silent  ni<rbt 
went  on.  By  and  by,  up  came  the  sun  in  the  hot 
flushed  sky,  and  sent  his  rays  over  them.  Paul 
moved  not,  nor  heeded  the  change.  There  was 
no  noise  nor  motion — there  were  they  two  toge 
ther,  like  two  of  th%e  dead. 

At  last  Esther's  attendant,  entering  suddenly, 
saw  the  gloomy  figure  of  Paul  before  her.  She 
ran  out  with  a  cry  of  terror,  and  in  a  moment  the 
room  was  filled  with  servants.  The  old  man 
came  in  trembling  and  weak ;  no  tear  was  wrung 
from  him,  nor  a  groan.  He  bowed  his  head  as 
saying,  It  is  done. 

The  alarm  was  given,  and  Frank,  with  the 
neighbours,  went  up  to  the  chamber.  Though 
the  room  was  nearly  full,  not  a  sound  was  heard. 
The  stillness  seemed  to  spread  from  Paul  and  the 
dead  over  them  all.  Frank  and  some  others  came 
near  him  and  stood  before  him ;  but  he  continued 
looking  on  his  wife,  as  he  sat  with  his  crossed 
hands  resting  on  his  thigh ;  while  the  one  which 
had  done  the  murder  still  held  the  bloody  knife. 

No  one  moved.  At  last  they  looked  at  each 
other,  and  one  of  them  took  Paul  by  the  wrist. 
He  turned  his  slow,  heavy  eye  on  them,  as  if  ask 
ing  who  they  were,  and  what  they  wanted.  They 
instinctively  shrunk  back,  letting  go  their  hold, 
and  his  arm  fell  like  a  dead  man's. 

There  was  a  movement  near  the  door ;  and  pre 
sently  Abel  stood  directly  before  Paul,  his  hands 
drawn  between  his  knees,  nis  body  distorted  and 
writhing  as  with  pain.  .  .  .  There  was  a  gleam  and 
glitter,  and  something  of  a  laugh  and  anguish,  too, 
in  his  crazed  eye,  as  it  flitted  back  and  forth  from 
Esther  to  Paul.  At  last  Paul  glanced  upon  him. 
At  the  sight  of  Abel  he  gave  a  shuddering  start 
that  shook  the  room.  He  looked  once  more  on 
his  wife ;  his  hair  rose  up,  and  his  eyes  became 
wild. — "  Esther  !"  he  gasped  out,  tossing  up  his 
arms  as  he  threw  himself  forward.  He  struck  the 
bed  and  fell  to  the  floor.  Abel  looked  and  saw 
his  face  black  with  the  rush  of  blood  to  the  head ; 
then  giving  a  leap  at  which  he  nearly  touched  the 
ceiling,  with  a  deafening  shriek  that  wrung  through 
the  house,  darted  out  of  the  chamber,  and,  at  a 
spring,  reached  the  outer  door. 

They  felt  of  Paul.— Life  had  left  him. 

Frank  took  the  father  from  the  room.  Prepara 
tions  were  hastily  made ;  and  about  the  close  of 
the  day  Esther's  body,  followed  by  a  few  neigh 
bours  and  friends,  was  carried  to  the  grave.  The 
grave-yard  was  not  far  from  the  foot  of  the  stony 
ridge.  As  they  drew  near  it,  the  sun  was  just 
going  down,  and  the  sky  clear,  and  of  a  bright 
warm  glow.  Presently  a  figure  was  seen  running 
and  darting  in  crossing  movements  along  the  top 
of  the  ridge,  leaping  from  point  to  point  more  like 


RICHARD    H.   DANA. 


257 


a  creature  of  the  air  than  of  the  earth,  for  it  hardly 
seemed  to  touch  on  any  thing.  It  was  mad  Abel. 
So  swift  and  shooting  were  his  motions,  and  so 
quickly  did  he  leap  and  dance  to  and  fro,  that  it 
appeared  to  the  dazzled  eye  as  if  there  were  hun 
dreds  holding  their  hellish  revels  in  the  air ;  and 
now  arid  then  a  wild  laugh  reached  the  mourners, 
that  seemed  to  come  out  from  the  still  sky.  When 
it  was  night,  the  men  who  had  made  Paul's  grave 
a  little  without  the  consecrated  ground  came  to  the 
house,  and  taking  up  the  body  moved  off  toward 
the  place  in  which  they  were  to  lay  it. — No  bell 
tolled  for  the  departed ;  no  one  followed  to  mourn 
over  him,  as  he  was  laid  in  the  ground  away  from 
man,  or  to  hear  the  earth  fall  on  his  coffin — that 
sound  which  makes  us  feel  as  if  our  living  bodies, 
too,  were  crumbling  into  dust. 

It  had  been  a  chilly  night ;  and  while  the  frost 
was  yet  heavy  on  the  grass,  some  of  the  neighbours 
went  to  wonder  and  moralize  over  Paul's  grave. 
There  appeared  something  singular  upon  it.  They 
ventured  timidly  on,  and  found  lying  across  it 
poor  Abel.  He  was  apparently  dead ;  and  some 
of  the  boldest  took  hold  of  him.  He  opened  his 
eyes  a  little  and  uttered  a  faint,  weak  cry.  They 
dropped  their  hold ;  his  limbs  quivered  and  stretched 
out  rigid — then  relaxed.  His  breath  came  once, 
broken  and  quick — it  was  his  last. 


LOVE. 

FROM    EDWARD   AND    MART. 

To  love  deeply  and  to  believe  our  love  returned, 
and  yet  to  be  sensible  that  we  should  not  make 
our  love  known,  is  one  of  the  hardest  trials  a  man 
can  undergo.  It  asks  the  more  of  us,  because  the 
passion  is  the  most  secret  in  our  natures.  All 
sympathy  is  distasteful  except  that  of  one  being, 
and  that,  in  such  a  case,  we  must  deny  ourselves. 
In  our  sorrow  at  the  loss  of  friends,  if  we  shun 
direct  and  proffered  consolations,  we  love  the  as- 
suagings  which  another's  pity  administers  to  us 
in  the  gentle  tones,  mild  manners,  kind  looks,  and 
nameless  little  notices  which  happen  in  the  num 
berless  affairs  of  daily  life.  But  the  man  that 
loves  is  unhappy,  starts  at  a  soothing  voice  as  if 
he  were  betrayed;  eyes  turned  in  affectionate  re 
gard  upon  him,  seem  to  search  his  heart ;  his  way 
is  not  in  the  path  of  other  men,  and  his  suffering 
must  be  borne  unseen  and  alone. 

This  severance  from  the  world,  this  desertion  of 
intercourse  with  man,  gives  a  bitterness  to  grief 
greater  than  any  evil  life  shares  in,  and  yet  here 
we  drink  it  of  ourselves ;  we  make  our  own  soli 
tude,  root  up  the  flowers  in  it,  and  watch  them  as 
they  wither ;  we  lay  it  bare  of  beauty  and  make 
it  empty  of  life,  and  then  feel  as  if  others  had 
spoiled  us  and  left  us  to  perish.  Relief  from  trou 
bles  may  be  found  in  society  and  employment; 
but  unprosperous  love  goes  everywhere  with  a 
man ;  his  thoughts  are  for  ever  upon  it ;  it  is  in 
him  and  around  him  like  the  air,  breaking  his 
night-rest,  and  causing  him  to  hide  himself  from 
33 


the  morning  light.  The  music  of  the  open  sky 
sings  a  dirge  over  his  joys,  and  the  strong  trees  of 
the  forest  droop  over  the  grave  of  all  he  held  dear. 
Thwarted  love  is  more  romantic  than  even  that 
which  is  blessed  ;  the  imagination  grows  forgetive, 
and  the  mind  idles,  in  its  melancholy,  among  fan 
tastic  shapes ;  all  it  hears  or  sees  is  turned  to  its 
own  uses,  taking  new  forms  and  new  relations, 
and  multiplying  without  end  ;  and  it  wanders  off 
amongst  its  own  creations,  which  crowd  thicker 
round  it  the  farther  it  goes,  till  it  loses  sight  of  the 
world  and  becomes  bewildered  in  the  many  and 
uneven  paths  that  itself  had  trodden  out. 


IDEAL  CHARACTER  OF  A  TRUE  LIFE. 

FROM    MUSINGS. 

To  the  man  of  fine  feeling  and  deep  and  delicate 
and  creative  thought,  there  is  nothing  in  nature 
which  appears  only  as  so  much  substance  and 
form,  nor  any  connections  in  life  which  do  not 
reach  beyond  their  immediate  and  obvious  pur 
poses.  Our  attachments  to  each  other  are  not  felt 
by  him  merely  as  habits  of  the  mind  given  to  it  by 
the  customs  of  life ;  nor  does  he  hold  them  to  be 
only  as  the  goods  of  this  world,  and  the  loss  of 
them  as  merely  turning  him  forth  an  outcast  from 
the  social  state ;  but  they  are  a  part  of  his  joyous 
being,  and  to  have  them  torn  from  him,  is  taking 
from  his  very  nature. 

Life,  indeed,  with  him,  in  all  its  connections  and 
concerns,  has  an  ideal  and  spiritual  character, 
which,  while  it  loses  nothing  of  the  definitencss 
of  reality,  is  for  ever  suggesting  thoughts,  taking 
new  relations,  and  peopling  and  giving  action  to 
the  imagination.  All  that  the  eye  falls  upon  and 
all  that  touches  the  heart,  run  off  into  airy  distance, 
and  the  regions  into  which  the  sight  stretches  are 
alive  and  bright  and  beautiful  with  countless  shap 
ings  and  fair  hues  of  the  gladdened  fancy.  From 
kind  acts  and  gentle  words  and  fond  looks  there 
spring  hosts  many  and  glorious  as  Milton's  angels; 
and  heavenly  deeds  are  done,  and  unearthly  voices 
heard,  and  forms  and  faces,  graceful  and  lovely  as 
Uriel's,  are  seen  in  the  noonday  sun.  What 
would  only  have  given  pleasure  for  the  time  to 
another,  or,  at  most,  be  now  and  then  called  up  in 
his  memory,  in  the  man  of  feeling  and  imagina 
tion,  lays  by  its  particular  and  short-lived  and 
irregular  nature,  and  puts  on  the  garments  of  spi 
ritual  beings,  and  takes  the  everlasting  nature  of 
the  soul.  The  ordinary  acts  which  spring  from 
the  good  will  of  social  life,  take  up  their  dwelling 
within  him  and  mingle  with  his  sentiment,  form 
ing  a  little  society  in  his  mind,  going  on  in  har 
mony  with  its  generous  enterprises,  its  friendly 
labours,  and  tasteful  pursuits.  They  undergo  a 
change,  becoming  a  portion  of  him,  making  a  part 
of  his  secret  joy  and  melancholy,  and  wandering 
at  large  among  his  far-off  thoughts.  All  that  his 
mind  falls  in  with,  it  sweeps  along  in  its  deep  and 
swift  and  continuous  flow,  and  bears  onward  with 
the  multitude  that  fills  its  shoreless  and  living  sea. 

Y2 


RICHARD  HENRY   WILDE. 


[Born  1789.  Died  1847.] 


THE  youth  of  Mr.  Wilde  was  passed  in  Bal 
timore,  where  his  father,  who  had  emigrated 
from  Dublin  near  the  close  of  the  American 
revolution,  was  engaged  in  commerce,  until 
his  death,  which  occurred  in  1801.  By  the 
mismanagement  of  a  partner  in  Dublin  he  had 
lost  nearly  all  his  property,  and  his  widow  with 
her  children,  in  1803,  removed  to  Augusta, 
Georgia,  where  under  various  disadvantages 
our  author  acquired  a  gentlemanly  education, 
and  laid  the  basis  of  his  high  professional  re 
putation. 

Unable,  in  consequence  of  the  reduced  cir 
cumstances  of  his  family,  to  pay  the  customary 
fees  for  instruction,  but  determined  neverthe 
less  to  study  the  law,  he  secretly  borrowed  a 
few  elementary  books  from  his  friends,  and 
while  attending  to  business  in  his  mother's 
store,  tasked  himself  every  day  to  read  fifty 
pages  and  write  five  pages  of  notes ;  and  to 
overcome  a  natural  diffidence,  increased  by  a 
slight  impediment  in  his  speech,  he  became  a 
member  of  a  dramatic  society  and  frequently 
appeared  as  an  actor,  ffbm  which  his  older  ac 
quaintances,  ignorant  of  his  designs,  argued 
badly  of  his  future  life.  He  bore  their  injus 
tice  in  silence,  and  at  the  end  of  a  year  and  a 
half,  pale,  emaciated,  feeble,  and  with  a  con 
sumptive  cough,  sought  a  distant  court  to  be 
examined,  that,  if  rejected,  the  news  of  his 
defeat  might  not  reach  his  mother.  Upon 
his  arrival,  he  found  he  had  been  wrongly  in 
formed,  and  that  the  judges  had  no  power  to 
admit  him.  He  met  a  friend  there,  however, 
who  was  going  to  the  Greene  Superior  Court, 
and,  on  being  invited  by  him  to  do  so,  deter 
mined  to  proceed  immediately  to  that  place. 
It  was  the  March  term  for  1809,  Judge  Early 
presiding;  and  the  young  applicant,  totally 
unknown  to  every  one,  save  the  friend  who 
accompanied  him,  was  at  intervals,  during 
three  days,  subjected  to  a  most  rigorous  ex 
amination.  Judge  Early  was  well  known 
for  his  strictness,  and  the  circumstances  of  a 
youth  leaving  his  own  circuit  excited  his  sus 
picion;  but  every  question  was  answered  to 
the  satisfaction  and  even  admiration  of  the  ex- 


amining  committee,  and  he  declared  that "  the 
young  man  could  not  have  left  his  circuit  be 
cause  he  was  unprepared."  His  friend  certi 
fied  to  the  correctness  of  his  moral  character, 
and  he  was  admitted  without  a  dissenting  voice, 
and  returned  in  triumph  to  Augusta.  He  was 
at  this  time  under  twenty  years  of  age. 

His  health  improved,  but  at  the  same  time 
the  small  profits  from  his  profession  ceased, 
for  the  courts  of  law  were  closed  by  an  act 
of  the  legislature  on  account  of  the  general 
distress  of  the  country.  Though  clearly  im 
pairing  the  obligation  of  contracts,  and  there 
fore  unconstitutional,  this  statute,  familiarly 
called  the  Alleviating  Law,  was  a  great  fa 
vourite  with  the  debtor  class,  then  a  large  ma 
jority  of  the  people  of  Georgia,  and  was  con 
tinued  with  various  modifications  for  several 
years,  with  certain  exceptions,  such  as  crimi 
nal  process  against  absconding  debtors,  &c. 
At  this  time  in  that  part  of  the  country  the 
principles  of  constitutional  law  were  little  un 
derstood.  Even  the  right  of  the  judiciary  to 
declare  a  law  unconstitutional  was  vehement 
ly  denied  by  many  of  the  most  distinguished 
politicians.  The  contrary  doctrine  was  fierce 
ly  denounced  on  all  sides  as  a  dangerous  usur 
pation.  War  had  added  its  calamities.  Many 
of  the  militia  were  in  the  field,  and  the  neces 
sity  of  protecting  their  property  from  the  gripe 
of  avaricious  creditors  was  added  to  all  the 
other  pleas  of  overruling  necessity.  Unawed 
by  popular  clamour,  convinced  of  the  injus 
tice,  impolicy  and  unconstitutionality  of  the 
law,  and  urged  by  some  clients  to  make 
the  point  at  whatever  personal  hazard,  Mr. 
Wilde  brought  up  the  question  at  two  differ 
ent  circuits,  argued  it  before  the  courts,  and 
printed  his  argument  for  the  public  at  his  own 
expense.  Though  unnecessarily  diffuse,  and 
embracing  numerous  authorities  from  the  laws 
of  nature  and  nations,  which  a  court  under 
such  circumstances  could  not  adopt  as  rules 
of  decision,  this  argument  embraces  the  con 
stitutional  grounds  since  recognised  by  the 
highest  tribunal  of  the  Union,  and  illustrates 
on  principles  of  natural  justice  the  iniquity 


RICHARD    HENRY    WILDE. 


259 


and  impolicy  of  legislative  interference  with 
private  contracts.  The  judges  held  the  cases 
under  advisement,  and  in  the  mean  time  the  act 
expired.  The  legislature  renewed  it,  but  Judge 
Early  was  now  governor,  and  that  able  and 
upright  lawyer  interposed  his  veto  on  consti 
tutional  grounds.  The  judges  also  assembled 
and  declared  the  law  unconstitutional.  Both 
were  violently  denounced,  but  the  storm  was 
in  part  allayed  by  the  news  of  peace.  The 
judges  of  Georgia  are  elected  every  third  year, 
and,  at  the  next  election,  those  at  this  time 
in  office  were  all  but  one  turned  out.  Mr. 
Wilde's  argument,  however,  won  him  repu 
tation  as  a  lawyer,  and  he  lost  less  of  the  es 
teem  and  respect  of  his  fellow  citizens  by  his 
fearless  discharge  of  professional  duty  than  his 
best  friends  had  predicted.  He  was  shortly  af 
terward  elected  Attorney-General  of  the  state. 

While  receiving  these  honours  his  life  was 
embittered  by  the  loss  of  his  younger  brother, 
James  Wilde,  an  officer  of  the  army  of  the 
United  States  who  had  served  in  the  first 
campaign  against  the  Florida  Indians,  and  for 
whom,  during  their  familiar  correspondence,  a 
poem  had  been  projected,  in  honour  of  his  and 
his  companion's  exploits.  This  was  the  ori 
gin  of  the  song,  since  so  well  known,  entitled 
The  Lament  of  the  Captive.*  James  Wilde, 
from  the  moment  of  obtaining  his  commission, 
had  shared  with  his  brother  the  expense  of 
maintaining  his  mother  and  sisters,  by  whom 
he  was  tenderly  loved.  He  was  shot  through 
the  heart  in  a  duel,  but  a  few  days  before  he 
had  promised  his  family  a  visit.  The  manner 
and  suddenness  of  his  death  overcame  his  mo 
ther's  fortitude.  She  lingered  some  months, 
but  never  recovered  from  the  shock. 

In  1815,  when  but  a  fortnight  over  the  age 
required  by  law,  Mr.  Wilde  was  chosen  a 
member  of  the  national  House  of  Represent 
atives,  but  at  the  next  election  being- defeated, 
with  all  but  one  of  his  colleagues,  he  returned 
to  the  bar,  at  which  he  remained,  except  during 
a  short  service  in  the  same  body  in  1825,  until 
1828,  when  he  again  became  a  representative, 
and  so  continued  until  1835.  In  Congress  he 

*This  beautiful  song,  commencing,  "  My  life  is  like 
the  summer  rose,"  is  printed  in  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of 
America,  eighth  edition,  p.  108.  The  statement  of  Captain 
Basil  Hall  that  it  was  written  in  Germany,  of  others  that 
it  was  by  an  Irish  poet,  and  of  a  third  party  that  it  was 
from  the  Greek  of  Alcaeus,  gave  rise  to  an  amusing  con 
troversy,  in  which,  I  scarcely  need  state,  its  originality 
and  Mr  Wilde's  authorship  of  it  were  established. 


seldom  spoke,  and  scarcely  ever  without  hav 
ing  thoroughly  reflected  on  his  subject :  rarely 
addressed  himself  to  passion  or  party  preju 
dice,  or  argued  ad  captandum.  When  called 
upon  by  the  necessity  of  the  case  to  reply  to  per 
sonal  attacks,  his  retorts  were  good  humoured, 
though  often  pungent  enough  to  be  well  re 
membered  by  his  antagonists.  He  cultivated 
none  of  the  arts  of  conciliation,  and  was  there 
fore  rather  respected  than  popular.*  He  was 
never  a  warm  partisan,  because,  as  he  himself 
said, -he  had  "found  no  party  which  did  not 
require  of  its  followers  what  no  honest  man 
should,  and  no  gentleman  would  do."  His 
speeches  on  the  relative  advantages  and  disad 
vantages  of  a  Small  Note  Currency,  on  the 
Tariff,  and  on  the  Removal  of  the  Deposits 
by  General  Jackson,  bear  witness  to  his  in 
dustry  and  sagacity  as  a  politician,  and  his 
honesty  can  hardly  be  questioned,  even  upon 
his  own  caustic  rule,  since  he  "  gained  no 
thing  by  it."f 

Having  seceded  from  a  majority  of  Congress 
on  occasion  of  the  Force  Bill,  which  he  thought 
a  measure  calculated  to  produce  civil  war,  and 
voted  upon  other  questions  with  the  opposi 
tion  to  President  Jackson's  administration,  at 
the  election  of  1834  he  was  left  out  of  the 
Georgia  delegation.  This  afforded  him  an  op 
portunity  he  had  long  desired  of  going  abroad, 
and  in  June,  1835,  he  sailed  for  Europe.  He 
spent  two  years  in  travelling  through  Eng 
land,  France,  Belgium,  Switzerland  and  Italy,  / 
and  remained  three  years  more  in  Florence, 
where  he  occupied  himself  entirely  with  lite 
rature. 

The  principal  fruit  of  his  studies  nere  that 
has  been  given  to  the  public  is  his  Conjectures 
and  Researches  concerning  the  Love,  Madness, 
and  Imprisonment  of  Torquato  Tasso,  which 
was  published  in  two  volumes,  in  New  York, 
in  1842.  This  is  a  work  of  extraordinary' 
merit,  and  of  great  interest  to  all  lovers  of  lite 
rary  history.  The  subject,  it  need  hardly  be 
stated,  had  long  been  involved  in  mystery ; 
but  few  facts  had  been  established ;  and  no 
two  persons  seemed  to  agree  as  to  the  conclu 
sions  to  be  drawn  from  the  little  that  could  be 
ascertained.  Mr.  Wilde  collected  his  mate- 


*The  standing  of  Mr.  Wilde  in  the  House  is  indicated 
by  the  following  vote  for  Speaker  in  1&34,— Wilde,  64 ; 
Polk,(now  President  of  the  United  States,)  42 ;  Sutherland, 
34 ;  Bell,  30 ;  others,  32.  Finally  Mr.  Bell  was  chosen. 

t  Speech  on  the  Force  Bill. 


260 


RICHARD    HENRY    WILDE. 


rials  with  a  patient  industry  only  surpassed  by 
the  clear  and  luminous  manner  in  which  he 
lays  the  whole  evidence  before  the  reader,  and 
by  the  ingenuity  with  which  he  makes  his 
deductions.  The  whole  investigation  indeed 
is  conducted  with  the  care  and  skill  of  a  prac 
tised  lawyer.  The  title  of  the  work  is  per 
fectly  descriptive  of  its  contents  ;  for  starting 
with  no  theory,  assuming  nothing,  nor  seek 
ing  to  establish  any  preconceived  opinion, 
Mr.  Wilde  has  been  content  to  bring  together 
all  the  facts  bearing  on  the  points  at  issue,  to 
indicate  very  ably  all  the  deductions  that  may 
be  made  from  them,  and  there  to  leave  the 
reader,  fairly  in  possession  of  the  case,  to  judge 
for  himself,  and  form  his  own  opinion.  This 
plan  is  original  and  proves  the  writer's  hones 
ty  and  candour,  but  most  persons  would  have 
been  better  satisfied  if  he  had  indicated  clearly 
what  he  wished  to  prove,  and  gone  on,  step 
by  step,  to  prove  it.  By  a  close  compari- 

|  son  of  Tasso's  writings,  especially  his  son 
nets  and  canzone^  and  a  searching  cross-exa 
mination  of  their  hidden  meanings,  he  con 
vinces  us  that  Tasso  was  really  in  love  with 
Leonora  of  Este,  and  that  she  was  the  person 
to  whom  he  addressed  his  amatory  poems ; 
that  this  princess  granted  to  him  all  that  vir 
tue  should  have  denied,  and  that  he  wrote  pri 
vate  pieces  of  poetry  proclaiming  the  fact, 
which  were  stolen  by  a  traitorous  friend  ;  that 
fearing  his  amour  had  been  revealed  to  the 
duke  Alphonso,  he  fled  to  Sorrento,  but  his 
passion  for  the  princess  overcoming  his  fears, 
returned  to  Ferrara,  where  the  duke,  having 
been  made  acquainted  with  all  the  circum 
stances,  instead  of  putting  the  parties  to  death 
and  thus  blazoning  the  dishonour  of  his  house, 
attempted  to  throw  discredit  upon  the  whole 
affair  by  compelling  Tasso  to  feign  madness 
and  lead  a  dissolute  life ;  that  the  poet  for  a 
time  complied  with  these  conditions,  but  at 
length  escaped  to  Turin,  whence,  urged  by  his 
extreme  passion,  he  returned,  with  permission, 
professing  himself  cured  of  his  malady,  and 
was  ultimately,  upon  his  bursting  out  into 
some  public  paroxysm  of  rage  at  the  treatment 
he  received  from  the  court,  thrown  into  prison 
and  there  detained  seven  weary  years.  This 
is  a  very  meagre  outline  of  what  seems  to  be 
perfectly  established  in  Mr.  Wilde's  masterly 

/  examination  .of  Tasso's  mysterious  history. 
The  work  contains  numerous  admirable  trans 


lations  from  the  Italian,  and  the  style  of  it 
throughout  is  chaste  and  classical. 

Upon  the  completion  of  this  work  Mr.  Wilde 
began  the  translation  of  specimens  of  Italian 
lyric  poetry,  and  the  composition  of  biogra 
phical  and  critical  sketches  of  their  authors. 
Embarrassed  with  the  contradictions  in  ac 
counts  of  Dante,  he  obtained  from  the  Grand 
Duke  of  Tuscany  permission  to  examine  the 
secret  archives  of  Florence,  for  the  period  in 
which  he  lived,  and  with  indefatigable  ardour 
devoted  himself  to  this  difficult  labour  many 
months,  in  which  he  succeeded  in  discovering 
many  interesting  facts,  obscurely  known,  or 
altogether  forgotten,  even  by  the  people  of 
Italy.  Having  learned  incidentally  one  day, 
in  conversation  with  an  artist,  that  an  authen 
tic  portrait  of  this  great  poet,  from  the  pencil 
of  Giotto,  probably  still  existed  in  the  Bar- 
gello,  (anciently  both  the  prison  and  the  palace 
of  the  republic,)  on  a  wall,  which  by  some 
strange  neglect  or  inadvertence  had  been  co 
vered  with  whitewash,  he  set  on  foot  a  project 
for  its  discovery  and  restoration,  which,  after 
several  months,  was  crowned  with  complete 
success.  This  discovery  of  a  veritable  por 
trait  of  Dante,  in  the  prime  of  his  days,  says 
Washington  Irving,  "  produced  throughout  It 
aly  some  such  sensation  as  in  England  would  \ 
follow  the  sudden  discovery  of  a  perfectly 
well  authenticated  likeness  of  Shakspeare, 
with  a  difference  in  intensity,  proportioned  to 
the  superior  sensitiveness  of  the  Italians."  It  is 
understood  that  Mr.  Wilde  afterwards  finished 
his  life  of  Dante,  but  it  has  not  yet  been  offered 
to  the  public.  His  printed  writings  on  sub 
jects  connected  with  Italian  literature,  besides 
the  work  on  Tasso,  are  an  elaborate  notice  of 
Petrarch,  in  the  form  of  a  review  of  Camp 
bell's  worthless  biography  of  that  poet,  and  a 
Letter  to  Mr.  Paulding  on  Count  Alberto's 
pretended  MSS.  of  Tasso.  His  miscellanies, 
in  several  magazines,  mostly  written  during 
moments  of  relaxation  while  he  was  a  mem 
ber  of  Congress,  or  engaged  in  the  business  of 
his  profession,  are  elegant  and  scholarly,  and 
make  us  regret  that  his  whole  attention  was 
not  given  to  letters. 

Soon  after  his  return  from  Europe,  Mr. 
Wilde  resumed  the  practice  of  the  law,  and 
become  a  professor  of  law  in  the  University 
of  Louisiana,  in  New  Orleans,  where  he  died 
suddenly,  on  the  tenth  of  September,  1847. 


RICHARD   HENRY   WILDE. 


261 


STARS  IN  THE  XIVxH  CONGRESS. 

FROM   A  SPEECH  ON  THE  TARIFF. 

I  HAT  E  neither  time,  nor  strength,  nor  ability,  to 
speak  of  the  legislators  of  that  day  as  they  deserve ; 
nor  is  this  the  fit  occasion.  Yet  the  coldest  or 
most  careless  nature  cannot  recur  to  such  associates, 

without  some  touch  of  generous  feeling 

Pre-eminent — yet  not  more  proudly  than  hum 
bly  pre-eminent — among  them,  was  a  gentleman 
from  South  Carolina,  now  no  more  ;  the  purest, 
the  calmest,  the  most  philosophical  of  our  country's 
modern  statesmen.  One  no  less  remarkable  for 
gentleness  of  manners,  and  kindness  of  heart,  than 
for  that  passionless,  unclouded  intellect,  which  ren 
dered  him  deserving  of  the  praise,  if  ever  man  de 
served  it,  of  merely  standing  by,  and  letting  rea 
son  argue  for  him.  The  true  patriot,  incapable  of 
all  selfish  ambition,  who  shunned  office  and  dis 
tinction,  yet  served  his  country  faithfully,  because 
he  loved  her.  He,  I  mean,  who  consecrated,  by 
his  example,  the  noble  precept,  so  entirely  his  own, 
that  the  first  station  in  the  republic  was  neither  to 
be  sought  after  nor  declined — a  sentiment  so  just 
and  so  happily  expressed,  that  it  continues  to  be 
repeated,  because  it  cannot  be  improved. 

There  was,  also,  a  gentleman  from  Maryland, 
whose  ashes  now  slumber  in  our  cemetery.  It  is 
not  long  since  I  stood  by  his  tomb,  and  recalled 
him,  as  he  was  then,  in  all  the  pride  and  power  of 
his  genius.  Among  the  first  of  his  countrymen 
and  contemporaries  as  a  jurist  and  statesman,  first 
as  an  orator,  he  was,  if  not  truly  eloquent,  the  prince 
of  rhetoricians.  Nor  did  the  soundness  of  his  logic 
suffer  any  thing  by  a  comparison  with  the  richness 
and  classical  purity  of  the  language  in  which  he 
copiously  poured  forth  those  figurative  illustrations 
of  his  argument,  which  enforced  while  they  adorned 
it.  But  let  others  pronounce  his  eulogy.  I  must 
not.  I  feel  as  if  his  mighty  spirit  still  haunted  the 
scene  of  its  triumphs,  and,  when  I  dared  to  wrong 
them,  indignantly  rebuked  me. 

These  names  have  become  historical.  There 
were  others  of  whom  it  is  more  difficult  to  speak, 
because  yet  within  the  reach  of  praise  or  envy. 
For  one  who  was,  or  aspired  to  be,  a  politician,  it 
would  be  prudent,  perhaps  wise,  to  avoid  all  men 
tion  of  these  men.  Their  acts,  their  words,  their 
thoughts,  their  very  looks,  have  become  subjects  of 
party  controversy.  But  he  whose  ambition  is  of  a 
higher  or  lower  order,  has  no  need  of  such  reserve. 
Talent  is  of  no  party  exclusively  ;  nor  is  justice. 

Among  them,  but  not  of  them,  in  the  fearful 
and  solitary  sublimity  of  genius,  stood  a  gentle 
man  from  Virginia,  whom  it  was  superfluous  to 
designate.  Whose  speeches  were  universally  read  ] 
Whose  satire  was  universally  feared  ]  Upon  whose 
accents  did  this  habitually  listless  and  unlistening 
house  hang,  so  frequently,  with  wrapt  attention  ? 
Whose  fame  was  identified  with  that  body  for  so 
long  a  period  ?  Who  was  a  more  dexterous  de 
bater,  a  riper  scholar,  better  versed  in  the  politics 
of  our  own  country,  or  deeper  read  in  the  history 
of  others?  Above  all,  who  was  more  thoroughly 
imbued  with  the  idiom  of  the  English  language — 


more  completely  master  of  its  strength,  and  beauty, 
and  delicacy,  or  more  capable  of  breathing  thoughts 
of  flame  in  words  of  magic,  and  tones  of  silver  ] 

There  was,  also,  a  son  of  South  Carolina,  still 
in  the  republic,  then,  undoubtedly,  the  most  influ 
ential  member  of  this  House.  With  a  genius  emi 
nently  metaphysical,  he  applied  to  politics  his  ha 
bits  of  analysis,  abstraction,  and  condensation,  and 
thus  gave  to  the  problems  of  government  some 
thing  of  that  grandeur  which  the  higher  mathe 
matics  have  borrowed  from  astronomy.  The  wings 
of  his  mind  were  rapid,  but  capricious,  and  there 
were  times  when  the  light  which  flashed  from  them 
as  they  passed  glanced  like  a  mirror  in  the  sun, 
only  to  dazzle  the  beholder.  Engrossed  with  his 
subject — careless  of  his  words — his  loftiest  flights 
of  eloquence  were  sometimes  followed  by  colloquial 
or  provincial  barbarisms.  But,  though  often  in 
correct,  he  was  always  fascinating.  Language  with 
him  was  merely  the  scaffolding  of  thought — em 
ployed  to  raise  a  dome,  which,  like  Angelo's,  he 
suspended  in  the  heavens. 

It  is  equally  impossible  to  forget,  or  to  omit,  a 
gentleman  from  Kentucky,  whom  party  has  since 
made  the  fruitful  topic  of  unmeasured  panegyric 
and  detraction.  Of  sanguine  temperament,  and 
impetuous  character,  his  declamation  was  impas 
sioned,  his  retorts  acrimonious.  Deficient  in  re 
finement  rather  than  in  strength,  his  style  was  less 
elegant  and  correct  than  animated  and  impressive. 
But  it  swept  away  our  feelings  with  it  like  a  moun 
tain  torrent,  and  the  force  of  the  stream  left  you 
little  leisure  to  remark  upon  its  clearness.  His 
estimate  of  human  nature  was,  probably,  not  very 
high.  It  may  be  that  his  past  associations  had  not 
tended  to  exalt  it.  Unhappily,  it  is,  perhaps,  more 
likely  to  have  been  lowered  than  raised  by  his  sub 
sequent  experience.  Yet  then,  and  even  since, 
except  when  that  imprudence,  so  natural  to  genius, 
prevailed  over  his  better  judgment,  he  had  generally 
the  good  sense,  or  good  taste,  to  adopt  a  lofty  tone  of 
sentiment,  whether  he  spoke  of  measures  or  of 
men,  of  friend  or  adversary.  On  many  occasions 
he  was  noble  and  captivating.  One  I  can  never 
forget.  It  was  the  fine  burst  of  indignant  elo 
quence  with  which  he  replied  to  the  taunting  ques 
tion,  "  What  have  we  gained  by  the  war1?" 

Nor  may  I  pass  over  in  silence  a  representative 
from  New  Hampshire,  who  has  almost  obliterated 
all  memory  of  that  distinction,  by  the  supeiior 
fame  he  has  attained  as  a  senator  from  Massachu 
setts.  Though  then  but  in  the  bud  of  his  political 
life,  and  hardly  conscious,  perhaps,  of  his  own  ex 
traordinary  powers,  he  gave  promise  of  the  great 
ness  he  has  achieved.  The  same  vigour  of  thought ; 
the  same  force  of  expression  ;  the  short  sentences  ; 
the  calm,  cold,  collected  manner  ;  the  air  of  solemn 
dignity;  the  deep,  sepulchral,  unimpassioned  voice  ; 
all  have  been  developed  only,  not  changed,  even  to 
the  intense  bitterness  of  his  frigid  irony.  The  pierc 
ing  coldness  of  his  sarcasms  was  indeed  peculiar  to 
him  ;  they  seemed  to  be  emanations  from  the  spirit 
of  the  icy  ocean.  Nothing  could  be  at  once  so  no 
vel  and  so  powerful ;  it  was  frozen  mercury  becom 
ing  as  caustic  as  red  hot  iron. 


262 


RICHARD    HENRY    WILDE. 


PETRARCH  AND  LAURA. 

FROM  REVIEW  OF   CAMPBELL'S  LIFE   OF  PETRARCH. 

OF  all  the  women  who  have  been  deified  by  their 
poetic  adorers,  Laura  seems  to  us  one  of  the  least 
interesting.  Why,  then,  did  Petrarch  love  her  7 
If  we  consult  our  own  experience  and  observation, 
we  shall  not  ask  that  question,  nor  its  converse — 
why  did  she  not  love  him  1  Love  is  commonly 
the  result  of  accident  or  caprice,  rarely  of  any  in 
tellectual  merit.  The  hope  to  win  it  by  celebrity, 
though  frequently  indulged,  is  among  the  vainest 
of  illusions,  and  Laura  may  have  smiled  at  such  a 
folly  without  being  unusually  stupid  or  insensible. 
The  greater  part  of  her  sex,  like  the  greater  part  of 
ours,  have  no  just  conception  or  ardent  love  of 
glory.  In  general  they  hold  immortality  as  cheap 
as  the  mother  of  mankind  or  the  widow  of  Napo 
leon. 

There  have  been  remarkable  and  splendid  ex 
amples  to  the  contrary,  it  is  true,  but  fortunately 
or  unfortunately  for  us,  and  for  themselves,  the  mass 
remains  unchanged.  Many  have  indeed  been  in 
separably  associated  with  undying  names,  often  un 
deservedly,  sometimes  in  their  own  despite;  but 
most,  being  of  the  earth,  earthy,  would  have  lost 
that  privilege,  had  not  the  weakness  of  vanity  or 
tenderness  preserved  the  memorials  of  their  triumph, 
and  thus  rescued  them  from  merited  oblivion.  Ni 
na,  who  would  be  called  nothing  but  the  Nina  of 
Dante,  is  the  exception,  not  the  rule.  Even  she, 
perhaps,  was  thought  very  naughty  in  her  lifetime, 
and  if  she  sacrificed  temporary  good  repute  to  long 
ages  of  celebrity,  had  nearly  made  the  sacrifice  in 
vain,  since,  though  a  poetess  herself,  she  was  so 
little  of  a  critic  as  to  choose  Dante  da  Maiano,  an 
indifferent  versifier.  Far  be  it  from  us  to  malign 
the  fairer  part  of  creation,  to  whom  every  rhymer 
is  a  born  bondsman ;  but,  in  truth  and  prose,  the 
condition  of  woman  excludes  her  for  the  most  part 
from  these  lofty  aspirations.  Shut  up  within  the 
narrow  circle  of  petty  vanities,  household  cares,  fri 
volous  amusements,  devotional  exercises,  and  trivial 
occupations,  she  rarely  feels  inclined  to  look  beyond 
it,  and  if  she  does,  is  visited  with  the  anger  of  all 
her  sisterhood.  There  is  little  reason  to  believe  that 
Laura  burst  the  spell,  or  was  in  any  wise  exempted 
from  the  common  destiny,  except  by  the  fortune  of 
a  more  illustrious  lover.  Her  long  continued  sys 
tem  of  alternate  encouragement  and  repulse,  so  de 
licately  managed  and  adroitly  blended,  as  always  to 
keep  alive  his  hopes,  yet  always  disappoint  them, 
may  not  deserve  to  be  stigmatized  as  the  refinement 
of  heartless  coquetry,  but  certainly  excludes  the 
idea  of  warm  and  sincere  attachment.  The  very 
ascendency  she  acquired  over  him,  by  her  constant 
self-possession  and  invariable  calmness,  indicates 
the  action  of  a  more  phlegmatic,  on  a  more  impas 
sioned  nature.  For  the  rest,  discretion,  sweetness, 
good  sense,  religious  faith,  and  serenity,  make  up 
the  sum  of  an  amiable  and  tranquil  disposition,  as 
feminine  as  you  please,  and  as  remote  as  possible 
from  all  our  early  romantic  conceptions 

Could  the  veil  of  ages  be  withdrawn,  she  might  be 


found  either  frail  or  cold,  and,  whichever  the  alterna 
tive,  must  lose  a  portion  of  her  worshippers.  Now,  on 
the  contrary,  those  who  are  not  satisfied  with  either 
part  of  this  dilemma  have  still  open  to  their  faith  the 
further  supposition,  that  Laura,  tenderly  loving  Pe 
trarch,  concealed  or  governed  her  affection  for  one- 
and-twenty  years,  never  driving  him  to  despair  by 
her  rigour,  nor  betraying  the  secret  of  her  weakness. 
But  whether  she  was  enamoured  and  virtuous,  or 
only  coquetish,  prudent  or  indifferent, it  must  not  be 
inferred  she  took  no  pleasure  in  her  lover's  praises. 
Who  is  offended  by  a  delicate  and  well-turned  com 
pliment] — or  what  woman,  however  insensible  to 
the  beauties  of  poetry,  ever  failed  to  admire  a  sonnet 
to  her  own  eye-brow  ]  Love  is  not  kindled  by  rhyme, 
but  self-love  is  fed  by  it,  nor  should  we  without  re 
flection  condemn  Laura  for  not  valuing  more  high 
ly,  or  making  a  more  grateful  return  for  the  offer 
ing.  We  behold  in  Petrarch  the  restorer  of  learn-  * 
ing,  the  creator  of  a  new  poetry,  the  beautifier  of  a  * 
language  which  is  all  melody.  She  saw  in  him 
only  a  persevering  sonneteer,  who  annoyed  her 
with  complaints,  or  soothed  her  by  flattery.  To 
us  he  appears  with  the  glory  of  five  centuries. 
Could  he  have  laid  it  all  at  her  feet,  possibly  she 
might  have  yielded.  With  the  confidence  of  ge 
nius  he  often  promised  her  immortality.  But  how 
could  she  believe  him  1  Did  he  always  believe 
himself?  So  far  from  it,  he  at  one  time  set  little 
value  on  his  love  verses,  building  his  hopes  of  fame 
upon  his  Latin  poems. 

The  lady  whose  apotheosis  has  been  made  by  the 
love  and  poetry  of  Petrarch,  there  is  every  reason 
to  believe,  was  any  thing  but  happy.  His  devo 
tion,  which  alone  has  embalmed  her  memory,  we 
may  readily  suppose,  brought  upon  her  both  envy 
and  censure.  The  propriety  of  her  conduct  is  said 
indeed  to  have  been  such  as  to  defy  the  gossips  of 
Avignon.  The  offence  of  being  beautiful  and  idol 
ized,  however,  is  rarely  expiated  even  by  an  aban 
donment  of  the  heart's  affections.  Our  contempo 
raries  ever  judge  us  harshly.  The  living  rarely 
get  credit  for  their  real  worth.  Nay,  they  are 
often  hated  for  the  very  virtues  by  which  they 
eclipse  others,  while,  in  the  eyes  of  posterity,  every 
fault  and  almost  every  crime  is  absolved  by  great 
ness.  Laura,  we  may  believe,  if  she  really  loved 
Petrarch,  sacrificed  her  attachment  to  duty  or  to 
reputation,  though  she  was  unable  or  unwilling  to 
forego  the  incense  offered  to  her  charms.  The 
sacrifice  was  in  vain,  save  to  her  own  conscience, 
for  Ugo,  her  husband,  was  harsh  and  jealous,  and 
so  little  attached  to  her  memory  that  he  married 
shortly  after  her  death;  while  her  daughter,  Ogiera, 
so  far  forgot  the  maternal  example,  even  in  her 
mother's  lifetime,  that  the  honour  of  the  family 
obliged  them  to  shut  her  up  in  a  convent.  Thus 
the  celebrity  of  Laura  arises  from  a  homage  which 
it  was  weakness,  perhaps  worse,  to  allow,  while 
her  virtues  were  inadequate  to  insure  her  domestic 
happiness,  and  most  certainly  alone  would  never 
have  preserved  her  from  oblivion.  So  strange  are 
the  caprices  of  fame  and  fortune,  so  uncertain  and 
inconsequent  the  judgments  of  mankind. 


JAMES  FENIMOKE  COOPER. 


[Born  1789.  Died  1851.] 


WILLIAM  COOPER,  the  emigrant  ancestor  of 
JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER,  arrived  in  this  coun 
try  in  1679,  and  settled  at  Burlington,  New 
Jersey.  He  immediately  took  an  active  part 
in  public  affairs,  and  his  name  appears  in  the 
list  of  members  of  the  Colonial  Legislature 
for  1 681.  In  1687,  or  subsequent  to  the  esta 
blishment  of  Penn  at  Philadelphia,  he  obtained 
a  grant  of  land  opposite  the  new  city,  extend 
ing  several  miles  along  the  margin  of  the 
Delaware  and  the  tributary  stream  which  has 
since  home  the  name  of  Cooper's  Creek.  The 
branch  of  the  family  to  which  the  novelist 
belongs  removed  more  than  a  century  since 
into  Pennsylvania,  in  which  state  his  father 
was  horn.  He  married  early,  and  while  a 
young  man  established  himself  at  a  hamlet 
in  Burlington  county,  New  Jersey,  which 
continues  to  be  known  by  his  name,  and 
afterward  in  the  city  of  Burlington.  Hav 
ing  become  possessed  of  extensive  tracts  of 
land  on  the  border  of  Otsego  Lake,  in  cen 
tral  New  York,  he  began  the  settlement  of 
his  estate  there  in  the  autumn  of  1785,  and  in 
the  following  spring  erected  the  first  house  in 
Cooperstown.  From  this  time  until  1790 
Judge  Cooper  resided  alternately  at  Coopers- 
town  and  Burlington,  keeping  up  an  establish 
ment  at  both  places.  James  Fenimore  Cooper 
was  born  at  Burlington  on  the  fifteenth  of  Sep 
tember,  1789,  and  in  the  succeeding  year  was 
carried  to  the  new  home  of  his  family,  of 
which  he  is  now  proprietor. 

Judge  Cooper  being  a  member  of  the  Con 
gress,  which  then  held  its  sessions  in  Phila 
delphia,  his  family  remained  much  of  the  time 
at  Burlington,  where  our  author,  when  but  six 
years  of  age,  commenced  under  a  private  tu 
tor  of  some  eminence  his  classical  education. 
In  1 800  he  became  an  inmate  of  the  family  of 
Rev.  Thomas  Ellison,  Rector  of  St.  Peter's, 
in  Albany,  who  had  fitted  for  the  university 
three  of  his  elder  brothers,  and  on  the  death 
of  that  accomplished  teacher  was  sent  to  New 
Haven,  where  he  completed  his  preparatory 
studies.  He  entered  Yale  College  at  the  be 
ginning  of  the  second  term  for  1802.  Among 


his  classmates  were  the  Hon.  John  A.  Col 
lier,  Judge  Cushman,  and  the  late  Mr.  Justice 
Sutherland  of  New  York,  Judge  Bissel  of 
Connecticut,  Colonel  James  Gadsden  of  Flo 
rida,  and  several  others  who  afterward  became 
eminent  in  various  professions.  The  Hon. 
John  C.  Calhoun  was  at  the  time  a  resident 
graduate,  and  Judge  Jay  of  Bedford,  who  had 
been  his  room-mate  at  Albany,  entered  the 
class  below  him.  The  late  James  A.  Hill- 
house  originally  entered  the  same  class  with 
Mr.  Cooper;  there  was  very  little  difference 
in  their  ages,  both  having  been  born  in  the 
same  month,  and  both  being  much  too  young 
to  be  thrown  into  the  arena  of  college  life. 
Hillhouse  was  judiciously  withdrawn  for  this 
reason  until  the  succeeding  year,  leaving 
Cooper  the  youngest  student  in  the  college; 
he,  however,  maintained  a  respectable  posi 
tion,  and  in  the  ancient  languages  particularly 
had  no  superior  in  his  class. 

In  1805  he  quitted  the  college,  and  obtain 
ing  a  midshipman's  warrant,  entered  the  navy. 
His  frank,  generous  and  daring  nature  made 
him  a  favourite,  and  admirably  fitted  him  for 
the  service,  in  which  he  would  unquestionably 
have  obtained  the  highest  honours  had  he  not 
finally  made  choice  of  the  ease  and  quiet  of 
the  life  of  a  private  gentleman.  After  six 
years  afloat — six  years  not  unprofitably  passed, 
since  they  gave  him  that  knowledge  of  mari 
time  affairs  which  enabled  him  subsequently, 
almost  without  an  effort,  to  place  himself  at 
the  head  of  all  the  writers  who  in  any  period 
have  attempted  the  description  of  the  sea — 
he  resigned  his  office,  and  on  the  first  day  of 
January,  1811,  was  married  to  Miss  De  Lan- 
cey,  a  sister  of  the  present  Bishop  of  the  Dio 
cese  of  Western  New  York,  and  a  descendant 
of  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  influential  fami 
lies  in  America. 

Before  removing  to  Cooperstown  he  resided 
a  short  time  in  Westchester,  near  New  York, 
and  here  he  commenced  his  career  as  an  au 
thor.  His  first  book  was  Precaution.  It  was 
undertaken  under  circumstances  purely  acci 
dental,  and  published  under  great  disadvan- 

263 


264 


JAMES    FENIMORE    COOPER. 


tages.  Its  success  was  modeiate,  though  far 
from  contemptible.  It  is  a  ludicrous  evidence 
of  the  value  of  critical  opinion  in  this  country, 
that  Precaution  was  thought  to  discover  so 
much  knowledge  of  English  society,  as  to 
raise  a  question  whether  its  alleged  author 
could  have  written  it.  More  reputation  for 
this  sort  of  knowledge  accrued  to  Mr.  Cooper 
from  Precaution  than  from  his  subsequent 
real  work  on  England.  It  was  republished 
in  London,  and  passed  for  an  English  novel. 

The  Spy  followed.  No  one  will  dispute 
the  success  of  The  Spy.  It  was  almost  im 
mediately  republished  in  all  parts  of  Europe. 
The  novelty  of  an  American  book  of  this  cha 
racter  probably  contributed  to  give  it  circula 
tion.  It  is  worthy  of  remark  that  all  our  own 
leading  periodicals  looked  coldly  upon  it; 
though  the  country  did  not.  The  North 
American  Review — ever  unwilling  to  do  jus 
tice  to  Mr.  Cooper — had  a  very  ill-natured 
notice  of  it,  professing  to  place  the  New 
England  Tale  far  above  it.  In  spite  of  such 
shallow  criticism,  however,  the  book  was  uni 
versally  popular.  It  was  decidedly  the  best 
historical  romance  then  written  by  an  Ameri 
can  ;  not  without  faults,  indeed,  but  with  a  fair 
plot,  clearly  and  strongly  drawn  characters, 
and  exhibiting  great  boldness  and  originality 
of  conception.  Its  success  was  perhaps  de 
cisive  of  Mr.  Cooper's  career,  and  it  gave  an 
extraordinary  impulse  to  literature  in  the  coun 
try.  More  than  any  thing  that  had  before 
occurred,  it  roused  the  people  from  their  feel 
ing  of  intellectual  dependence. 

In  1823  appeared  The  Pioneers.  This  book, 
it  seems  to  me,  has  always  had  a  reputation 
partly  factitious.  It  is  the  poorest  of  the 
Leather  Stocking  tales,  nor  was  its  success 
either  marked  or  spontaneous.  Still,  it  was 
very  well  received,  though  it  was  thought  to 
be  a  proof  that  the  author  was  written  out. 
With  this  book  commenced  the  absurdity  of 
saying  Mr.  Cooper  introduced  family  traits 
and  family  history  into  his  novels. 

The  Pilot  succeeded.  The  success  of  The 
Pilot  was  at  first  a  little  doubtful  in  this  coun 
try  ;  but  England  gave  it  a  reputation  which 
it  still  maintains.  It  is  due  to  Boston  to  say 
that  its  popularity  in  the  United  States  was 
first  manifested  there.  I  say  due  to  Boston, 
not  from  considerations  of  merit  in  the  book, 
but  because,  for  some  reason,  praise  for  Mr. 
Cooper,  from  New  England,  has  been  so  rare. 


America  has  no  original  literature,  it  is  said. 
Where  can  the  model  of  The  Pilot  be  found  ? 
I  know  of  nothing  which  could  have  suggested 
it  but  the  following  fact,  which  was  related 
to  me  in  a  conversation  with  Mr.  Cooper. 
The  Pirate  had  been  published  a  short  time 
before.  Talking  with  the  late  Charles  Wilkes, 
of  New  York — a  man  of  taste  and  judgment — 
our  author  heard  extolled  the  universal  know 
ledge  of  Scott,  and  the  sea  portions  of  The 
Pirate  cited  as  a  proof.  He  laughed  at  the 
idea,  as  most  seamen  would,  and  the  discus 
sion  ended  by  his  promising  to  write  a  sea 
story  which  could  be  read  by  landsmen,  while 
seamen  should  feel  its  truth.  The  Pilot  was 
the  fruit  of  that  conversation.  It  is  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  novels  of  the  time,  and 
every  where  obtained  instant  and  high  applause. 

Lionel  Lincoln  followed.  This  was  a  se 
cond  attempt  to  imbody  history  in  an  Ameri 
can  work  of  fiction.  It  failed,  and  perhaps 
justly ;  yet  it  contains  one  of  the  nicest  deli 
neations  of  character  in  Mr.  Cooper's  works. 
I  know  of  no  instance  in  which  the  distinc 
tion  between  a  maniac  and  an  idiot  is  so  ad 
mirably  drawn;  the  setting  was  bad,  however, 
and  the  picture  was  not  examined. 

In  1826  came  The  Last  of  the  Mohicans. 
This  book  succeeded  from  the  first,  and  all 
over  Christendom.  It  has  strong  parts  and 
weak  parts,  but  it  was  purely  original,  and 
originality  always  occupies  the  ground.  In 
this  respect  it  is  like  The  Pilot. 

After  the  publication  of  The  Last  of  the 
Mohicans,  Mr.  Cooper  went  to  Europe,  where 
his  reputation  was  already  well  established  as 
one  of  the  greatest  writers  of  romantic  fiction 
which  our  age,  more  prolific  in  men  of  genius 
than  any  other,  had  produced.  The  first  of 
his  works  after  he  left  his  native  country  was 
The  Prairie.  Its  success  was  decided  and  im 
mediate.  By  the  French  and  English  critics 
it  was  deemed  the  best  of  his  stories  of  In 
dian  life.  It  has  one  leading  fault,  however, 
that  of  introducing  any  character  superior  to 
the  family  of  the  squatter.  Of  this  fault  Mr. 
Cooper  was  himself  aware  before  he  finished 
the  work;  but  as  he  wrote  and  printed  simul 
taneously,  it  was  not  easy  to  correct  it.  In 
this  book,  notwithstanding,  Natty  Bumpo  is 
quite  up  to  his  mark,  and  is  surpassed  only  in 
The  Pathfinder.  The  reputation  of  The  Prai 
rie,  like  that  of  The  Pioneers,  is  in  a  large 
degree  owing  to  the  opinions  of  the  reviews ; 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 


265 


it  is  always  a  fault  in  a  book  that  appeals  to 
human  sympathies,  that  it  fails  with  the  mul 
titude.  In  what  relates  to  taste,  the  multitude 
is  of  no  great  authority  ;  but  in  all  that  is  con 
nected  with  feeling,  they  are  the  highest ;  and 
for  this  simple  reason,  that  as  man  becomes 
sophisticated  he  deviates  from  nature,  the  only 
true  source  of  all  our  sympathies.  Our  feel 
ings  are  doubtless  improved  by  refinement, 
and  vice  versa ;  but  their  roots  are  struck  in 
the  human  heart,  and  what  fails  to  touch  the 
heart,  in  these  particulars,  fails,  while  that 
which  does  touch  it,  succeeds.  The  perfec 
tion  of  this  sort  of  writing  is  that  which 
pleases  equally  the  head  and  the  heart. 

The  Red  Rover  followed  The  Prairie.  Its 
success  surpassed  that  of  any  of  its  predeces 
sors.  It  was  written  and  printed  in  Paris,  and  all 
in  a  few  months.  Its  merits  and  its  reception 
prove  the  accuracy  of  those  gentlemen  who 
allege  that  "  Mr.  Cooper  never  wrote  a  suc 
cessful  book  after  he  left  the  United  States." 
It  is  certainly  a  stronger  work  than  The  Pilot, 
though  not  without  considerable  faults. 

The  Wept  of  Wish-ton-Wish  was  the  next 
novel.  The  author  I  believe  regards  this  and 
Lionel  Lincoln  as  the  poorest  of  his  works. 
It  met  with  no  great  success. 

The  Water  Witch  succeeded,  but  is  inferior 
to  any  of  tbe  other  nautical  tales. 

Of  all  Americans  who  ever  visited  Europe, 
Mr.  Cooper  contributed  most  to  our  country's 
good  reputation.  His  high  character  made 
him  everywhere  welcome ;  there  was  no  cir 
cle,  however  aristocratic  or  distinguished,  in 
which,  if  he  appeared  in  it,  he  waft  not  ob 
served  of  all  observers ;  and  he  had  the  some 
what  singular  merit  of  never  forgetting  that  he 
was  an  American.  Halleck,  in  his  admirable 
poem  of  Red  Jacket,  says  well  of  him — 

COOPER,  whose  name  is  with  his  country's  woven, 

First  in  her  fields,  her  pioneer  of  mind, 
A  wanderer  iww  in  other  lands,  has  proven 

His  love  for  the  young  land  he  left  behind. 

After  having  been  in  Europe  about  two  years 
he  published  his  Notions  of  the  Americans, 
in  which  he  "endeavoured  to  repel  some  of 
the  hostile  opinions  of  the  other  hemisphere, 
and  to  turn  the  tables  on  those  who  at  that 
time  most  derided  and  calumniated  us."  It 
contained  some  unimportant  errors,  from  hav 
ing  been  written  at  a  distance  from  necessary 
documentary  materials,  but  was  altogether  as 
just  as  it  was  eloquent  in  vindication  of  our 

institutions,  manners,  and  history.     It  shows 
34 


how  warm  was  his  patriotism,  how  fondly, 
while  receiving  from  strangers  an  homage 
withheld  from  him  at  home,  he  remembered 
the  scenes  of  his  first  trials  and  triumphs,  and 
how  ready  he  was  to  sacrifice  personal  popu 
larity  and  profit  in  defence  of  his  country. 

He  was  not  only  the  first  to  defend  and  to 
praise  America,  but  the  first  to  whom  appeals 
were  made  for  information  in  regard  to  her  by 
statesmen  who  felt  an  interest  in  our  destiny. 
Following  the  revolution  of  the  Three  Days, 
in  Paris,  a  fierce  controversy  took  place  be 
tween  the  absolutists,  the  republicans,  and 
the  constitutionalists.  Among  the  subjects 
introduced  in  the  Chambers  was  the  compara 
tive  cheapness  of  our  system  of  government ; 
the  absolutists  asserting  that  the  people  of  the 
United  States  paid  more  direct  and  indirect 
taxes  than  the  French.  Lafayette  appealed 
to  Mr.  Cooper,  who  entered  the  arena,  and 
though,  from,  his  peculiar  position,  at  a  heavy 
pecuniary  loss,  and  the  danger  of  incurring 
yet  greater  misfortunes,  by  a  masterly  expose 
silenced  at  once  the  popular  falsehoods.  So 
in  all  places,  circumstances,  and  times,  he 
was  the  "American  in  Europe,"  as  jealous  of 
his  country's  reputation  as  his  own. 

Immediately  after  he  published  The  Bravo, 
the  success  of  which  was  very  great:  proba 
bly  equal  to  that  of  The  Red  Rover.  It  is 
one  of  the  best,  if  not  the  very  best  of  the 
works  Mr.  Cooper  had  then  written.  Al 
though  he  selected  a  foreign  scene  on  this 
occasion,  no  one  of  his  works  is  more  Ame 
rican  in  its  essential  character.  It  was  de 
signed  not  only  to  extend  the  democratical 
principle  abroad,  but  to  confirm  his  country 
men  in  the  opinion  that  nations  "  cannot  be 
governed  by  an  irresponsible  minority  without 
involving  a  train  of  nearly  intolerable  abuses." 
It  gave  aristocracy  some  hits,  which  aristo 
cracy  gave  back  again.  The  best  notice 
which  appeared  of  it  was  in  the  famous  Paris 
gazette  entitled  Figaro,  before  Figaro  was 
bought  out  by  the  French  government.  The 
change  from  the  biting  wit  which  character 
ized  this  periodical,  to  the  grave  sentiment 
of  such  an  article,  was  really  touching,  and 
added  an  indescribable  grace  to  the  remarks. 

The  Heidenmaur  followed.  It  is  impos 
sible  for  one  to  understand  thi«  book  who  has 
not  some  acquaintance  with  the  scenes  and 
habits  described.  It  was  not  very  successful. 

The  Headsman  of  Berne  did  much  better. 
z 


266 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 


It  is  inferior  to  The  Bravo,  though  not  so 
clashing  to  aristocracy.  It  met  with  very 
respectable  success.  It  was  the  last  of  Mr. 
Cooper's  novels  written  in  Europe,  and  for 
some  years  the  last  of  a  political  character. 

The  first  work  which  Mr.  Cooper  published 
after  his  return  to  the  United  States  was  A 
Letter  to  his  Countrymen.  They  had  yielded 
him  but  a  hesitating  applause  until  his  praise 
came  back  from  Europe,  and  when  the  tone 
of  foreign  criticism  was  changed,  by  acts  and 
opinions  of  his  which  should  have  banded  the 
whole  American  press  for  his  defence,  he  was 
assailed  here  in  articles  which  either  echoed 
the  tone,  or  were  actual  translations  of  attacks 
upon  him  by  foreigners.  The  custom  pecu 
liar  to  this  country  of  "  quoting  the  opinions 
of  foreign  nations  by  way  of  helping  to  make 
up  its  own  estimate  of  the  degree  of  merit 
which  belongs  to  its  public  men,"  is  treated 
in  this  letter  with  caustic  and  just  severity, 
and  shown  to  be  "  destructive  of  those  senti 
ments  of  self-respect  and  of  that  manliness 
and  independence  of  thought,  that  are  neces 
sary  to  render  a  people  great  or  a  nation 
respectable."  The  controlling  influence  of 
foreign  ideas  over  our  literature,  fashions,  and 
even  politics,  are  illustrated  by  the  manner  in 
which  he  was  himself  treated,  and  by  what 
he  considers  the  English  doctrines  which  have 
been  broached  in  the  speeches  of  many  of  our 
statesmen.  It  is  a  frank  and  honest,  book, 
which  was  unnecessary  as  a  vindication  of 
Mr.  Cooper,  but  was  called  for  by  the  exist 
ence  of  the  abuse  against  which  it  was  chiefly 
directed,  though  it  seems  to  have  had  little 
effect  upon  it.  Of  the  political  opinions  it 
contains  I  have  no  more  to  say  than  that  I  do 
not  believe  in  their  correctness. 

It  was  followed  by  The  Monikins,  a  politi 
cal  satire,  which  was  a  failure. 

The  next  publications  of  Mr.  Cooper  were 
his  Gleanings  in  Europe.  Sketches  of  Swit 
zerland,  first  and  second  series,  each  in  two 
volumes,  appeared  in  1836,  and  none  of  his 
works  contain  more  striking  and  vivid  descrip 
tions  of  nature,  or  more  agreeable  views  of 
character  and  manners.  It  was  followed  by 
similar  worKs  on  France,  Italy,  and  England. 
All  of  these  were  well  received,  notwithstand 
ing  an .  independence  of  tone  which  is  rarely 
popular,  and  some  absurdities,  as,  for  example, 
the  imputations  upon  the  American  Federal 
ists,  in  the  Sketches  of  Switzerland.  The 


book  on  England  excited  most  attention,  and 
was  reviewed  in  that  country  with  as  much 
asperity  as  if  its  own  travellers  were  not  pro 
verbially  the  most  shameless  libellers  that 
ever  abused  the  hospitality  of  nations.  Alto 
gether  the  ten  volumes  which  compose  this 
series  may  be  set  down  as  the  most  intelli 
gent  and  philosophical  books  of  travels  which 
have  been  written  by  our  countrymen. 

The  American  Democrat,  or  Hints  on  the 
Social  and  Civil  Relations  of  the  United  States 
of  America,  was  published  in  1835.  The  de 
sign  is  stated  to  be,  "  to  make  a  commence 
ment  toward  a  more  just  discrimination  be 
tween  truth  and  prejudice."  It  is  essentially 
a  good  book  on  the  virtues  and  vices  of  Ame 
rican  character. 

For  a  considerable  time  Mr.  Cooper  had 
entertained  an  intention  of  writing  the  Histo 
ry  of  the  Navy  of  the  United  States,  and  his 
early  experience,  his  studies,  his  associations, 
and  above  all  the  peculiar  felicity  of  his  style 
when  treating  of  nautical  affairs,  warranted 
the  expectation  that  his  work  would  be  a  solid 
and  brilliant  contribution  to  our  historical  lite 
rature.  It  appeared  in  two  octavo  volumes  in 
1839,  and  reached  a  second  edition  in  1840, 
and  a  third  in  1846.*  The  public  had  no 
reason  to  be  disappointed ;  great  diligence 
had  been  used  in  the  collection  of  materials; 
every  subject  connected  with  the  origin  and 
growth  of  our  national  marine  had  been  care 
fully  investigated,  and  the  result  was  presented 
in  the  most  authentic  and  attractive  form. 
Yet  a  warm  controversy  soon  arose  respecting 
Mr.  Cooler's  account  of  the  battle  of  Lake 
Erie,  and  in  pamphlets,  reviews,  and  news 
papers,  attempts  were  made  to  show  that  he 
had  done  injustice  to  the  American  com 
mander  in  that  action.  The  multitude  rarely 
undertake  particular  investigations ;  and  the 
attacks  upon  Mr.  Cooper,  conducted  with  a 
virulence  for  which  it  would  be  difficult  to 
find  any  cause  in  the  History,  assuming  the 
form  of  vindications  of  a  brave  and  popular 
deceased  officer,  produced  an  impression  so 
deep  and  so  general  that  he  was  compelled  to 
defend  the  obnoxious  passages,  which  he  did 
triumphantly  in  a'  small  volume  entitled  The 

*The  first  and  second  editions  appeared  in  Philadel 
phia,  and  the  third  in  Cooperstown.  It  was  reprinted  in 
1830  in  London.  Paris,  and  Brussels,  and  an  abridgment 
of  it,  by  the  author,  has  recently  been  largely  introducer? 
into  our  common  schools. 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 


2G7 


Battle  of  Lake  Erie,  or  Answers  to  Messrs. 
Burgess,  Duer,  and  Mackenzie,  published  in 
1843,  and  in  the  notes  to  the  last  edition  of 
his  Naval  History.  Those  who  read  the 
whole  controversy  will  perceive  that  Mr. 
Cooper  was  guided  by  the  authorities  most 
entitled  to  the  consideration  of  an  historian, 
and  that  in  his  answers  he  has  demonstrated 
the  correctness  of  his  statements  and  opinions ; 
and  they  will  perhaps  be  astonished  that  he 
in  the  first  place  gave  so  little  cause  for  dis 
satisfaction  on  the  part  of  the  friends  of  Com 
modore  Perry.  Besides  the  Naval  History 
and  the  essays  to  which  it  gave  rise,  Mr. 
Cooper  has  published,  in  two  volumes,  the 
Lives  of  American  Naval  Officers,  a  work  of 
the  highest  merit  in  its  department,  every  life 
being  written  with  conciseness  yet  fulness, 
and  with  great  care  in  regard  to  facts ;  and 
in  the  Democratic  Review  has  published  an 
unanswerable  reply  to  the  attacks  upon  the 
American  marine  by  James  and  other  British 
historians. 

The  first  novel  published  by  Mr.  Cooper 
after  his  return  to  the  United  States  was 
Homeward  Bound.  The  two  generic  cha 
racters  of  the  book,  however  truly  they  may 
represent  individuals,  have  no  resemblance  to 
classes.  There  may  be  Captain  Trucks,  and 
there  certainly  are  Steadfast  Dodges,  but  the 
officers  of  the  American  merchant  service  are 
in  no  manner  or  degree  inferior  to  Europeans 
of  the  same  pursuits  and  grade  ;  and  with  all 
the  abuses  of  the  freedom  of  the  press  here, 
oar  newspapers  are  not  worse  than  those  of 
Great  Britain  in  the  qualities  for  which  Mr. 
Cooper  arraigns  them.  The  opinions  ex 
pressed  of  New  York  society  in  Home  as 
Found  are  identical  with  those  in  Notions  of 
the  Americans,  a  work  almost  as  much  abused 
for  its  praise  of  this  country  as  was  Home  as 
Found  for  its  censure,  and  most  men  of  refine 
ment  and  large  observation  seem  disposed  to 
admit  their  correctness.  This  is  no  doubt  the 
cause  of  the  feeling  it  excited,  for  a  nation 
never  gets  in  a  passion  at  misrepresentation. 
It  is  a  miserable  country  that  cannot  look 
down  a  falsehood,  even  from  a  native. 

The  next  novel  was  The  Pathfinder.  It  is 
a  common  opinion  that  this  work  deserves 
success  more  than  any  Mr.  Cooper  has  writ 
ten.  I  have  heard  Mr.  Cooper  say  that  in  his 
own  judgment  the  claim  lay  between  The 
Pathfinder  and  The  Deerslayer,  but  for  my 


self  I  confess  a  preference  for  the  sea  novels. 
Leather  Stocking  appears  to  more  advantage 
in  The  Pathfinder  than  in  any  other  book,  and 
in  Deerslayer  next.  In  The  Pathfinder  we 
have  him  presented  in  the  character  of  a  lover, 
and  brought  in  contact  with  such  characters 
as  he  associates  with  in  no  other  stages  of  his 
varied  history,  though  they  are  hardly  less 
favourites  with  the  author.  The  scene  of  the 
novel  being  the  great  fresh  water  seas  of  the 
interior,  sailors,  Indians,  and  hunters  are  so 
grouped  together,  that  every  kind  of  novel- 
writing  in  which  he  has  been  most  successful 
is  combined  in  one  complete  fiction,  one  strik 
ing  exhibition  of  his  best  powers.  Had  it 
been  written  by  some  unknown  author,  pro 
bably  the  country  would  have  hailed  him  as 
much  superior  to  Mr.  Cooper. 

Mercedes  of  Castile,  a  Romance  of  the 
Days  of  Columbus,  came  next.  It  may  be 
set  down  as  a  failure.  The  necessity  of  fol 
lowing  facts  that  had  become  familiar,  and 
which  had  so  lately  possessed  the  novelty  of 
fiction,  was  too  much  for  any  writer. 

The  Deerslayer  was  written  after  Mercedes 
and  The  Pathfinder,  and  was  very  successful. 
Hetty  Hunter  is  perhaps  the  best  female  cha-   "' 
racter  Mr.  Cooper  has  drawn,  though  her  sis 
ter  is  generally  preferred. 

The  Two  Admirals  followed  The  Deer- 
slayer.  This  book  in  some  respects  stands 
at  the  head  of  the  nautical  tales.  Its  fault  is 
dealing  with  too  important  events  to  be  thrown 
so  deep  into  fiction ;  but  this  is  a  fault  that 
may  be  pardoned  in  a  romance.  Mr.  Cooper 
has  written  nothing  in  description,  whether 
of  sea  or  land,  that  surpasses  either  of  the  bat 
tle  scenes  of  this  work;  especially  that  part  of 
the  first  where  the  French  ship  is  captured. 
The  Two  Admirals  appeared  at  an  unfortunate 
time,  but  it  was  nevertheless  successful. 

Wing-and-Wing,  or  Le  Feu  Follet,  was 
published  in  1842.  The  interest  depends 
chiefly  upon  the  manoeuvres  by  which  a  French 
privateer  escapes  capture  by  an  English  fri 
gate.  Some  of  its  scenes  are  among  Mr. 
Cooper's  best,  but  altogether  is  inferior  to 
several  of  his  nautical  novels. 

Wyandotte,  or  the  Hutted  Knoll,  in  its 
general  features  resembles  The  Pathfinder 
and  the  Deerslayer.  The  female  characters 
are  admirable,  and  but  for  the  opinion,  believed 
by  some,  from  its  frequent  repetition,  that  Mr. 
Cooper  is  incapable  of  depicting  a  woman, 


268 


JAMES   FENIMORE    COOPER. 


Maud  Meredith  would  be  regarded  as  among" 
the  very  first  class  of  such  portraitures. 

Next  came  the  Autobiography  of  a  Pocket 
Handkerchief,  in  one  volume.  It  is  a  story 
of  fashionable  life  in  New  York,  in  some  re 
spects  peculiar  among  Mr.  Cooper's  works, 
and  was  decidedly  successful.  It  appeared 
originally  in  a  monthly  magazine,  and  was 
the  first  of  his  novels  printed  in  this  manner. 

Ned  Myers,  in  one  volume,  which  followed 
in  the  same  year,  is  a  genuine  biography, 
though  it  was  commonly  regarded  as  a  fiction. 

In  the  beginning  of  1844  Mr.  Cooper  pub 
lished  Ashore  and  Afloat,  and  a  few  months 
afterward  Miles  Wallingford,  a  sequel  to  that 
tale.  They  have  the  remarkable  minuteness 
yet  boldness  of  description,  and  dramatic  skill 
of  narration,  which  render  the  impressions  he 
produces  so  deep  and  lasting.  They  were  as 
widely  read  as  any  of  his  recent  productions. 

The  extraordinary  state  of  things  which  for 
several  years  has  disgraced  a  part  of  the  state 
of  New  York,  where,  with  unblushing  effron 
tery,  the  tenants  of  several  large  proprietors 
have  refused  to  pay  rents,  and  claimed,  with 
out  a  shadow  of  right,  to  be  absolute  possess 
ors  of  the  soil,  gave  just  occasion  of  alarm 
to  the  intelligent  friends  of  our  institutions ; 
and  this  alarm  increased,  when  it  was  observed 
that  the  ruffianism  of  the  "  anti-renters,"  as 
they  are  styled,  was  looked  upon  by  many 
persons  of  respectable  social  positions  with 
undisguised  approval.  Mr.  Cooper  addressed 
himself  to  the  exposure  and  correction  of  the 
evil,  in  a  series  of  novels,  purporting  to  be  edi 
ted  from  the  manuscripts  of  a  family  named 
Littlepage  ;  and  in  the  preface  to  the  first  of 
these,  entitled  Satanstoe,  a  Tale  of  the  Colony, 
published  in  1845,  announces  his  intention  of 
treating  it  with  the  utmost  freedom,  and  de 
clares  his  opinion,  that  "  the  existence  of  true 
liberty  among  us,  the  perpetuity  of  our  insti 
tutions,  and  the  safety  of  public  morals,  are 
all  dependent  on  putting  down,  wholly,  abso 
lutely,  and  unqualifiedly,  the  false  and  dis 
honest  theories  and  statements  that  have  been 
advanced  in  connection  with  this  subject." 
Satanstoe  presents  a  vivid  picture  of  the  early 
condition  of  colonial  New  York.  The  time  is 
from  1737  to  the  close  of  the  memorable  cam 
paign  in  which  the  British  were  so  signally 
defeated  at  Tlconderoga.  Chainbearer,  the 
second  of  the  series,  tracing  the  family  his 
tory  through  the  Revolution,  also  appeared  in 


1845,  and  the  last,  The  Red  Skins,  a  story  j»t 
the  present  day,  in  1846.  "This  book,"  says 
the  author  in  his  preface,  "  closes  the  series 
of  the  Littlepage  manuscripts,  which  have 
been  given  to  the  world  as  containing  a  fair 
account  of  the  comparative  sacrifices  of  time, 
money,  and  labour  made  respectively  by  the 
landlord  and  the  tenants  on  a  New  York 
estate,  together  with  the  manner  in  which 
usages  and  opinions  are  changing  among  us, 
and  the  causes  of  these  changes."  These 
books,  in  which  the  most  important  practical 
truths  are  stated,  illustrated  and  enforced,  in  a 
manner  equally  familiar  and  powerful,  were 
received  by  the  educated  and  right-minded 
with  a  degree  of  favour  that  showed  the  sound 
ness  of  the  common  mind  beyond  the  crime 
infected  districts,  and  their  influence  will  add 
to  the  evidences  of  the  value  of  the  novel  as 
a  means  of  upholding  principles  in  art,  litera 
ture,  morals,  and  politics. 

In  1847  appeared  "  The  Crater ;  or,  Vulcan's 
Peak,"  a  story  of  the  shores  of  the  Pacific  ; 
followed  in  1848,  by  "  Oak  Openings ;  or,  the 
Bee  Hunter,"  and  "Jack  Tier;  or,  the  Florida 
Reef,"  a  tale  of  the  sea,  similar  to  the  Water- 
witch.  The  last  of  the  long  series  of  sea  novels, 
"  The  Sea  Lions  ;  or,  the  Lost  Sealers,"  a  tale 
of  the  Antarctic  Ocean,  was  published  in  1849. 
And  the  last  of  all  his  novels,  "  The  Ways  of 
the  Hour,"  exhibiting  the  evils  of  the  trial  by 
jury,  was  issued  in  1850.  His  ever  active  mind 
was  preparing  an  historical  work  on  "  The 
Towns  of  Manhattan,"  and  shaping  the  outline 
of  a  sixth  Leather-stocking  tale,  when  his  ap 
parently  robust  frame  succumbed  to  dropsy, 
Sept.  14,  1851,  in  his  62d  year. 

It  used  to  be  the  custom  of  the  North 
American  Review  to  speak  of  his  works  as 
"  translated  into  French,"  as  if  this  were  giv 
ing  the  highest  existing  evidence  of  their  po 
pularity,  while  there  was  not  a  language  in 
Europe  into  which  they  did  not  all,  after  the 
publication  of  The  Red  Rover,  appear  al 
most  as  soon  as  they  were  printed  in  London. 
He  has  been  the  chosen  companion  of  the 
prince  and  the  peasant,  on  the  borders  of  the 
Volga,  the  Danube,  and  the  Guadelquiver;  by 
the  Indus  and  the  Ganges,  the  Paraguay  and 
the  Amazon ;  where  the  name  even  of  Wash 
ington  was  never  spoken,  and  our  country  is 
kno.wn  only  as  the  home  of  Cooper.  The 
world  has  living  no  other  writer  whose  fame 
is  so  universal. 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 


269 


Mr.  Cooper  has  the  faculty  of  giving  to  his 
pictures  an  astonishing  reality.  They  are  not 
mere  transcripts  of  nature,  though  as  such  they 
would  possess  extraordinary  merit,  but  actual 
creations,  imbodying  the  very  spirit  of  intelli 
gent  and  genial  experience  and  observation. 
His  Indians,  notwithstanding  all  that  has  been 
written  to  the  contrary,  are  no  more  inferior  in 
fidelity  than  they  are  in  poetical  interest  to 
those  of  his  most  successful  imitators  or  rivals. 
His  hunters  and  trappers  have  the  same  vivid 
ness  and  freshness,  and  in  the  whole  realm  of 
fiction  there  is  nothing  more  actual,  harmo 
nious,  and  sustained.  They  evince  not  only 
the  first  -order  of  inventive  power,  but  a  pro 
foundly  philosophical  study  of  the  influences  of 
situation  upon  human  character.  He  treads 
the  deck  with  the  conscious  pride  of  home 
and  dominion:  the  aspects  of  the  sea  and  sky, 
the  terrors  of  the  tornado,  the  excitement  of 
the  chase,  the  tumult  of  battle,  fire,  and  wreck, 
are  presented  by  him  with  a  freedom  and 
breadth  of  outline,  a  glow  and  strength  of 
colouring  and  contrast,  and  a  distinctness  and 
truth  of  general  and  particular  conception,  that 
place  him  far  in  advance  of  all  the  other  artists 
who  have  attempted  with  pen  or  pencil  to  paint 
the  ocean.  The  same  vigorous  originality  is 
stamped  upon  his  nautical  characters.  The 
sailors  of  Smollett  are  as  different  in  every 
respect  as  those  of  Eugene  Sue  and  Marryatt 
are  inferior.  He  goes  on  board  his  ship  with 
his  own  creations,  disdaining  all  society  and 
assistance  but  that  with  which  he  is  thus  sur 
rounded.  Long  Tom  Coffin,  Tom  Tiller,  Try 
sail,  Bob  Yarn,  the  boisterous  Nightingale,  the 
mutinous  Nighthead,  the  fierce  but  honest  Bol- 
trope,  and  others  who  crowd  upon  our  memo 
ries,  as  familiar  as  if  we  had  ourselves  been 
afloat  with  them,  attest  the  triumph  of  this 
self-reliance.  And  when,  as  if  to  rebuke  the 
charge  of  envy  that  he  owed  his  successes  to 
the  novelty  of  his  scenes  and  persons,  he  en 
tered  upon  fields  which  for  centuries  had  been 
illustrated  by  the  first  geniuses  of  Europe,  his 
abounding  power  and  inspiration  were  vindi 
cated  by  that  series  of  political  novels  ending 
with  The  Bravo,  which  have  the  same  supre 
macy  in  their  class  that  is  held  by  The  Pilot 
and  The  Red  Rover  among  stories  of  the  sea. 


It  has  been  urged  that  his  leading  characters 
are  essentially  alike,  having  no  difference  but 
that  which  results  from  situation.  But  this 
opinion  will  not  bear  investigation.  It  evi 
dently  arose  from  the  habit  of  clothing  his  he 
roes  alike  with  an  intense  individuality,  which 
under  all  circumstances  sustains  the  sympathy 
they  at  first  awaken,  without  the  aid  of  those 
accessories  to  which  artists  of  less  power  are 
compelled  to  resort.  Very  few  authors  have 
added  more  than  one  original  and  striking 
character  to  the  world  of  imagination ;  none 
has  added  more  than  Cooper;  and  his  are  all 
as  distinct  and  actual  as  the  personages  that 
stalk  before  us  on  the  stage  of  history. 

To  be  American,  without  falling  into  Ame 
ricanism,  is  the  true  task  that  is  set  before  the 
native  artist  in  literature,  the  accomplishment 
of  which  awaits  the  reward  of  the  best  ap 
proval  in  these  times,  and  the  promise  of  an 
enduring  name.  Some  of  our  authors,  fasci 
nated  very  excusably  with  the  faultless  mo 
dels  of  another  age,  have  declined  this  condi 
tion,  and  have  given  us  Spectators  and  Tatlers 
with  false  dates,  and  developed  a  style  of  com 
position  of  which  the  very  merits  imply  an 
anachronism  in  the  proportion  of  excellence. 
Others  have  understood  the  result  to  be  at 
tained  better  than  the  means  of  arriving  at  it. 
They  have  not  considered  the  difference  be 
tween  those  peculiarities  in  our  society,  man 
ners,  tempers,  and  tastes,  which  are  genuine 
and  characteristic,  and  those  which  are  merely 
defects  and  errors  upon  the  English  system  ; 
they  have  acquired  the  force  and  gayety  of 
liberty,  but  not  the  dignity  of  independence, 
and  are  only  provincial,  when  they  hoped  to 
be  national.  Mr.  Cooper  has  been  more  happy 
than  any  other  writer  in  reconciling  these  re 
pugnant  qualities,  and  displaying  the  features, 
character,  and  tone  of  a  great  national  style  in 
letters,  which,  original  and  unimitative,  is  yet 
in  harmony  with  the  ancient  models. 

A  public  meeting  was  held  in  New  York, 
Feb.  24,  1852,  to  honor  his  memory,  and  raise 
funds  for  a  monument.  Daniel  Webster  pre 
sided,  and  made  his  last  address  to  a  New  York 
assemblage,  and  Wm.  C.  Bryant  read  a  dis 
course.  Otsego  Hall,  his  residence,  was  de 
stroyed  by  fire  in  1853 


270 


JAMES    FENIMORE    UOOPER. 


THE  PRAIRIE   ON  FIRE. 

FROM  THE   PRAIRIE.     , 

THE  sleep  of  the  fugitives  lasted  for  several 
hours.  The  trapper  was  the  first  to  shake  oft'  its 
influence,  as  he  had  been  the  last  to  court  its  re 
freshment.  Rising,  just  as  the  gray  light  of  day 
began  to  brighten  that  portion  of  the  studded  vault 
which  rested  on  the  eastern  margin  of  the  plain, 
he  summoned  his  companions  from  their  warm 
lairs,  and  pointed  out  the  necessity  of  their  being 
once  more  on  the  alert.  .  . . 

«  See,  Middleton!"  exclaimed  Inez,  in  a  sudden 
burst  of  youthful  pleasure,  that  caused  her  for  a 
moment  to  forget  her  situation.  "  How  lovely  is 
that  sky ;  surely  it  contains  a  promise  of  happier 
times !" 

"  It  is  glorious !"  returned  her  husband.  "  Glo 
rious  and  heavenly  is  that  streak  of  vivid  red,  and 
here  is  a  still  brighter  crimson — rarely  have  I  seen 
a  richer  rising  of  the  sun." 

"  Rising  of  the  sun !"  slowly  repeated  the  old 
man,  lifting  his  tall  person  from  its  seat,  with  a 
deliberate  and  abstracted  air,  while  he  kept  his  eye 
riveted  on  the  changing,  and  certainly  beautiful 
tints  that  were  garnishing  the  vault  of  heaven. 
"  Rising  of  the  sun !  I  like  not  such  risings  of  the 
sun.  Ah's  me !  the  imps  have  circumvented  us 
with  a  vengeance.  The  prairie  is  on  fire !" 

"  God  in  heaven  protect  us !"  cried  Middleton, 
catching  Inez  to  his  bosom  under  the  instant  im 
pression  of  the  imminence  of  their  danger.  "  There 
is  no  time  to  lose,  old  man ;  each  instant  is  a  day ; 
let  us  fly." 

"Whither?"  demanded  the  trapper,  motioning 
him  with  calmness  and  dignity,  to  arrest  his  steps. 
"  In  this  wilderness  of  grass  and  reeds,  you  are 
like  a  vessel  in  the  broad  lakes  without  a  compass. 
A  single  step  on  the  wrong  course  might  prove 
the  destruction  of  us  all.  It  is  seldom  danger  is 
so  pressing  that  there  is  not  time  enough  for  rea 
son  to  do  its  work,  young  officer ;  therefore,  let  us 
await  its  biddings." 

"  For  my  own  part,"  said  Paul  Hover,  looking 
about  him  with  no  unequivocal  expression  of  con 
cern,  "  I  acknowledge,  that  should  this  dry  bed  of 
weeds  get  fairly  in  a  flame,  a  bee  would  have  to 
make  a  flight  higher  than  common  to  prevent  his 
wings  from  scorching.  Therefore,  old  trapper,  I 
agree  with  the  captain,  and  say  mount  and  run." 

«  Ye  are  wrong — ye  are  wrong — man  is  not  a 
beast  to  follow  the  gift  of  instinct,  and  to  snuflf  up 
his  knowledge  by  a  taint  in  the  air,  or  a  rumbling 
in  the  sound;  but  he  must  see  and  reason,  and 
then  conclude.  So  follow  me  a  little  to  the  left, 
where  there  is  a  rise  in  the  ground,  whence  we 
may  make  our  reconnoitrings." 

The  old  man  waved  his  hand  with  authority, 
and  led  the  way  without  further  parlance  to  the 
spot  he  had  indicated,  followed  by  the  whole  of 
his  alarmed  companions.  An  eye  less  practised 
than  that  of  the  trapper  might  have  failed  in  dis 
covering  the  gentle  elevation  to  which  he  aLaded, 
and  which  looked  on  the  surface  of  the  meadow 
like  a  growth  a  little  taller  than  common.  When 


they  reached  the  place,  however,  the  stinted  grass 
itself  announced  the  absence  of  that  moisture 
which  had  fed  the  rank  weeds  of  most  of  the  plain, 
and  furnished  a  clue  to  the  evidence  by  which  he 
had  judged  of  the  formation  of  the  ground  hidden 
beneath.  Here  a  few  minutes  were  lost  in  break 
ing  down  the  tops  of  the  surrounding  herbage, 
which,  notwithstanding  the  advantage  of  their  po 
sition,  rose  even  above  the  heads  of  Middleton  and 
Paul,  and  in  obtaining  a  look-out  that  might  com 
mand  a  view  of  the  surrounding  sea  of  fire.  .  . 

The  examination  which  his  companions  so  in 
stantly  and  so  intently  made,  rather  served  to 
assure  them  of  their  desperate  situation  than  to 
appease  their  fears.  Huge  columns  of  smoke 
were  rolling  up  from  the  plain,  and  thickening  in 
gloomy  masses  around  the  horizon.  The  red  glow 
which  gleamed  upon  their  enormous  folds,  now 
lighting  their  volumes  with  the  glare  of  the  con 
flagration,  now  flashed  to  another  point,  as  the 
flame  beneath  glided  ahead,  leaving  all  behind 
enveloped  in  awful  darkness,  and  proclaiming 
louder  than  words  the  character  of  the  imminent 
and  rapidly  approaching  danger. 

"  This  is  terrible !"  exclaimed  Middleton,  folding 
the  trembling  Inez  to  his  heart.  "  At  such  a  time 
as  this,  and  in  such  a  manner  !" 

"  The  gates  of  heaven  are  open  to  all  who  truly 
believe,"  murmured  the  pious  devotee  in  his  bosom. 

"  This  resignation  is  maddening !  But  we  are 
men,  and  will  make  a  struggle  for  our  lives !  How 
now,  my  brave  and  spirited  friend,  shall  we  yet 
mount  and  push  across  the  flames,  or  shall  we 
stand  here  and  see  those  we  most  love  perish  in 
this  frightful  manner  without  an  effort  ?" 

"  I  am  for  a  swarming  time,  and  a  flight  before 
the  hive  is  too  hot  to  hold  us,"  said  the  bee-hunter, 
to  whom  it  will  be  at  once  seen  that  the  half-dis 
tracted  Middleton  addressed  himself.  "  Come,  old 
trapper,  you  must  acknowledge  this  is  but  a  slow 
way  of  getting  out  of  danger.  If  we  tarry  here 
much  longer,  it  will  be  in  the  fashion  that  the  bees 
lie  around  the  straw  after  the  hive  has  been  smoked 
for  its  honey.  You  may  hear  the  fire  begin  to 
roar  already,  and  I  know  by  experience,  that  when 
the  flame  once  gets  fairly  into  the  prairie  grass,  it 
is  no  sloth  that  can  outrun  it." 

"  Think  you,"  returned  the  old  man,  pointing 
scornfully  at  the  mazes  of  the  dry  and  matted 
grass  which  environed  them, "  that  mortal  feet  can 
outstrip  the  speed  of  fire  on  such  a  path?" 

"  What  say  you,  friend  doctor,"  cried  the  bewil 
dered  Paul,  turning  to  the  naturalist,  with  that  sort 
of  helplessness  with  which  the  strong  are  often  apt 
to  seek  aid  of  the  weak,  when  human  power  is 
baffled  by  the  hand  of  a  mightier  being,  "  what 
say  you ;  have  you  no  advice  to  give  away,  in  a 
case  of  life  and  death?" 

The  naturalist  stood,  tablets  in  hands,  looking 
at  the  awful  spectacle  with  as  much  composure  as 
though  the  conflagration  had  been  lighted  in  order 
to  solve  the  difficulties  of  some  scientific  problem. 
Aroused  by  the  question  of  his  companion,  he 
turned  to  his  equally  calm  though  differently  occu 
pied  associate  the  trapper,  demanding,  with  the 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 


271 


most  provoking  insensibility  to  the  urgent  nature 
of  their  situation — "  Venerable  hunter,  you  have 
often  witnessed  similar  prismatic  experiments — " 

He  was  rudely  interrupted  by  Paul,  who  struck 
the  tablets  from  his  hands  with  a  violence  that  be 
trayed  the  utter  intellectual  confusion  which  had 
overset  the  equanimity  of  his  mind.  Before  time 
was  allowed  for  remonstrance,  the  old  man,  who 
had  continued  during  the  whole  scene  like  one 
much  at  a  loss  how  to  proceed,  though  also  like 
one  who  was  rather  perplexed  than  alarmed,  sud 
denly  assumed  a  decided  air,  as  if  he  no  longer 
doubted  on  the  course  it  was  most  advisable  to 
pursue. 

"  It  is  time  to  be  doing,"  he  said,  interrupting 
the  controversy  that  was  about  to  ensue  between 
the  naturalist  and  the  bee-hunter ;  « it  is  time  to 
leave  off  books  and  moanings,  and  to  be  doing." 

"  You  have  come  to  your  recollections  too  late, 
miserable  old  man,"  cried  Middleton ;  «  the  flames 
are  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  us,  and  the  wind 
is  bringing  them  down  in  this  quarter  with  dread 
ful  rapidity." 

"Anan!  the  flames!  I  care  but  little  for  the 
flames.  If  I  only  knew  how  to  circumvent  the 
cunning  of  the  Tetons,  as  I  know  how  to  cheat 
the  fire  of  its  prey,  there  would  be  nothing  needed 
but  thanks  to  the  Lord  for  our  deliverance.  Do 
you  call  this  a  fire  1  If  you  had  seen  what  I  have 
witnessed  in  the  eastern  hills,  when  mighty  moun 
tains  were  like  the  furnace  of  a  smith,  you  would 
have  known  what  it  was  to  fear  the  flames,  and  to 
be  thankful  that  you  were  spared  !  Come,  lads, 
come  ;  'tis  time  to  be  doing  now,  and  to  cease  talk 
ing  ;  for  yonder  curling  flame  is  truly  coming  on 
like  a  trotting  moose.  Put  hands  upon  this  short 
and  withered  grass  where  we  stand,  and  lay  bare 
the  'arth." 

"  Would  you  think  to  deprive  the  fire  of  its 
victims  in  this  childish  manner!"  exclaimed  Mid 
dleton. 

A  faint  but  solemn  smile  passed  over  the  features 
of  the  old  man  as  he  answered — "  Your  gran'ther 
would  have  said,  that  when  the  enemy  was  nigh, 
a  soldier  could  do  no  better  than  to  obey." 

The  captain  felt  the  reproof  and  instantly  began 
to  imitate  the  industry  of  Paul,  who  was  tearing 
the  decayed  herbage  from  the  ground  in  a  sort  of 
desperate  compliance  with  the  trapper's  direction. 
Even  Ellen  lent  her  hands  to  the  labour,  nor  was 
it  long  before  Inez  was  seen  similarly  employed, 
though  none  amongst  them  knew  why  or  where 
fore.  When  life  is  thought  to  be  the  reward  of 
labour,  men  are  wont  to  be  industrious.  A  very 
few  moments  sufficed  to  lay  bare  a  spot  of  some 
twenty  feet  in  diameter.  Into  one  edge  of  this 
little  area  the  trapper  brought  the  females,  directing 
Middlevon  and  Paul  to  cover  their  light  and  in 
flammable  dresses  with  the  blankets  of  the  party. 
So  soon  as  this  precaution  was  observed,  the  old 
man  approached  the  opposite  margin  of  the  grass, 
which  still  environed  them  in  a  tall  and  dangerous 
circle,  and  selecting  a  handful  of  the  driest  of  the 
herbage,  he  placed  it  over  the  pan  of  his  rifle. 
The  light  combustible  kindled  at  the  flash.  Then 


he  placed  the  little  flame  into  a  bed  of  the  standing 
fog,  and  withdrawing  from  the  spot  to  the  centre 
of  the  ring,  he  patiently  awaited  the  result. 

The  subtle  element  seized  with  avidity  upon  its 
new  fuel,  and  in  a  moment  forked  flames  were 
gliding  among  the  grass,  as  the  tongues  of  rumi 
nating  animals  are  seen  rolling  among  their  food 
apparently  in  quest  of  its  sweetest  portions. 

"Now,"  said  the  old  man,  holding  up  a  finger 
and  laughing  in  his  peculiarly  silent  manner, "  you 
shall  see  fire  fight  fire  !  Ah's  me !  many  is  the 
time  I  have  burnt  a  smootly  path  from  wanton 
laziness  to  pick  my  way  across  a  tangled  bottom." 

«  But  is  this  not  fatal1?"  cried  the  amazed  Mid 
dleton  ;  "  are  you  not  bringing  the  enemy  nigher 
to  us  instead  of  avoiding  it?" 

"  Do  you  scorch  so  easily  ? — your  gran'ther  had 
a  tougher  skin.  But  we  shall  live  to  see ;  we  shall 
all  live  to  see." 

The  experience  of  the  trapper  was  in  the  right. 
As  the  fire  gained  strength  and  heat  it  began  to 
spread  on  three  sides,  dying  of  itself  on  the  fourth 
for  want  of  aliment.  As  it  increased,  and  the  sul 
len  roaring  announced  its  power,  it  cleared  every 
thing  before  it,  leaving  the  black  and  smoking  soil 
far  more  naked  than  if  tha^scythe  had  swept  the 
place.  The  situation  of  the  fugitives  would  have 
still  been  hazardous  had  not  the  area  enlarged  as 
the  flame  encircled  them.  But  by  advancing  to 
the  spot  where  the  trapper  had  kindled  the  grass, 
they  avoided  the  heat,  and  in  a  very  few  moments 
the  flames  began  to  recede  in  every  quarter,  leav 
ing  them  enveloped  in  a  cloud  of  smoke,  but  per 
fectly  safe  from  the  torrent  of  fire  that  was  still 
furiously  rolling  onward. 

The  spectators  regarded  the  simple  expedient 
of  the  trapper  with  that  species  of  wonder  with 
which  the  courtiers  of  Ferdinand  are  said  to  have 
viewed  the  manner  in  which  Columbus  made  his 
egg  to  stand  on  its  end,  though  with  feelings  that 
were  filled  with  gratitude  instead  of  envy. 

"  Most  wonderful !"  said  Middleton,  when  he 
saw  the  complete  success  of  the  means  by  which 
they  had  been  rescued  from  a  danger  that  he  had 
conceived  to  be  unavoidable.  "  The  thought  was 
a  gift  from  heaven,  and  the  hand  that  executed  it 
should  be  immortal." 

"  Old  trapper,"  cried  Paul,  thrusting  his  fingers 
through  his  shaggy  locks,  « I  have  lined  many  a 
loaded  bee  into  his  hole,  and  know  something  of 
the  nature  of  the  woods,  but  this  is  robbing  a  hor 
net  of  his  sting  without  touching  the  insect !" 

"  It  will  do — it  will  do,"  returned  the  old  man, 
who  after  the  first  moment  of  his  success  seemed 
to  think  no  more  of  the  exploit. . . "  Let  the  flames 
do  their  work  for  a  short  half  hour  and  then  we  will 
mount.  That  time  is  needed  to  cool  the  meadow, 
for  these  unshod  beasts  are  tender  on  the  hoof  as 
a  barefooted  girl." 

The  veteran,  on  whose  experience  they  all  so 
implicitly  relied  for  protection,  employed  himself 
in  reconnoitring  objects  in  the  distance,  through 
the  openings  which  the  air  occasionally  made  in 
the  immense  bodies  of  smoke,  that  by  this  time  lay 
in  enormous  piles  on  every  part  of  the  plain 


272 


JAMES   FENIMORE    COOPER. 


THE  ARIEL  AMONG  THE  SHOALS. 

FROM  THE  PILOT. 

THE  extraordinary  activity  of  Griffith,  which 
communicated  itself  with  promptitude  to  the  whole 
crew,  was  produced  by  a  sudden  alteration  in  the 
weather.  In  place  of  the  well-defined  streak  along 
the  horizon,  that  has  been  already  described,  an 
immense  body  of  misty  light  appeared  to  be  mov 
ing  in  with  rapidity  from  the  ocean,  while  a  dis 
tinct  but  distant  roaring  announced  the  sure  ap 
proach  of  the  tempest  that  had  so  long  troubled 
the  waters.  Even  Griffith,  while  thundering  his 
orders  through  the  trumpet,  arid  urging  the  men 
by  his  cries  to  expedition,  would  pause  for  instants 
to  cast  anxious  glances  in  the  direction  of  the 
coming  storm,  and  the  faces  of  the  sailors  who  lay 
on  the  yards  were  turned  instinctively  toward  the 
the  same  quarter  of  the  heavens,  while  they  knot 
ted  the  reef-points,  or  passed  the  gaskets  that  were 
to  confine  the  unruly  canvas  to  the  prescribed 
limits. 

The  pilot  alone,  in  that  confused  and  busy 
throng,  where  voice  rose  above  voice  and  cry 
echoed  cry  in  quick  succession,  appeared  as  if  he 
held  no  interest  in  the  important  stake.  With 
his  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  the  approaching  mist, 
and  his  arms  folded  together  in  composure,  he 
stood  calmly  awaiting  the  result. 

The  ship  had  fallen  off  with  her  broadside  to 
the  sea,  and  was  become  unmanageable,  and  the 
sails  were  already  brought  into  the  folds  necessary 
to  her  security,  when  the  quick  and  heavy  flutter 
ing  of  canvas  was  thrown  across  the  water  with 
all  the  gloomy  and  chilling  sensations  that  such 
sounds  produce,  where  darkness  and  danger  unite 
to  appal  the  seaman. 

«  The  schooner  has  it !"  cried  Griffith;  «  Barn- 
stable  has  held  on,  like  himself,  to  the  last  moment 
— God  send  that  the  squall  leave  him  cloth  enough 
to  keep  him  from  the  shore  !" 

"  His  sails  are  easily  handled,"  the  commander 
observed,  <i  and  she  must  be  over  the  principal 
danger.  We  are  falling  off  before  it,  Mr.  Gray ; 
shall  we  try  a  cast  of  the  lead  T' 

The  pilot  turned  from  his  contemplative  posture 
and  moved  slowly  across  the  deck  before  he  re 
turned  any  reply  to  this  question — like  a  man  who 
not  only  felt  that  every  thing  depended  on  him 
self,  but  that  he  was  equal  to  the  emergency. 

"  'Tis  unnecessary,"  he  at  length  said ;  "  'twould 
be  certain  destruction  to  be  taken  aback,  and  it  is 
difficult  to  say,  within  several  points,  how  the  wind 
may  strike  us." 

«  'Tis  difficult  no  longer,"  cried  Griffith ;  "  for 
here  it  comes,  and  in  right  earnest !" 

The  rushing  sounds  of  the  wind  were  now,  in 
deed,  heard  at  hand,  and  the  words  were  hardly 
passed  the  lips  of  the  young  lieutenant  before  the 
vessel  bowed  down  heavily  to  one  side,  and  then, 
as  she  began  to  move  through  the  water,  rose 
again  majestically  to  her  upright  position,  as  if 
saluting,  like  a  courteous  champion,  the  powerful 
antagonist  with  which  she  was  about  to  contend. 
No*  another  minute  elapsed  before  the  ship  was 


throwing  the  waters  aside  with  a  lively  progress, 
and,  obedient  to  her  helm,  was  brought  as  near  to 
the  desired  course  as  the  direction  of  the  wind 
would  allow.  The  hurry  and  bustle  on  the  yards 
gradually  subsided,  and  the  men  slowly  descended 
to  the  deck,  all  straining  their  eyes  to  pierce  the 
gloom  in  which  they  were  enveloped,  and  some 
shaking  their  heads  in  melancholy  doubt,  afraid 
to  express  the  apprehensions  they  really  enter 
tained.  All  on  board  anxiously  waited  for  the 
fury  of  the  gale ;  for  there  were  none  so  ignorant 
or  inexperienced  in  that  gallant  frigate,  as  not  to 
know  that  they  as  yet  only  felt  the  infant  efforts 
of  the  winds.  Each  moment,  however,  it  increased 
in  power,  though  so  gradual  was  the  alteration, 
that  the  relieved  mariners  began  to  believe  that  all 
their  gloomy  forebodings  were  not  to  be  realized. 
During  this  short  interval  of  uncertainty,  no  other 
sounds  were  heard  than  the  whistling  of  the  breeze, 
as  it  passed  quickly  through  the  mass  of  rigging 
that  belonged  to  the  vessel,  and  the  dashing  of  the 
spray  that  began  to  fly  from  her  bows  like  the 
foam  of  a  cataract. 

"  It  blows  fresh,"  cried  Griffith,  who  was  the 
first  to  speak  in  that  moment  of  doubt  and  anxiety ; 
"  but  it  is  no  more  than  a  cap-full  of  wind  after 
all.  Give  us  elbow-room  and  the  right  canvas, 
Mr.  Pilot,  and  I'll  handle  the  ship  like  a  gentle 
man's  yacht  in  this  breeze." 

"  Will  she  stay,  think  ye,  under  this  sail  1"  said 
the  low  voice  of  the  stranger. 

"  She  will  do  all  that  man  in  reason  can  ask  of 
wood  and  iron,"  returned  the  lieutenant;  "but  the 
vessel  don't  float  the  ocean  that  will  tack  under 
double-reefed  topsails  alone  against  a  heavy  sea. 
Help  her  with  the  courses,  pilot,  and  you'll  see 
her  come  round  like  a  dancing-master." 

"  Let  us  feel  the  strength  of  the  gale  first,"  re 
turned  the  man  who  was  called  Mr.  Gray,  moving 
from  the  side  of  Griffith  to  the  weather  gang-way 
of  the  vessel,  where  he  stood  in  silence,  looking 
ahead  of  the  ship  with  an  air  of  singular  coolness 
and  abstraction. 

All  the  lanterns  had  been  extinguished  on  the 
deck  of  the  frigate,  when  her  anchor  was  secured, 
and  as  the  first  mist  of  the  gale  had  passed  over,  it 
was  succeeded  by  a  faint  light  that  was  a  good  deal 
aided  by  the  glittering  foam  of  the  waters,  which 
now  broke  in  white  curls  around  the  vessel  in 
every  direction.  The  land  could  be  faintly  dis 
cerned,  rising  like  a  heavy  bank  of  black  fog  above 
the  margin  of  the  waters,  and  was  only  distin 
guishable  from  the  heavens  by  its  deeper  gloom 
and  obscurity.  The  last  rope  was  coiled  and  de 
posited  in  its  proper  place  by  the  seamen,  and  for 
several  minutes  the  stillness  of  death  pervaded  the 
crowded  decks.  It  was  evident  to  every  one  that 
their  ship  was  dashing  at  a  prodigious  rate  through 
the  waves;  and,  as  she  was  approaching,  with 
such  velocity,  the  quarter  of  the  bay  where  the 
shoals  and  dangers  were  known  to  be  situated,  no 
thing  but  the  habits  of  the  most  exact  discipline 
could  suppress  the  uneasiness  of  the  officei's  and 
men  within  their  own  bosoms.  At  length  the  voice 
of  Captain  Munson  was  heard  calling  to  the  pilot. 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 


273 


"  Shall  I  send  a  hand  into  the  chains,  Mr.  Gray," 
he  said,  "  and  try  our  water  ?"  .  .  . 

"  Tack  your  ship,  sir,  tack  your  ship ;  I  would 
see  how  she  works  before  we  reach  the  point 
where  she  must  behave  well,  or  we  perish." 

Griffith  gazed  after  him  in  wonder,  while  the 
pilot  slowly  paced  the  quarter-deck,  and  then,  rous 
ing  from  his  trance,  gave  forth  the  cheering  order 
that  called  each  man  to  his  station  to  perform  the 
desired  evolution.  The  confident  assurances  which 
the  young  officer  had  given  to  the  pilot  respecting 
the  qualities  of  his  vessel,  and  his  own  ability  to 
manage  her,  were  fully  realized  by  the  result.  The 
helm  was  no  sooner  put  a-lee,  than  the  huge  ship 
bore  up  gallantly  against  the  wind,  and,  dashing 
directly  through  the  waves,  threw  the  foam  high 
into  the  air  as  she  looked  boldly  into  the  very  eye 
of  the  wind,  and  then,  yielding  gracefully  to  its 
power,  she  fell  off  on  the  other  tack  with  her  head 
pointed  from  those  dangerous  shoals  that  she  had 
so  recently  approached  with  such  terrifying  velo 
city.  The  heavy  yards  swung  round  as  if  they 
had  been  vanes  to  indicate  the  currents  of  the  air, 
and  in  a  few  moments  the  frigate  again  moved 
with  stately  progress  through  the  water,  leaving 
the  rocks  and  shoals  behind  her  on  one  side  of  the 
bay,  but  advancing  toward  those  that  offered  equal 
danger  on  the  other. 

During  this  time,  the  sea  was  becoming  more 
agitated,  and  the  violence  of  the  wind  was  gradu 
ally  increasing.  The  latter  no  longer  whistled  amid 
the  cordage  of  the  vessel,  but  it  seemed  to  howl 
surlily  as  it  passed  the  complicated  machinery  that 
the  frigate  obtruded  on  its  path.  An  endless  suc 
cession  of  white  surges  rose  above  the  heavy  bil 
lows,  and  the  very  air  was  glittering  with  the  light 
that  was  disengaged  from  the  ocean.  The  ship 
yielded  each  moment  more  and  more  before  the 
storm,  and,  in  less  than  half  an  hour  from  the  time 
that  she  had  lifted  her  anchor,  she  was  driven 
along  with  tremendous  fury  by  the  full  power  of  a 
gale  of  wind.  Still,  the  hardy  and  experienced 
mariners  who  directed  her  movements,  held  her  to 
the  course  that  was  necessary  to  their  preservation, 
and  still  Griffith  gave  forth,  when  directed  by  their 
unknown  pilot,  those  orders  that  turned  her  in  the 
narrow  channel  where  safety  was  alone  to  be 
found. 

So  far  the  performance  of  his  duty  appeared 
easy  to  the  stranger,  and  he  gave  the  required 
directions  in  those  still,  calm  tones  that  formed  so 
remarkable  a  contrast  to  the  responsibility  of  his 
situation.  But  when  the  land  was  becoming  dim, 
in  distance  as  well  as  darkness,  and  the  agitated 
sea  was  only  to  be  discovered  as  it  swept  by  them 
in  foam,  he  broke  in  upon  the  monotonous  roaring 
of  the  tempest  with  the  sounds  of  his  voice,  seem 
ing  to  shake  off  his  apathy  and  rouse  himself  to 
the  occasion. 

"Now  is  the  time  to  watch  her  closely,  Mr. 
Griffith,"  he  cried ;  "  here  we  get  the  true  tide 
and  the  real  danger.  Place  the  best  quarter-mas 
ter  of  your  ship  in  those  chains,  and  let  an  officer 
stand  by  him  and  see  that  he  gives  us  the  right 
water." 


"  I  will  take  that  office  on  myself,"  said  the  cap 
tain;  "pass  a  light  into  the  weather  main-chains." 

"  Stand  by  your  braces !"  exclaimed  the  pilot 
with  startling  quickness.  "  Heave  away  that  lead !" 

These  preparations  taught  the  crew  to  expect 
the  crisis,  and  every  officer  and  man  stood  in  fear 
ful  silence  at  his  assigned  station  awaiting  the 
issue  of  the  trial.  Even  the  quarter-master  at  the 
cun  gave  out  his  orders  to  the  men  at  the  wheel 
in  deeper  and  hoarser  tones  than  usual,  as  if  anx 
ious  not  to  disturb  the  quiet  and  order  of  the  vessel. 

While  this  deep  expectation  pervaded  the  fri 
gate,  the  piercing  cry  of  the  leadsman,  as  he  called, 
"  By  the  mark  seven !"  rose  above  the  tempest, 
crossed  over  the  decks,  and  appeared  to  pass  away 
to  leeward,  borne  on  the  blast  like  the  warnings  of 
some  water-spirit. 

« 'Tis  well,"  returned  the  pilot,  calmly ;  « try  it 
again." 

The  short  pause  was  succeeded  by  another  cry, 
«  and  a  half-five  !" 

"  She  shoals !  she  shoals  !"  exclaimed  Griffith ; 
"  keep  her  a  good  full." 

"  Ay !  you  must  hold  the  vessel  in  command, 
now,"  said  the  pilot,  with  those  cool  tones  that  are 
most  appalling  in  critical  moments,  because  they 
seem  to  denote  most  preparation  and  care. 

The  third  call  of  «  By  the  deep  four !"  was  fol 
lowed  by  a  prompt  direction  from  the  stranger  to 
tack. 

Griffith  seemed  to  emulate  the  coolness  of  the 
pilot,  in  issuing  the  necessary  orders  to  execute 
this  manoeuvre. 

The  vessel  rose  slowly  from  the  inclined  posi 
tion  into  which  she  had  been  forced  by  the  tempest, 
and  the  sails  were  shaking  violently,  as  if  to  re 
lease  themselves  from  their  confinement  while  the 
ship  stemmed  the  billows,  when  the  well-known 
voice  of  the  sailing-master  was  heard  shouting 
from  the  forecastle — "  Breakers !  breakers,  dead 
ahead !" 

This  appalling  sound  seemed  yet  to  be  lingering 
about  the  ship,  when  a  second  voice  cried — "  Break 
ers  on  our  lee-bow !" 

"  We  are  in  a  bight  of  the  shoals,  Mr.  Gray," 
said  the  commander.  «  She  loses  her  way  ;  per 
haps  an  anchor  might  hold  her." 

"  Clear  away  lhat  best-bower !"  shouted  Griffith 
through  his  trumpet. 

"  Hold  on !"  cried  the  pilot,  in  a  voice  that 
reached  the  very  hearts  of  all  who  heard  him; 
"  hold  on  every  thing." 

The  young  man  turned  fiercely  to  the  daring 
stranger  who  thus  defied  the  discipline  of  his  ves 
sel,  and  at  once  demanded — "  Who  is  it  that  dares 
to  countermand  my  orders? — is  it  not  enough  that 
you  run  the  ship  into  danger,  but  you  must  inter 
fere  to  keep  her  there  ?  If  another  word — " 

"  Peace,  Mr.  Griffith,"  interrupted  the  captain, 
bending  from  the  rigging,  his  gray  locks  blowing 
about  in  the  wind,  and  adding  a  look  of  wildness 
to  the  haggard  care  that  he  exhibited  by  the  light 
of  his  lantern  ;  "  yield  the  trumpet  to  Mr.  Gray  ; 
he  alone  can  save  us." 

Griffith  threw  his  speaking  trumpet  on  the  deck, 


274 


JAMES   FENIMORE    COOPER. 


and,  as  he  walked  proudly  away,  muttered  in  bit 
terness  of  feeling — "  Then  all  is  lost,  indeed,  and, 
among  the  rest,  the  foolish  hopes  with  which  I 
visited  this  coast." 

There  was,  however,  no  time  for  reply;  the 
ship  had  been  rapidly  running  into  the  wind,  and, 
as  the  efforts  of  the  crew  were  paralyzed  by  the 
contradictory  orders  they  had  heard,  she  gradually 
lost  her  way,  and  in  a  few  seconds  all  her  sails 
were  taken  aback. 

Before  the  crew  understood  their  situation  the 
pilot  had  applied  the  trumpet  to  his  mouth,  and, 
in  a  voice  that  rose  above  the  tempest,  he  thun 
dered  forth  his  orders.  Each  command  was  given 
distinctly,  and  with  a  precision  that  showed  him 
to  be  master  of  his  profession.  The  helm  was 
kept  fast,  the  head  yards  swung  up  heavily  against 
the  wind,  and  the  vessel  was  soon  whirling  round 
on  her  heel  with  a  retrograde  movement. 

Griffith  was  too  much  of  a  seaman  not  to  per 
ceive  that  the  pilot  had  seized,  with  a  perception 
almost  intuitive,  the  only  method  that  promised  to 
extricate  the  vessel  from  her  situation.  He  was 
young,  impetuous,  and  proud;  but  he  was  also 
generous.  Forgetting  his  resentment  and  his  mor 
tification,  he  rushed  forward  among  the  men,  and, 
by  his  presence  and  example,  added  certainty  to 
the  experiment.  The  ship  fell  off  slowly  before 
the  gale,  and  bowed  her  yards  nearly  to  the  water, 
as  she  felt  the  blast  pouring  its  fury  on  her  broad 
side,  while  the  surly  waves  beat  violently  against 
her  stern,  as  if  in  reproach  at  departing  from  her 
usual  manner  of  moving. 

The  voice  of  the  pilot,  however,  was  still  heard, 
steady  and  calm,  and  yet  so  clear  and  high  as  to 
reach  every  ear ;  and  the  obedient  seamen  whirled 
the  yards  at  his  bidding  in  despite  of  the  tempest, 
as  if  they  handled  the  toys  of  their  childhood. 
When  the  ship  had  fallen  off  dead  before  the  wind, 
her  head  sails  were  shaken,  her  after-yards  trimmed, 
and  her  helm  shifted  before  she  had  time  to  run 
upon  the  danger  that  had  threatened,  as  well  to 
leeward  as  to  windward.  The  beautiful  fabric, 
obedient  to  her  government,  threw  her  bows  up 
gracefully  toward  the  wind  again,  and,  as  her  sails 
were  trimmed,  moved  out  from  amongst  the  dan 
gerous  shoals  in  which  she  had  been  embayed,  as 
steadily  and  swiftly  as  she  had  approached  them. 

A  moment  of  breathless  astonishment  succeeded 
the  accomplishment  of  this  nice  manoeuvre,  but 
there  was  no  time  for  the  usual  expressions  of  sur 
prise.  The  stranger  still  held  the  trumpet,  and 
continued  to  lift  his  voice  amid  the  bowlings  of 
the  blast,  whenever  prudence  or  skill  directed  any 
change  in  the  management  of  the  ship.  For  an 
hour  longer,  there  was  a  fearful  struggle  for  their 
preservation,  the  channel  becoming  at  each  step 
more  complicated,  and  the  shoals  thickening  around 
the  mariners  on  every  side.  The  lead  was  cast 
rapidly,  and  the  quick  eye  of  the  pilot  seemed  to 
pierce  the  darkness  with  a  keenness  of  vision  that 
exceeded  human  power.  It  was  apparent  to  all 
in  the  vessel,  that  they  were  under  the  guidance 
of  one  who  understood  the  navigation  thoroughly, 
and  their  exertions  kept  pace  with  their  reviving 


confidence.  Again  and  again  the  frigate  appeared 
to  be  rushing  blindly  on  shoals,  where  the  sea  was 
covered  with  foam,  and  where  destruction  would 
have  been  as  sudden  as  it  was  certain,  when  the 
clear  voice  of  the  stranger  was  heard  warning  them 
of  the  danger,  and  inciting  them  to  their  duty. 
The  vessel  was  implicitly  yielded  to  his  govern 
ment,  and  during  those  anxious  moments,  when 
she  waf  dashing  the  waters  aside,  throwing  the 
spray  over  her  enormous  yards,  each  ear  would 
listen  eagerly  for  those  sounds  that  had  obtained 
a  command  over  the  crew,  that  can  only  be  ac 
quired,  under  such  circumstances,  by  great  steadi 
ness  and  consummate  skill.  The  ship  was  reco 
vering  from  the  inaction  of  changing  her  course 
in  one  of  those  critical  tacks  that  she  had  made  so 
often,  when  the  pilot  for  the  first  time  addressed 
the  commander  of  the  frigate,  who  still  continued 
to  superintend  the  all-important  duty  of  the  leads 
man. 

"  Now  is  the  pinch,"  he  said ;  "  and  if  the  ship 
behaves  well,  we  are  safe — but  if  otherwise,  all  we 
have  yet  done  will  be  useless." 

The  veteran  seaman  whom  he  addressed  left  the 
chains  at  this  portentous  notice,  and,  calling  to 
his  first  lieutenant,  required  of  the  stranger  an  ex 
planation  of  his  warning. 

"  See  you  yon  light  on  the  southern  headland  V 
returned  the  pilot ;  "  you  may  know  it  from  th« 
star  near  it  by  its  sinking,  at  times,  in  the  ocean. 
Now  observe  the  hummock,  a  little  north  of  it, 
looking  like  a  shadow  in  the  horizon — 'tis  a  hill 
far  inland.  If  we  keep  that  light  open  from  the 
hill,  we  shall  do  well — but  if  not,  we  surely  go  to 
pieces." 

"  Let  us  tack  again !"  exclaimed  the  lieutenant. 

The  pilot  shook  his  head,  as  he  replied — "  There 
is  no  more  tacking  or  box-hauling  to  be  done  to 
night.  We  have  barely  room  to  pass  out  of  the 
shoals  on  this  course,  and  if  we  can  weather  the 
'  Devil's  Grip,'  we  clear  their  outermost  point — 
but  if  not,  as  I  said  before,  there  is  but  an  alter 
native." 

"  If  we  had  beaten  out  the  way  we  entered," 
exclaimed  Griffith,  "  we  should  have  done  well." 

"  Say,  also,  if  the  tide  would  have  let  us  do  so," 
returned  the  pilot  calmly.  "  Gentlemen,  we  must 
be  prompt;  we  have  but  a  mile  to  go,  and  the 
ship  appears  to  fly.  That  topsail  is  not  enough 
to  keep  her  up  to  the  wind  ;  we  want  both  jib  and 
mainsail." 

"  'Tis  a  perilous  thing  to  loosen  canvas  in  such 
a  tempest!"  observed  the  doubtful  captain. 

"  It  must  be  done,"  returned  the  collected  stran 
ger  ;  "  we  perish  without — see !  the  light  already 
touches  the  edge  of  the  hummock;  the  sea  casts  us 
to  leeward !" 

"  It  shall  be  done !"  cried  Griffith,  seizing  the 
trumpet  from  the  hand  of  the  pilot. 

The  orders  of  the  lieutenant  were  executed  al 
most  as  soon  as  issued,  and,  every  thing  being 
ready,  the  enormous  folds  of  the  mainsail  were 
trusted  loose  to  the  blast.  There  was  an  instant 
when  the  result  was  doubtful ;  the  tremendous 
threshing  of  the  heavy  sails  seeming  to  bid  defiance 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 


275 


to  all  restraint,  shaking  the  ship  to  her  centre ;  but 
art  and  strength  prevailed,  and  gradually  the  can 
vas  was  distended,  and,  bellying  as  it  filled,  was 
drawn  down  to  its  usual  place  by  the  power  of  a 
hundred  men.  The  vessel  yielded  to  this  immense 
addition  of  force,  and  bowed  before  it  like  a  reed 
bending  to  a  breeze.  But  the  success  of  the  mea 
sure  was  announced  by  a  joyful  cry  from  the  stran 
ger  that  seemed  to  burst  from  his  inmost  soul. 

"  She  feels  it !  she  springs  her  luff!  observe," 
he  said,  "  the  light  opens  from  the  hummock  al 
ready  ;  if  she  will  only  bear  her  canvas,  we  shall 
go  clear!" 

A  report  like  that  of  a  cannon  interrupted  his 
exclamation,  and  something  resembling  a  white 
cloud  was  seen  drifting  before  the  wind  from  the 
head  of  the  ship,  till  it  was  driven  into  the  gloom 
far  to  leeward. 

"  'Tis  the  jib  blown  from  the  bolt-ropes,"  said 
the  commander  of  the  frigate.  "  This  is  no  time 
to  spread  light  duck — but  the  mainsail  may  stand 
it  yet." 

«  The  sail  would  laugh  at  a  tornado,"  returned 
the  lieutenant ;  "  but  that  mast  springs  like  a  piece 
of  steel." 

"  Silence  all !"  cried  the  pilot.  "  Now,  gentle 
men,  we  shall  soon  know  our  fate.  Let  her  luff — 
luff  you  can!" 

This  warning  effectually  closed  all  discourse, 
and  the  hardy  mariners,  knowing  that  they  had 
already  done  all  in  the  power  of  man  to  insure 
their  safety,  stood  in  breathless  anxiety  awaiting 
the  result.  At  a  short  distance  ahead  of  them,  the 
whole  ocean  was  white  with  foam,  and  the  waves, 
instead  of  rolling  on  in  regular  succession,  appeared 
to  be  tossing  about  in  mad  gambols.  A  single 
streak  of  dark  billows,  not  half  a  cable's  length  in 
width,  could  be  discerned  running  into  this  chaos 
of  water;  but  it  was  soon  lost  to  the  eye  amid  the 
confusion  of  the  disturbed  element.  Along  this 
narrow  path  the  vessel  moved  more  heavily  than 
before,  being  brought  so  near  the  wind  as  to  keep 
her  sails  touching.  The  pilot  silently  proceeded 
to  the  wheel,  and  with  his  own  hands  he  under 
took  the  steerage  of  the  ship.  No  noise  proceeded 
from  the  frigate  to  interrupt  the  horrid  tumult  of 
the  ocean,  and  she  entered  the  channel  among  the 
breakers  with  the  silence  of  a  desperate  calmness. 
Twenty  times,  as  the  foam  rolled  away  to  leeward, 
the  crew  were  on  the  eve  of  uttering  their  joy,  as 
they  supposed  the  vessel  past  the  danger;  but 
breaker  after  breaker  would  still  rise  before  them, 
following  each  other  into  the  general  mass  to 
check  their  exultation.  Occasionally  the  flutter 
ing  of  the  sails  would  be  heard ;  and  when  the 
looks  of  the  startled  seamen  were  turned  to  the 
wheel,  they  beheld  the  stranger  grasping  its  spokes, 
with  his  quick  eye  glancing  from  the  water  to  the 
canvas.  At  length  the  ship  reached  a  point  where 
she  appeared  to  be  rushing  directly  into  the  jaws 
of  destruction,  when  suddenly  her  course  was 
changed,  and  her  head  receded  rapidly  from  the 
wind.  At  the  same  instant  the  voice  of  the  pilot 
was  heard  shouting — "  Square  away  the  yards  ! — 
in  mainsail !" 


A  general  burst  from  the  crew  echoed,  "  Square 
away  the  yards !"  and  quick  as  thought  the  frigate 
was  seen  gliding  along  the  channel  before  the 
wind.  The  eye  had  hardly  time  to  dwell  on  the 
foam,  which  seemed  like  clouds  driving  in  the 
heavens,  and  directly  the  gallant  vessel  issued  from 
her  perils,  and  rose  and  fell  on  the  heavy  waves 
of  the  open  sea. 


THE  REGATTA  AT  VENICE. 

FROM  THE   BRAVO. 

VENICE,  from  her  peculiar  formation  and  the 
vast  number  of  her  watermen,  had  long  been  cele 
brated  for  this  species  of  amusement.  Families 
were  known  and  celebrated  in  her  traditions  for 
dexterous  skill  with  the  oar,  as  they  were  known 
in  Rome  for  feats  of  a  far  less  useful  and  of  a  more 
barbarous  nature.  It  was  usual  to  select  from 
these  races  of  watermen  the  most  vigorous  and 
skilful;  and,  after  invoking  the  aid  of  patron-saints, 
and  arousing  their  pride  and  recollections  by  songs 
that  recounted  the  feats  of  their  ancestors,  to  start 
them  for  the  goal  with  every  incitement  that  pride 
and  the  love  of  victory  could  awaken. 

Most  of  these  ancient  usages  were  still  observed. 
As  soon  as  the  Bucentaur  was  in  its  station,  some 
thirty  or  forty  gondoliers  were  brought  forth,  clad 
in  their  gayest  habiliments  and  surrounded  and 
supported  by  crowds  of  anxious  friends  and  rela 
tives.  The  intended  competitors  were  expected 
to  sustain  the  long-established  reputations  of  their 
several  -names,  and  they  were  admonished  of  the 
disgrace  of  defeat.  They  were  cheered  by  the 
men,  and  stimulated  by  the  smiles  and  tears  of  the 
other  sex.  The  rewards  were  recalled  to  their 
minds ;  they  were  fortified  by  prayers  to  the  saints ; 
and  then  they  were  dismissed  amid  the  cries  and 
the  wishes  of  the  multitude  to  seek  their  allotted 
places  beneath  the  stern  of  the  galley  of  state. 

The  city  of  Venice  is  divided  into  two  nearly 
equal  parts  by  a  channel  much  broader  than  that 
of  the  ordinary  passages  of  the  town.  This  divid 
ing  artery,  from  its  superior  size  and  depth,  and  its 
greater  importance,  is  called  the  grand  canal.  Its 
course  is  not  unlike  that  of  an  undulating  line, 
which  .greatly  increases  its  length.  As  it  is  much 
used  by  the  larger  boats  of  the  bay — being  in  fact 
a  sort  of  secondary  port — and  its  width  is  so  con 
siderable,  it  has  throughout  the  whole  distance  but 
one  bridge — the  celebrated  Rialto.  The  regatta 
was  to  be  held  on  this  canal,  which  offered  the  re 
quisites  of  length  and  space,  and  which,  as  it  was 
lined  with  most  of  the  palaces  of  the  principal 
senators,  afforded  all  the  facilities  necessary  for 
viewing  the  struggle. 

In  passing  from  one  end  of  this  long  course  to 
the  other,  the  men  destined  for  the  race  were  not 
permitted  to  make  any  exertion.  Their  eyes 
roamed  over  the  gorgeous  hangings,  which,  as  is 
still  wont  throughout  Italy  on  all  days  of  festa, 
floated  from  every  window,  and  on  groups  of  fe 
males  in  rich  attire,  brilliant  with  the  peculiar 
charms  of  the  famed  Venetian  beauty  that  clustered 


276 


JAMES    FENIMORE    COOPER. 


in  the  balconies.  Those  who  were  domestics  rose 
and  answered  to  the  encouraging  signals  thrown 
from  above,  as  they  passed  the  palaces  of  their 
masters;  while  those  who  were  watermen  of  the 
public  endeavoured  to  gather  hope  among  the 
sympathizing  faces  of  the  multitude. 

At  length  every  formality  had  been  duly  ob 
served,  and  the  competitors  assumed  their  places. 
The  gondolas  were  much  larger  than  those  com 
monly  used,  and  each  was  manned  by  three  wa 
termen  in  the  centre,  directed  by  a  fourth,  who, 
standing  on  the  little  deck  in  the  stern,  steered 
while  he  aided  to  impel  the  boat.  There  .were 
light,  low  staffs  in  the  bows,  with  flags  that  bore 
the  distinguishing  colours  of  several  noble  families 
of  the  republic,  or  which  had  such  other  simple 
devices  as  had  been  suggested  by  the  fancies  of 
those  to  whom  they  belonged.  A  few  flourishes 
of  the  oars,  resembling  the  preparatory  movements 
which  the  master  of  fence  makes  ere  he  begins  to 
push  and  parry,  were  given;  a  whirling  of  the 
boats,  like  the  prancing  of  curbed  racers,  succeeded ; 
and  then  at  the  report  of  a  gun,  the  whole  darted 
away  as  if  the  gondolas  were  impelled  by  volition. 
The  start  was  followed  by  a  shout  which  passed 
swiftly  along  the  canal,  and  an  eager  agitation  of 
heads  that  went  from  balcony  to  balcony,  till  the 
sympathetic  movement  was  communicated  to  the 
grave  load  under  which  the  Bucentaur  laboured. 

For  a  few  minutes  the  difference  in  force  and 
skill  was  not  very  obvious.  Each  gondola  glided 
along  the  element,  apparently  with  that  ease  with 
which  a  light-winged  swallow  skims  the  lake,  and 
with  no  visible  advantage  to  an)7  one  of  the  ten. 
Then,  as  more  art  in  him  who  steered,  or  greater 
powers  of  endurance  in  those  who  rowed,  or  some 
of  the  latent  properties  of  the  boat  itself  came  into 
service,  the  cluster  of  little  barks  which  had  come 
off  like  a  closely-united  flock  of  birds  taking  flight 
together  in  alarm,  began  to  open  till  they  formed  a 
long  and  vacillating  line  in  the  centre  of  the  pas 
sage.  The  whole  train  shot  beneath  the  bridge, 
so  near  each  other  as  to  render  it  still  doubtful 
which  was  to  conquer,  and  the  exciting  strife  came 
more  in  view  of  the  principal  personages  of  the 
city. 

But  here  those  radical  qualities,  which  insure 
success  in  efforts  of  this  nature,  manifested  them 
selves.  The  weaker  began  to  yield,  the  train  to 
lengthen,  and  hopes  and  fears  to  increase,  until 
those  in  the  front  presented  the  exhilarating  spec 
tacle  of  success,  while  those  behind  offered  the 
still  more  noble  sight  of  men  struggling  without 
hope.  Gradually  the  distances  between  the  boats 
increased,  while  that  between  them  and  the  goal 
grew  rapidly  less,  until  three  of  those  in  advance 
came  in,  like  glancing  arrows,  beneath  the  stern 
of  the  Bucentaur,  with  scarce  a  length  between 
them.  The  prize  was  won,  the  conquerors  were 
rewarded,  and  the  artillery  gave  forth  the  usual 
signals  of  rejoicing.  Music  answered  to  the  roar 
of  cannon  and  the  peals  of  bells,  while  sympathy 
with  success,  that  predominant  and  so  often  dan 
gerous  principle  of  our  nature,  drew  shouts  even 
from  the  disappointed. 


The  clamour  ceased,  and  a  herald  proclaimed 
aloud  the  commencement  of  a  new  and  a  different 
struggle.  The  last,  and  what  might  be  termed  the 
national  race,  had  been  limited,  by  an  ancient 
usage,  to  the  known  and  recognised  gondoliers  of 
Venice.  The  prize  had  been  awarded  by  the  state, 
and  the  whole  affair  had  somewhat  of  an  official 
and  political  character.  It  was  now  announced, 
however,  that  a  race  was  to  be  run  in  which  the 
reward  was  open  to  all  competitors,  without  ques 
tioning  as  to  their  origin,  or  as  to  their  ordinary 
occupations.  An  oar  of  gold,  to  which  was  at 
tached  a  chain  of  the  same  precious  metal,  was 
exhibited  as  the  boone  of  the  doge  to  him  who 
showed  most  dexterity  and  strength  in  this  new 
struggle ;  while  a  similar  ornament  of  silver  was 
to  be  the  portion  of  him  who  showed  the  second- 
best  dexterity  and  bottom.  A  mimic  boat  of  less 
precious  metal  was  the  third  prize.  The  gondolas 
were  to  be  the  usual  light  vehicles  of  the  canals, 
and  as  the  object  was  to  display  the  peculiar  skill 
of  that  city  of  islands,  but  one  oarsman  was  allowed 
to  each,  on  whom  would  necessarily  fall  the  whole 
duty  of  guiding  while  he  impelled  his  little  bark. 
Any  of  those  who  had  been  engaged  in  the  pre 
vious  trial  were  admitted  to  this ;  and  all  desirous 
of  taking  part  in  the  new  struggle  were  commanded 
to  come  beneath  the  stern  of  the  Bucentaur,  within 
a  prescribed  number  of  minutes,  that  note  might 
be  had  of  their  wishes.  As  notice  of  this  arrange 
ment  had  been  previously  given,  the  interval  be 
tween  the  two  races  was  not  long. 

The  first  who  came  out  of  the  crowd  of  boats 
which  environed  the  vacant  place  that  had  been 
left  for  the  competitors,  was  a  gondolier  of  the 
public  landing,  well  known  for  his  skill  with  the 
oar,  and  his  song  on  the  canal. 

"  How  art  thou  called,  and  in  whose  name  dost 
thou  put  thy  chancel"  demanded  the  herald  of 
this  aquatic  course. 

"  All  know  me  for  Bartolomeo,  one  who  lives 
between  the  Piazzetta  and  the  Lido,  and,  like  a 
loyal  Venetian,  I  trust  in  San  Teodoro." 

"  Thou  art  well  protected ;  take  thy  place  and 
await  thy  fortune." 

The  conscious  waterman  swept  the  water  with 
a  back  stroke  of  his  blade,  and  the  light  gondola 
whirled  away  into  the  centre  of  the  vacant  spot 
like  a  swan  giving  a  sudden  glance  aside. 

"And  who  art  thou?"  demanded  the  official  of 
the  next  that  came. 

"  Enrico,  a  gondolier  of  Fusina.  I  come  to  try 
my  oar  with  the  braggarts  of  the  canals." 

"  In  whom  is  thy  trust  1" 

"  Sant'  Antonio  di  Padua." 

"  Thou  wilt  need  his  aid,  though  we  commend 
thy  spirit.  Enter  and  take  place." — "  And  who 
art  thouV'  he  continued,  to  another,  when  the 
second  had  imitated  the  easy  skill  of  the  first. 

"  I  am  called  Gino  of  Calabria,  a  gondolier  in 
private  service." 

«  What  noble  retaineth  thee  1" 

"  The  illustrious  and  most  excellent  J)on  Ca- 
millo  Monforte,  Duca  and  Lord  of  Sant'  Agata  in 
Napoli,  and  of  right  a  senator  in  Venice." 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 


277 


"  Thou  shouldst  have  come  of  Padua,  friend, 
by  thy  knowledge  of  the  laws !  Dost  thou  trust 
in  him  thou  servest  for  the  victory  ? " 

There  was  a  movement  among  the  senators  at 
the  answer  of  Gino ;  and  the  half-terrified  varlet 
thought  he  perceived  frowns  gathering  on  more 
than  one  brow.  He  looked  around  in  quest  of 
him  whose  greatness  he  had  vaunted,  as  if  he 
sought  succour. 

"  Wilt  thou  name  thy  support  in  this  great  trial 
offeree  1"  resumed  the  herald. 

"  My  master,"  uttered  the  terrified  Gino,  "  St. 
Januarius,  and  St.  Mark." 

"Thou  art  well  defended.  Should  the  two 
latter  fail  thee,  thou  mayest  surely  count  on  the 
first!" 

"  Signer  Monforte  has  an  illustrious  name,  and 
he  is  welcome  to  our  Venetian  sports,"  observed 
the  doge,  slightly  bending  his  head  toward  the 
young  Calabrian  noble,  who  stood  at  no  great  dis 
tance  in  a  gondola  of  state,  regarding  the  scene 
with  a  deeply-interested  countenance.  This  cau 
tious  interruption  of  the  pleasantries  of  the  official 
was  acknowledged  by  a  low  reverence,  and  the 
matter  proceeded. 

"  Take  thy  station,  Gino  of  Calabria,  and  a 
happy  fortune  be  thine,"  said  the  latter;  then  turn 
ing  to  another,  he  asked  in  surprise — "  Why  art 
thou  here  ?'' 

"  I  come  to  try  my  gondola's  swiftness." 

"  Thou  art  old  and  unequal  to  this  struggle ; 
husband  thy  strength  for  daily  toil.  An  ill-advised 
ambition  hath  put  thee  on  this  useless  trial." 

The  new  aspirant  had  forced  a  common  fisher 
man's  gondola,  of  no  bad  shape  and  of  sufficient 
lightness,  but  which  bore  about  it  all  the  vulgar 
signs  of  its  daily  uses,  beneath  the  gallery  of  the 
Bucentaur.  He  received  the  rebuke  meekly,  and 
was  about  to  turn  his  boat  aside,  though  with  a 
sorrowing  and  mortified  eye,  when  a  sign  from  the 
doge  arrested  his  arm. 

"  Question  him,  as  of  wont,"  said  the  prince. 

"How  art  thou  named  1"  continued  the  reluc 
tant  official,  who,  like  all  of  subordinate  condi 
tion,  had  far  more  jealousy  of  the  dignity  of  the 
sports  he  directed  than  his  superior. 

" I  am  known  as  Antonio,  a  fisherman  of  the 
Lagunes." 

«  Thou  art  old  !" 

"  Signore,  none  know  it  better  than  I.  It  is 
sixty  summers  since  I  first  threw  net  or  line  into 
the  water." 

"  Nor  art  thou  clad  as  befitteth  one  who  cometh 
before  the  state  of  Venice  in  a  regatta." 

"  I  am  here  in  the  best  that  I  have.  Let  them 
who  would  do  the  nobles  greater  honour  come  in 
better." 

"  Thy  limbs  are  uncovered — thy  bosom  bare — 
thy  sinews  feeble — go  to ;  thou  art  ill  advised  to 
interrupt  the  pleasures  of  the  nobles  by  this  levity: 

Again  Antonio  would  have  shrunk  from  the  ten 
thousand  eyes  that  shone  upon  him,  when  the  calm 
voice  of  the  doge  once  more  came  to  his  aid. 

"  The  struggle  is  open  to  all,"  said  the  sovereign ; 
"  still  I  would  advise  the  poor  and  aged  man  to 


take  counsel ;  give  him  silver,  for  want  urges  him 
to  this  hopeless  trial." 

"  Thou  hearest ;  alms  are  offered  thee ;  but  give 
place  to  those  who  are  stronger  and  more  seemly 
for  the  sport." 

« I  will  obey,  as  is  the  duty  of  one  born  and  ac 
customed  to  poverty.  They  said  the  race  was 
open  to  all,  and  I  crave  the  pardon  of  the  nobles, 
since  I  meant  to  do  them  no  dishonour." 

"  Justice  in  the  palace,  and  justice  on  the  ca 
nals,"  hastily  observed  the  prince.  "If  he  will 
continue,  it  is  right.  It  is  the  pride  of  St.  Mark 
that  his  balances  are  held  with  an  even  hand." 

A  murmur  of  applause  succeeded  the  specious 
sentiment,  for  the  powerful  rarely  affect  the  noble 
attribute  of  justice,  however  limited  may  be  its  ex 
ercise,  without  their  words  finding  an  echo  in  the 
tongues  of  the  selfish. 

"Thou  hearest — his  highness,  who  is  the  voice 
of  a  mighty  state,  says  thou  mayest  remain ; — 
though  thou  art  still  advised  to  withdraw." 

« I  will  then  see  what  virtue  is  left  in  this  naked 
arm,"  returned  Antonio,  casting1  a  mournful  glance, 
and  one  that  was  not  entirely  free  from  the  latent 
vanity  of  man,  at  his  meagre  and  threadbare  attire. 
"  The  limb  hath  its  scars,  but  the  infidels  may  have 
spared  enough  for  the  little  I  ask." 

"  In  whom  is  thy  faith  ]" 

"  Blessed  St.  Anthony,  of  the  Miraculous 
Draught." 

"  Take  thy  place ! — Ha !  here  cometh  one  un 
willing  to  be  known !  How  now  !  who  appears 
with  so  false  a  face  1" 

«  Call  me,  Mask." 

"  So  neat  and  just  a  leg  and  arm  need  not  have 
hid  their  fellow  the  countenance.  Is  it  your  high- 
ness's  pleasure  that  one  disguised  should  be  en 
tered  for  the  sports?" 

"  Doubt  it  not.  A  mask  is  sacred  in  Venice 
It  is  the  glory  of  our  excellent  and  wise  laws,  that 
he  who  seeketh  to  dwell  within  the  privacy  of  his 
own  thoughts,  and  to  keep  aloof  from  curiosity  by 
shadowing  his  features,  rangeth  our  streets  and 
canals,  as  if  he  dwelt  in  the  security  of  his  own 
abode.  Such  are  the  high  privileges  of  liberty,  and 
such  it  is  to  be  a  citizen  of  a  generous,  a  magnani 
mous,  and  a  free  state  !" 

A  thousand  bowed  in  approbation  of  the  senti 
ment,  and  a  rumor  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth 
that  a  young  noble  was  about  to  try  his  strength 
in  the  regatta,  in  compliment  to  some  wayward 
beauty. 

"  Such  is  justice !"  exclaimed  the  herald  in  a 
loud  voice,  admiration  apparently  overcoming  re 
spect  in  the  ardour  of  the  moment.  "  Happy  is 
he  that  is  born  in  Venice,  and  envied  are  the  peo 
ple  in  whose  councils  wisdom  and  mercy  preside, 
like  lovely  and  benignant  sisters !  On  whom  dost 
thou  rely '!" 

"  Mine  own  arm." 

"  Ha !  This  is  impious !  None  so  presuming 
may  enter  into  these  privileged  sports." 

The  hurried  exclamation  of  the  herald  was  ac 
companied  by  a  general  stir,  such  as  denotes  sud 
den  and  strong  emotion  in  a  multitude. 
2A 


278 


JAMES   FENIMORE    COOPER. 


"  The  children  of  the  republic  are  protected  by 
an  even  hand,"  observed  the  venerable  prince. 
"  It  formeth  our  just  pride,  and  blessed  St.  Mark 
forbid  that  aught  resembling  vain-glory  should  be 
uttered !  but  it  is  truly  our  boast  that  we  know  no 
difference  between  our  subjects  of  the  islands,  or 
those  of  the  Dalmatian  coast ;  between  Padua  or 
Candia ;  Corfu  or  St.  Giorgio.  Still  it  is  not  per 
mitted  for  any  to  refuse  the  intervention  of  the 
saints." 

«  Name  thy  patron,  or  quit  the  place,"  continued 
the  observant  herald,  anew. 

The  stranger  paused,  as  if  he  looked  into  his 
mind,  and  then  he  answered — 

"  San  Giovanni  of  the  Wilderness." 

"  Thou  namest  one  of  blessed  memory  !" 

"  I  name  him  who  may  have  pity  on  me  in  this 
living  desert." 

"  The  temper  of  thy  soul  is  best  known  to  thy 
self,  but  this  reverend  rank  of  patricians,  yonder 
brilliant  show  of  beauty,  and  that  goodly  multi 
tude  may  claim  another  name. — Take  thy  place." 

While  the  herald  proceeded  to  take  the  names 
of  three  or  four  more  applicants,  all  gondoliers  in 
private  service,  a  murmur  ran  through  the  specta 
tors,  which  proved  how  much  their  interest  and 
curiosity  had  been  awakened  by  the  replies  and 
appearance  of  the  two  last  competitors.  In  the 
mean  time,  the  young  nobles  who  entertained 
those  who  came  last,  began  to  move  among  the 
throng  of  boats  with  the  intention  of  making  such 
manifestations  of  their  gallant  desires  and  personal 
devotion  as  suited  the  customs  and  opinions  of  the 
age.  The  list  was  now  proclaimed  to  be  full,  and 
the  gondolas  were  towed  off,  as  before,  toward  the 
starting  point,  leaving  the  place  beneath  the  stern 
of  the  Bucentaur  vacant.  The  scene  that  followed 
consequently  passed  directly  before  the  eyes  of 
those  grave  men,  who  charged  themselves  with 
most  of  the  private  interests,  as  well  as  with  the 
public  concerns  of  Venice 

It  has  been  seen  that  the  gondolas  which  were 
to  contend  in  the  race,  had  been  towed  toward  the 
place  of  starting,  in  order  that  the  men  might  enter 
on  the  struggle  with  undiminished  vigour.  In  this 
precaution,  even  the  humble  and  half-clad  fisher 
man  had  not  been  neglected,  but  his  boat,  like  the 
others,  was  attached  to  the  larger  barges  to  which 
this  duty  had  been  assigned.  Still,  as  he  passed 
along  the  canal,  before  the  crowded  balconies  and 
groaning  vessels  which  lined  its  sides,  there  arose 
that  scornful  and  deriding  laugh,  which  seems  ever 
to  grow  more  strong  and  bold  as  misfortune  weighs 
most  heavily  on  its  subject. 

The  old  man  was  not  unconscious  of  the  remarks 
of  which  he  was  the  subject ;  and,  as  it  is  rare  in 
deed  that  our  sensibilities  do  not  survive  our  better 
fortunes,  even  he  was  so  far  conscious  of  a  fall  as 
not  to  be  callous  to  contempt  thus  openly  expressed. 
He  looked  wistfully  on  every  side  of  him,  and 
seemed  to  search  in  every  eye  he  encountered 
some  portion  of  the  sympathy  which  his  meek  and 
humble  feelings  still  craved.  But  even  the  men 
of  his  caste  and  profession  threw  jibes  upon  his 
ear;  and,  though  of  all  the  competitors  perhaps 


the  one  whose  motive  most  hallowed  his  ambition, 
he  was  held  to  be  the  only  proper  subject  of  mirth. 
For  the  solution  of  this  revolting  trait  of  human 
character,  we  are  not  to  look  to  Venice  and  her 
institutions,  since  it  is  known  that  none  are  so 
arrogant  on  occasions  as  the  ridden,  and  that  the 
abject  and  insolent  spirits  are  usually  tenants  of 
the  same  bosom. 

The  movement  of  the  boats  brought  those  of 
the  masked  waterman  and  the  subject  of  these 
taunts  side  by  side. 

"  Thou  art  not  the  favourite  in  this  strife,"  ob 
served  the  former,  when  a  fresh  burst  of  jibes  were 
showered  on  the  head  of  his  unresisting  associate. 
"  Thou  hast  not  been  sufficiently  heedful  of  thy 
attire ;  for  this  is  a  town  of  luxury,  and  he  who 
would  meet  applause  must  appear  on  the  canals 
in  the  guise  of  one  less  borne  upon  by  fortune." 

"I  know  them!  I  know  them!"  returned  the 
fisherman ;  "  they  are  led  away  by  their  pride,  and 
they  think  ill  of  one  who  cannot  share  in  their 
vanities.  But,  friend  unknown,  I  have  brought 
with  me  a  face  which,  old  though  it  be,  and  wrin 
kled,  and  worn  by  the  weather  like  the  stones  of 
the  sea-shore,  is  uncovered  to  the  eye  and  without 
shame." 

"There  may  be  reasons  which  thou  knowest 
not  why  I  wear  a  mask.  But  if  my  face  be  hid, 
the  limbs  are  bare,  and  thou  seest  there  is  no  lack 
of  sinews  to  make  good  that  which  I  have  under 
taken.  Thou  shouldst  have  thought  better  of  the 
matter  ere  thou  puttest  thyself  in  the  way  of  so 
much  mortification.  Defeat  will  not  cause  the 
people  to  treat  thee  more  tenderly." 

"  If  my  sinews  are  old  and  stiffened,  Signoi 
Mask,  they  are  long  used  to  toil.  As  to  shame,  if 
it  is  a  shame  to  be  below  the  rest  of  mankind  in 
fortune,  it  will  not  now  come  for  the  first  time. 
A  heavy  sorrow  hath  befallen  me,  and  this  race 
may  lighten  the  burden  of  grief.  I  shall  not  pre 
tend  that  I  hear  this  laughter,  and  all  these  scorn 
ful  speeches  as  one  listens  to  the  evening  breeze 
on  the  Lagunes — for  a  man  is  still  a  man,  chough 
he  lives  with  the  humblest,  and  eats  of  tnc  coarsest. 
But  let  it  pass ;  Sant'  Antonio  will  give  me  heart 
to  bear  it." 

"  Thou  hast  a  stout  mind,  fisl  ai^nan ;  and  I 
would  gladly  pray  my  patron  to  grant  thee  a 
stronger  arm,  but  that  I  have  fcmeh  need  of  this 
victory  myself.  Wilt  thou  be  content  with  the 
second  prize,  if,  by  any  manner  of  skill,  I  might 
aid  thee  in  thy  efforts  ? — iov,  I  suppose,  the  metal 
of  the  third  is  as  little  to  thy  taste  as  it  is  to  rny 
own." 

"  Nay,  I  count  not  oo  gold  or  silver." 

"  Can  the  honoui  of  such  a  struggle  awaken  the 
pride  of  one  like  tntel" 

The  old  man  looked  earnestly  at  his  companion; 
but  he  shook  his  head  without  answer.  Fresh 
merriment,  at  ais  expense,  caused  him  to  bend  his 
face  towaid  the  scoffers;  and  he  perceived  they 
were  just  then  passing  a  numerous  group  of  his 
fellows  of  the  Lagunes,  who  seemed  to  feel  that 
his  unjustifiable  ambition  reflected,  in  some  degree, 
on  the  honour  of  their  whole  body. 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 


279 


«  How  now,  old  Antonio !"  shouted  the  boldest 
of  the  band — « is  it  not  enough  that  thou  hast  won 
the  honours  of  the  net,  but  thou  wouldst  have  a 
golden  oar  at  thy  neck  ?" 

"  We  shall  yet  see  him  of  the  senate !"  cried  a 
second. 

"  He  standeth  in  need  of  the  horned  bonnet  for 
his  naked  head,"  continued  a  third.  "  We  shall 
see  the  brave  Admiral  Antonio  sailing  in  the  Bu- 
centaur  with  the  nobles  of  the  land  !" 

Their  sallies  were  succeeded  by  coarse  laughter. 
Even  the  fair  in  the  balconies  were  not  uninflu 
enced  by  these  constant  jibes,  and  the  apparent 
discrepancy  between  the  condition  and  the  means 
of  so  unusual  a  pretender  to  the  honours  of  the 
regatta.  The  purpose  of  the  old  man  wavered ; 
but  he  seemed  goaded  by  some  inward  incentive 
that  still  enabled  him  to  maintain  his  ground.  His 
companion  closely  watched  the  varying  expression 
of  a  countenance  that  was  far  too  little  trained  in 
deception  to  conceal  the  feelings  within ;  and,  as 
they  approached  the  place  of  starting,  he  again 
spoke. 

«  Thou  mayest  yet  withdraw,"  he  said ; — "  why 
should  one  of  thy  years  make  the  little  time  he 
has  to  stay  bitter,  by  bearing  the  ridicule  of  his 
associates  for  the  rest  of  his  life]" 

"  St.  Anthony  did  a  greater  wonder  when  he 
caused  the  fishes  to  come  upon  the  waters  to  hear 
his  preaching,  and  I  will  not  show  a  cowardly 
heart  at  a  moment  when  there  is  most  need  of 
resolution." 

The  masked  waterman  crossed  himself  devoutly ; 
and,  relinquishing  all  further  design  to  persuade 
the  other  to  abandon  the  fruitless  contest,  he  gave 
all  his  thoughts  to  his  own  interest  in  the  coming 
struggle. 

The  narrowness  of  most  of  the  canals  of  Venice, 
with  the  innumerable  angles  and  the  constant 
passing,  have  given  rise  to  a  fashion  of  construc 
tion  and  of  rowing  that  are  so  peculiar  to  that  city 
and  its  immediate  dependencies,  as  to  require  some 
explanation.  The  reader  has  doubtless  already 
understood  that  a  gondola  is  a  long,  narrow,  and 
light  boat,  adapted  to  the  uses  of  the  place,  and 
distinct  from  the  wherries  of  all  other  towns.  The 
distance  between  the  dwellings,  on  most  of  the  ca 
nals,  is  so  small,  that  the  width  of  the  latter  does 
not  admit  of  the  use  of  oars  on  both  sides  at  the 
same  time.  The  necessity  of  constantly  turning 
aside  to  give  room  for  others,  and  the  frequency 
of  the  bridges  and  the  corners,  have  suggested  the 
expediency  of  placing  the  face  of  the  waterman  in 
the  direction  in  which  the  boat  is  steering,  and  of 
course  of  keeping  him  on  his  feet.  As  every  gon 
dola,  when  fully  equipped,  has  its  pavilion  in  the 
centre,  the  height  of  the  latter  renders  it  necessary 
to  place  him  who  steers  on  such  an  elevation,  as 
will  enable  him  to  overlook  it.  From  these  seve 
ral  causes,  a  one-oared  boat  in  Venice  is  propelled 
by  a  gondolier  who  stands  on  a  little  angular  deck 
in  its  stern,  formed  like  the  low  roof  of  a  house ; 
and  the  stroke  of  the  oar  is  given  by  a  push  instead 
of  a  pull,  as  is  common  elsewhere.  This  habit  of 
rowing  erect,  however,  which  is  usually  done  by 


a  forward,  instead  of  a  backward,  movement  of  the 
body  is  not  unfrequent  in  all  the  ports  of  the  Me 
diterranean,  though  in  no  other  is  there  a  boat 
which  resembles  the  gondola  in  all  its  properties 
or  uses.  The  upright  position  of  the  gondolier 
requires  that  the  pivot  on  which  the  oar  rests 
should  have  a  corresponding  elevation  ;  and  there 
is,  consequently,  a  species  of  bumkin  raised  from 
the  side  of  the  boat  to  the  desired  height,  and 
which,  being  formed  of  a  crooked  and  very  irregu 
lar  knee  of  wood,  has  two  or  three  row-locks,  one 
above  the  other,  to  suit  the  stature  of  different  indi 
viduals,  or  to  give  a  broader  or  narrower  sweep  of 
the  blade  as  the  movement  shall  require.  As  there 
is  frequent  occasion  to  cast  the  oar  from  one  of 
these  row-locks  to  the  other,  and  not  unfrequently 
to  change  its  side,  it  rests  in  a  very  open  bed ;  and 
the  instrument  is  kept  in  its  place  by  great  dexte 
rity  alone,  and  by  a  perfect  knowledge  of  the  means 
of  accommodating  the  force  and  the  rapidity  of  the 
effort  to  the  forward  movement  of  the  boat  and 
the  resistance  of  the  water.  All  these  difficulties 
united  render  skill  in  a  gondolier  one  of  the  most 
delicate  branches  of  a  waterman's  art,  as  it  is  clear 
that  muscular  strength  alone,  though  of  great  aid, 
can  avail  but  little  in  such  a  practice. 

The  great  canal  of  Venice,  following  its  wind 
ings,  being  more  than  a  league  in  length,  the  dis 
tance  in  the  present  race  was  reduced  nearly  half 
by  causing  the  boats  to  start  from  the  Rialto.  At 
this  point,  then,  the  gondolas  were  all  assembled, 
attended  by  those  who  were  to  place  them.  As 
the  whole  of  the  population,  which  before  had  been 
extended  along  the  entire  course  of  the  water,  was 
now  crowded  between  the  bridge  and  the  Bucen- 
taur,  the  long  and  graceful  avenue  resembled  a 
vista  of  human  heads.  It  was  an  imposing  sight 
to  look  along  that  bright  and  living  lane,  and  the 
hearts  of  each  competitor  beat  high,  as  hope,  or 
pride,  or  apprehension  became  the  feeling  of  the 
moment.  * 

"  Gino  of  Calabria,"  cried  the  marshal  who 
placed  the  gondolas,  "  thy  station  is  on  the  right. 
Take  it,  and  St.  Januarius  speed  thee !" 

The  servitor  of  Don  Camillo  assumed  his  oar, 
and  the  boat  glided  gracefully  into  its  berth. 

"  Thou  comest  next,  Enrico  of  Fusina.  Call 
stoutly  on  thy  Paduan  patron,  and  husband  thy 
strength;  for  none  of  the  main  have  ever  yet 
borne  away  a  prize  in  Venice." 

He  then  summoned  in  succession  those  whose 
names  have  not  been  mentioned,  and  placed  them, 
side  by  side,  in  the  centre  of  the  canal. 

"  Here  is  place  for  thee,  Signore,"  continued  the 
officer,  inclining  his  head  to  the  unknown  gondo 
lier;  for  he  had  imbibed  the  general  impression 
that  the  face  of  some  young  patrician  was  con 
cealed  beneath  the  mask  to  humour  the  fancy  of 
some  capricious  fair. — "  Chance  hath  given  thee 
the  extreme  left." 

"Thou  hast  forgotten  to  call  the  fisherman," 
observed  the  masker,  as  he  drove  his  own  gondola 
into  its  station. 

"Does  the  hoary  fool  persist  in  exposing  his 
vanity  and  his  rags  to  the  best  of  Venice?" 


280 


JAMES   FENIMORE    COOPER. 


"  I  can  take  place  in  the  rear,"  meekly  observed 
Antonio.  «  There  may  be  those  in  the  line  it  doth 
not  become  one  like  me  to  crowd ;  and  a  few  strokes 
of  the  oar,  more  or  less,  can  differ  but  little  in  so 
long  a  strife." 

«  Thou  hadst  better  push  modesty  to  discretion, 
and  remain." 

"  If  it  be  your  pleasure,  Signore,  I  would  rather 
see  what  St.  Anthony  may  do  for  an  old  fisherman, 
who  has  prayed  to  him,  night  and  morning,  these 
sixty  years]" 

"  It  is  thy  right ;  and  as  thou  seemest  content 
with  it,  keep  the  place  thou  hast  in  the  rear.  It 
is  only  occupying  it  a  little  earlier  than  thou 
wouldst  otherwise.  Now,  recall  the  rules  of  the 
games,  hardy  gondoliers,  and  make  thy  last  appeal 
to  thy  patrons.  There  is  to  be  no  crossing  or  other 
foul  expedients ;  naught  except  ready  oars  and 
nimble  wrists.  He  who  varies  needlessly  from 
his  line  until  he  leadeth,  shall  be  recalled  by  name ; 
and  whoever  is  guilty  of  any  act  to  spoil  the  sports, 
or  otherwise  to  offend  the  patricians,  shall  be 
both  checked  and  punished.  Be  ready  for  the 
signal." 

The  assistant,  who  was  in  a  strongly  manned 
boat,  fell  back  a  little,  while  runners,  similarly 
equipped,  went  ahead  to  order  the  curious  from 
the  water.  These  preparations  were  scarcely 
made,  when  a  signal  floated  on  the  nearest  dome. 
It  was  repeated  on  the  campanile,  and  a  gun  was 
fired  at  the  arsenal.  A  deep  but  suppressed  mur 
mur  arose  in  the  throng,  which  was  as  quickly 
succeeded  by  suspense. 

Each  gondolier  had  suffered  the  bows  of  his 
boat  to  incline  slightly  toward  the  left  shore  of  the 
canal,  as  the  jockey  is  seen  at  the  starting-post  to 
turn  his  courser  aside,  in  order  to  repress  its  ardour, 
or  divert  its  attention.  But  the  first  long  and 
broad  sweep  of  the  oar  brought  them  all  in  a  line 
again,  and  away  they  glided  in  a  body. 

For  the  first  few  minutes  there  was  no  difference 
in  speed,  nor  any  sign  by  which  the  instructed 
might  detect  the  probable  evidence  of  defeat,  or 
success.  The  whole  ten  which  formed  the  front 
line  skimmed  the  water  with  an  equal  velocity, 
beak  to  beak,  as  if  some  secret  attraction  held  each 
in  its  place,  while  the  humble,  though  equally  light 
bark  of  the  fisherman  steadily  kept  its  position  in 
the  rear. 

The  boats  were  soon  held  in  command.  The 
oars  got  their  .justest  poise  and  widest  sweep,  and 
the  wrists  of  the  men  accustomed  to  their  play. 
The  line  began  to  waver.  It  undulated,  the  glit 
tering  prow  of  one  protruding  beyond  the  others ; 
and  then  it  changed  its  form.  Enrico  of  Fusina 
shot  ahead,  and,  privileged  by  success,  he  insensi 
bly  sheered  more  into  the  centre  of  the  canal, 
avoiding  by  the  change  the  eddies,  and  the  other 
obstructions  of  the  shore.  This  manoeuvre,  which, 
in  the  language  of  the  course,  would  have  been 
called  « taking  the  track,"  had  the  additional  ad 
vantage  of  throwing  upon  those  who  followed 
some  trifling  impediment  from  the  back-water. 
The  sturdy  and  practised  Bartolomeo  of  the  Lido, 
as  his  companions  usually  called  him,  came  next, 


occupying  the  space  on  his  leader's  quarter,  where 
he  suffered  least  from  the  reaction  caused  by  the 
stroke  of  his  oar.  The  gondolier  of  Don  Camillo, 
also,  soon  shot  out  of  the  crowd,  and  was  seen 
plying  his  arms  vigorously  still  farther  to  the  right, 
and  a  little  in  the  rear  of  Bartolomeo.  Then  came, 
in  the  centre  of  the  canal,  and  near  as  might  be  in 
the  rear  of  the  triumphant  waterman  of  the  main, 
a  dense  body,  with  little  order  and  varying  posi 
tions,  compelling  each  other  to  give  way,  and 
otherwise  increasing  the  difficulties  of  their  strug 
gle.  More  to  the  left,  and  so  near  to  the  palaces 
as  barely  to  allow  room  for  the  sweep  of  his  oar, 
was  the  masked  competitor,  whose  progress  seemed 
retarded  by  some  unseen  cause,  for  he  gradually 
fell  behind  all  the  others,  until  several  boats'  lengths 
of  open  water  lay  between  him  and  even  the  group 
of  his  nameless  opponents.  Still  he  applied  his 
arms  steadily,  and  with  sufficient  skill.  As  the 
interest  of  mystery  had  been  excited  in  his  favour, 
a  rumour  passed  up  the  canal  that  the  young  cava 
lier  had  been  little  favoured  by  fortune  in  the 
choice  of  a  boat.  Others,  who  reflected  more 
deeply  on  causes,  whispered  of  the  folly  of  one  of 
his  habits,  taking  the  risk  of  mortification  by  a 
competition  with  men  whose  daily  labour  had 
hardened  their  sinews,  and  whose  practice  enabled 
them  to  judge  closely  of  every  chance  of  the  jape. 
But  when  the  eyes  of  the  multitude  turned  from 
the  cluster  of  passing  boats  to  the  solitary  barge  of 
the  fisherman,  who  came  singly  on  the  renr,  admi 
ration  was  again  turned  to  derision. 

Antonio  had  cast  aside  the  cap  he  wore  of  wont 
and  the  few  straggling  hairs  that  were  left  streamed 
about  his  hollow  temples,  leaving  the  whole  of  his 
swarthy  features  exposed  to  view.  More  than 
once,  as  the  gondola  came  on,  his  eyes  turned 
aside  reproachfully,  as  if  he  keenly  felt  the  stings 
of  so  many  unlicensed  tongues  applied  to  feelings 
which,  though  blunted  by  his  habits  and  condition, 
were  far  from  extinguished.  Laugh  rose  above 
laugh,  however,  and  taunt  succeeded  taunt  more 
bitterly,  as  the  boats  came  among  the  gorgeous  pa 
laces  which  lined  the  cana!  nearer  to  the  goal. 
It  was  not  that  the  owners  of  these  lordly  piles  in 
dulged  in  the  unfeeling  triumph,  but  their  depend 
ants,  constantly  subject  themselves  to  the  degrad 
ing  influence  of  a  superior  presence,  let  loose  the 
long-pent  torrents  of  their  arrogance  on  the  head 
of  the  first  unresisting  subject  which  offered. 

Antonio  bore  all  these  jibes  manfully,  if  not  in 
tranquillity,  and  always  without  retort,  until  he 
again  approached  the  spot  occupied  by  his  com 
panions  of  the  Lagunes.  Here  his  eye  sunk  un 
der  the  reproaches,  and  his  oar  faltered.  The 
taunts  and  denunciations  increased  as  he  lost 
ground,  and  there  was  a  moment  when  the  re 
buked  and  humbled  spirit  of  the  old  man  seemed 
about  to  relinquish  the  contest.  But  dashing  a 
hand  across  his  brow,  as  if  to  clear  a  sight  which 
had  become  dimmed  and  confused,  he  continued 
to  ply  the  oar,  and  happily  he  was  soon  past  the 
point  most  trying  to  his  resolution.  From  this 
moment  the  cries  against  the  fisherman  diminished, 
and  as  the  Bucentaur,  though  still  distant,  was 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 


231 


now  in  sight,  interest  in  the  issue  of  the  race  ab 
sorbed  all  other  feelings. 

Enrico  still  kept  the  lead ;  but  the  judges  of  the 
gondoliers  still  began  to  detect  signs  of  exhaustion 
in  his  faltering  stroke.  The  waterman  of  the  Lido 
pressed  him  hard,  and  the  Calabrian  was  drawing 
more  into  a  line  with  them  both.  At  this  mo 
ment,  too,  the  masked  competitor  exhibited  a  force 
and  skill  that  none  had  expected  to  see  in  one  of 
his  supposed  rank.  His  body  was  thrown  more 
upon  the  effort  of  the  oar,  and  as  his  leg  was 
stretched  behind  to  aid  the  stroke,  it  discovered  a 
volume  of  muscle,  and  an  excellence  of  proportion 
that  excited  murmurs  of  applause.  The  conse 
quence  was  soon  apparent.  His  gondola  glided 
past  the  crowd  in  the  centre  of  the  canal,  and  by 
a  change  that  was  nearly  insensible,  he  became 
the  fourth  in  the  race.  The  shouts  which  rewarded 
his  success  had  scarcely  parted  from  the  multitude, 
ere  their  admiration  was  called  to  a  new  and  an 
entirely  unexpected  aspect  in  the  struggle. 

Left  to  his  own  exertions,  and  less  annoyed  by 
that  derision  and  contempt  which  often  defeat  even 
more  generous  exertions,  Antonio  had  drawn  nearer 
to  the  crowd  of  nameless  competitors.  Though 
undistinguished  in  this  narrative,  there  were  seen, 
in  that  group  of  gondoliers,  faces  well  known  on 
the  canals  of  Venice,  as  belonging  to  watermen,  in 
whose  dexterity  and  force  the  city  took  pride. 
Either  favoured  by  his  isolated  position,  or  avail 
ing  himself  of  the  embarrassment  these  men  gave 
to  each  other,  the  despised  fisherman  was  seen  a 
little  on  their  left,  coming  up  abreast  with  a  stroke 
and  velocity  that  promised  farther  success.  The 
expectation  was  quickly  realized.  He  passed  them 
all  amid  a  dead  and  wondering  silence,  and  took 
his  station  as  fifth  in  the  struggle. 

From  this  moment  all  interest  in  those  who 
formed  the  vulgar  mass  was  lost.  Every  eye  was 
turned  toward  the  front,  where  the  strife  increased 
at  each  stroke  of  the  oar,  and  where  the  issue  be 
gan  to  assume  a  new  and  doubtful  character.  The 
exertions  of  the  waterman  of  Fusina  were  seem 
ingly  redoubled,  though  his  boat  went  no  faster. 
The  gondola  of  Bartolomeo  shot  past  him  ;  it  was 
followed  by  those  of  Gino  and  the  masked  gondo 
lier,  while  not  a  cry  betrayed  the  breathless  inte 
rest  of  the  multitude.  But  when  the  boat  of  An 
tonio  also  swept  ahead,  there  arose  such  a  hum  of 
voices  as  escapes  a  throng,  when  a  sudden  and 
violent  change  of  feeling  is  produced  in  their  way 
ward  sentiments.  Enrico  was  frantic  with  the 
disgrace.  He  urged  every  power  of  his  frame  to 
avert  the  dishonour  with  the  desperate  energy  of 
an  Italian,  aad  then  he  cast  himself  into  the  bot 
tom  of  the  gondola,  tearing  his  hair  and  weeping 
in  agony.  His  example  was  followed  by  those 
in  the  rear,  though  with  more  governed  feelings, 
for  they  shot  aside  among  the  boats  which  lined 
the  canal,  and  were  lost  to  view. 

From  this  open  and  unexpected  abandonment 
of  the  struggle,  the  spectators  got  the  surest  evi 
dence  of  its  desperate  character.  But  as  a  man 
has  little  sympathy  for  the  unfortunate,  when  his 
feelings  are  excited  by  competition,  the  defeated 
30 


were  quickly  forgotten.  The  name  of  Bartolomeo 
was  borne  high  upon  the  winds  by  a  thousand 
voices,  and  his  fellows  of  the  Piazzetta  and  the 
Lido  called  upon  him  aloud  to  die  for  the  honour 
of  their  craft.  Well  did  the  sturdy  gondolier  an 
swer  to  their  wishes,  for  palace  after  palace  was 
left  behind,  and  no  further  change  was  made  in 
the  relative  positions  of  the  boats.  But,  like  his 
predecessors,  the  leader  redoubled  his  efforts  with 
a  diminished  effect,  and  Venice  had  the  mortifica 
tion  of  seeing  a  stranger  leading  one  of  the  most 
brilliant  of  her  regattas.  Bartolomeo  no  sooner 
lost  place,  than  Gino,  the  masker,  and  the  despised 
Antonio  in  turn  shot  by,  leaving  him  who  had  so 
lately  been  first  in  the  race,  the  last.  He  did  not, 
however,  relinquish  the  strife,  but  continued  to 
struggle  with  the  energy  of  one  who  merited  a 
better  fortune. 

When  this  unexpected  and  entirely  new  charac 
ter  was  given  to  the  contest,  there  still  remained  a 
broad  sheet  of  water  between  the  advancing  gon 
dolas  and  the  goal.  Gino  led,  and  with  many  fa 
vourable  symptoms  of  his  being  able  to  maintain 
his  advantage.  He  was  encouraged  by  the  shouts 
of  the  multitude,  who  now  forgot  his  Calabrian 
origin  in  his  success,  while  many  of  the  serving- 
men  of  his  master  cheered  him  on  by  name.  All 
would  not  do.  The  masked  waterman,  for  the 
first  time,  threw  the  grandeur  of  his  skill  and  force 
into  the  oar.  The  ashen  instrument  bent  to  the 
power  of  an  arm,  whose  strength  appeared  to  in 
crease  at  will,  and  the  movements  of  his  body  be 
came  rapid  as  the  leaps  of  the  greyhound.  The 
pliant  gondola  obeyed,  and  amid  a  shout  which 
passed  from  the  Piazzetta  to  the  Rialto,  it  glided 
ahead. 

If  success  gives  force  and  increases  the  physical 
and  moral  energies,  there  is  a  fearful  and  certain 
reaction  in  defeat.  The  follower  of  Don  Camillo 
was  no  exception  to  the  general  law,  and  when 
the  masked  competitor  passed  him,  the  boat  of  An 
tonio  followed  as  if  it  were  impelled  by  the  same 
strokes.  The  distance  between  the  two  leading 
gondolas  even  now  seemed  to  lessen,  and  there 
was  a  moment  of  breathless  interest,  when  all  there 
expected  to  see  the  fisherman,  in  despite  of  his 
years  and  boat,  shooting  past  his  rival. 

But  expectation  was  deceived.  He  of  the  mask, 
notwithstanding  his  previous  efforts,  seemed  to 
sport  with  the  toil,  so  ready  was  the  sweep  of  his 
oar,  so  sure  its  stroke,  and  so  vigorous  the  arm  by 
which  it  was  impelled.  Nor  was  Antonio  an  an 
tagonist  to  despise.  If  there  was  less  of  the  grace 
of  a  practised  gondolier  of  the  canals  in  his  atti 
tudes,  than  in  those  of  his  companions,  there  was 
no  relaxation  in  the  force  of  his  sinews.  They 
sustained  him  to  the  last  with  that  enduring  power 
which  had  been  begotten  by  threescore  years  of 
unremitting  labour,  and  while  his  still  athletic  form 
was  exerted  to  the  utmost,  there  appeared  no  fail 
ing  of  its  energies. 

A  few  moments  sent  the  leading  gondolas  seve 
ral  lengths  ahead  of  their  nearest  followers.  The 
dark  beak  of  the  fisherman's  boat  hung  upon  the 
quarter  of  the  more  showy  bark  of  his  antagonist, 
2  A  2 


282 


JAMES   FENIMORE    COOPER. 


but  it  could  do  no  more.  The  port  was  open  be 
fore  them,  and  they  glanced  by  church,  palace, 
barge,  mystick,  and  felucca,  without  the  slightest 
inequality  in  their  relative  speed.  The  masked 
waterman  glanced  a  look  behind,  as  if  to  calculate 
his  advantage,  and  then  bending  again  to  his  pli 
ant  oar,  he  spoke  loud  enough  to  be  heard  only  by 
him  who  pressed  so  hard  upon  his  track. 

"  Thou  hast  deceived  me,  fisherman !"  he  said  ; 
"  there  is  more  of  manhood  in  thee,  yet,  than  I  had 
thought." 

"  If  there  is  manhood  in  my  arms,  there  is  child 
ishness  and  sorrow  at  the  heart ;"  was  the  reply. 

"  Dost  thou  so  prize  a  golden  bauble  1  Thou 
art  second ;  be  content  with  thy  lot." 

"  It  will  not  do ;  I  must  be  foremost,  or  I  have 
wearied  my  old  limbs  in  vain !" 

This  brief  dialogue  was  uttered  with  an  ease 
that  showed  how  far  use  had  accustomed  both  to 
powerful  bodily  efforts,  and  with  a  firmness  of 
tones  that  few  could  have  equalled  in  a  moment 
of  so  great  physical  effort.  The  masker  was  silent, 
but  his  purpose  seemed  to  waver.  Twenty  strokes 
of  his  powerful  oar-blade  and  the  goal  was  at 
tained  :  but  his  sinews  were  not  so  much  extended, 
and  that  limb,  which  had  shown  so  fine  a  develop 
ment  of  muscle,  was  less  swollen  and  rigid.  The 
gondola  of  old  Antonio  glided  abeam. 

"  Push  thy  soul  into  the  blade,"  muttered  he  of 
the  mask,  "  or  thou  wilt  yet  be  beaten !" 

The  fisherman  threw  every  effort  of  his  body  on 
the  coming  effort,  and  he  gained  a  fathom.  An 
other  stroke  caused  the  boat  to  quiver  to  its  centre, 
and  the  water  curled  from  its  bows  like  the  ripple 
of  a  rapid.  Then  the  gondola  darted  between  the 
two  goal-barges,  and  the  little  flags  that  marked 
the  point  of  victory  fell  into  the  water.  The  action 
was  scarce  noted,  ere  the  glittering  beak  of  the 
masker  shot  past  the  eyes  of  the  judges,  who 
doubted  for  an  instant  on  whom  success  had  fallen. 
Gino  was  not  long  behind,  and  after  him  came 
Bartolomeo,  fourth  and  last,  in  the  best-contested 
race  which  had  ever  been  seen  on  the  waters  of 
Venice. 

When  the  flags  fell,  men  held  their  breaths  in 
suspense.  Few  knew  the  victor,  so  close  had  been 
the  struggle.  But  a  flourish  of  the  trumpets  soon 
commanded  attention,  and  then  a  herald  proclaimed 
that — 

"  Antonio,  a  fisherman  of  the  Lagunes,  favoured 
by  his  holy  patron  of  the  Miraculous  Draught,  had 
borne  away  the  prize  of  gold — while  a  waterman, 
who  wore  his  face  concealed,  but  who  hath  trusted 
to  the  care  of  the  blessed  San  Giovanni  of  the  Wil 
derness,  is  worthy  of  the  silver  prize,  and  that  the 
third  had  fallen  to  the  fortunes  of  Gino  of  Calabria, 
a  servitor  of  the  illustrious  Don  Camillo  Monforte, 
Duca  di  Sant'  Agata,  and  lord  of  many  Neapolitan 
Seignories." 

When  this  formal  announcement  was  made, 
there  succeeded  a  silence  like  that  of  the  tomb. 
Then  there  arose  a  general  shout  among  the  living 
mass,  which  bore  on  high  the  name  of  Antonio,  as 
if  they  celebrated  the  success  of  some  conqueror. 
All  feeling  of  contempt  was  lost  hi  the  influence  of 


his  triumph.  The  fishermen  of  the  Lagunes,  who 
so  lately  had  loaded  their  aged  companion  with 
contumely,  shouted  for  his  glory  with  a  zeal  that 
manifested  the  violence  of  the  transition  from  mor 
tification  to  pride,  and,  as  has  ever  been  and  ever 
will  be  the  meed  of  success,  he  who  was  thought 
least  likely  to  obtain  it  was  most  greeted  with 
praise  and  adulation,  when  it  was  found  that  the 
end  had  disappointed  expectation.  Ten  thousand 
voices  were  lifted  in  proclaiming  his  skill  and  vic 
tory,  and  young  and  old,  the  fair,  the  gay,  the 
noble,  the  winner  of  sequins  and  he  who  lost, 
struggled  alike  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  humble 
old  man,  who  had  so  unexpectedly  wrought  this 
change  of  sentiment  in  the  feelings  of  a  multitude. 

Antonio  bore  his  triumph  meekly.  When  his 
gondola  had  reached  the  goal,  he  checked  its  course, 
and,  without  discovering  any  of  the  usual  signs  of 
exhaustion,  he  remained  standing,  though  the  deep 
heaving  of  his  broad  and  tawny  chest  proved  that 
his  powers  had  been  taxed  to  their  utmost.  He 
smiled  as  the  shouts  arose  on  his  ear,  for  praise  is 
grateful  even  to  the  meek ;  still  he  seemed  oppressed 
with  an  emotion  of  a  character  deeper  than  pride. 
Age  had  somewhat  dimmed  his  eye,  but  it  was 
now  full  of  hope.  His  features  worked,  and  a 
single  burning  drop  fell  on  each  rugged  cheek. 
The  fisherman  then  breathed  more  freely. 

Like  his  successful  antagonist,  the  waterman  of 
the  mask  betrayed  none  of  the  debility  which  usu 
ally  succeeds  great  bodily  exertion.  His  knees 
were  motionless,  his  hands  still  grasped  the  oar 
firmly,  and  he  too  kept  his  feet  with  a  steadiness 
that  showed  the  physical  perfection  of  his  frame. 
On  the  other  hand,  both  Gino  and  Bartolomeo 
sunk  in  their  respective  boats,  as  they  gained  the 
goal  in  succession ;  and  so  exhausted  was  each  of 
these  renowned  gondoliers,  that  several  moments 
elapsed  before  either  had  breath  for  speech.  It 
was  during  this  momentary  pause  that  the  multi 
tude  proclaimed  its  sympathy  with  the  victor  by 
their  longest  and  loudest  shouts.  The  noise  had 
scarcely  died  away,  however,  before  a  herald  sum 
moned  Antonio  of  the  Lagunes,  the  masked  water 
man  of  the  Blessed  St.  John  of  the  Wilderness, 
and  Gino  the  Calabrian,  to  the  presence  of  the 
doge,  whose  princely  hand  was  to  bestow  the  pro 
mised  prizes  of  the  regatta. 


VENICE  AT  NIGHT. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 


THE  moon  was  at  the  height.  Its  rays  fell  in 
a  flood  on  the  swelling  domes  and  massive  roofs 
of  Venice,  while  the  margin  of  the  town  was  bril 
liantly  defined  by  the  glittering  bay.  The  natural 
and  gorgeous  setting  was  more  than  worthy  of  that 
picture  of  human  magnificence ;  for  at  that  mo 
ment,  rich  as  was  the  queen  of  the  Adriatic  in  her 
works  of  art,  the  grandeur  of  her  public  monu 
ments,  the  number  and  splendour  of  her  palaces, 
and  most  else  that  the  ingenuity  and  ambition  of 
man  could  attempt,  she  was  but  secondary  in  the 
glories  of  the  hour. 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 


283 


Above  was  the  firmament  gemmed  with  worlds, 
and  sublime  in  immensity.  Beneath  lay  the  broad 
expanse  of  the  Adriatic,  endless  to  the  eye,  tran 
quil  as  the  vault  it  reflected,  and  luminous  with 
its  borrowed  light.  Here  and  there  a  low  island, 
reclaimed  from  the  sea  by  the  patient  toil  of  a 
thousand  years,  dotted  the  Lagunes,  burdened  by 
the  group  of  some  conventual  dwellings,  or  pictur 
esque  with  the  modest  roofs  of  a  hamlet  of  the 
fishermen.  Neither  oar,  nor  song,  nor  laugh,  nor 
flap  of  sail,  nor  jest  of  mariner  disturbed  the  still 
ness.  All  in  the  near  view  was  clothed  in  mid 
night  loveliness,  and  all  in  the  distance  bespoke 
the  solemnity  of  nature  at  peace.  The  city  and 
the  Lagunes,  the  gulf  and  the  dreamy  Alps,  the 
interminable  plain  of  Lombardy,  and  the  blue  void 
of  heaven  lay  alike  in  a  common  and  grand  repose. 


RAISING  THE  WIND. 

FROM  THE  CHAINBEARER. 

"  JAAP" — I  asked  of  my  companion,  as  we  drew 
near  to  the  hamlet  where  I  intended  to  pass  the 
night,  and  the  comforts  of  a  warm  supper  on  a  sharp 
frosty  evening  began  to  haunt  my  imagination — 
"  Jaap,  how  much  money  may  you  have  about  you  1" 

"  I,  Masser  Mordaunt ! — Golly  !  but  dat  a  berry 
vlroll  question,  sah  !" 

"  I  ask,  because  my  own  stock  is  reduced  to  just 
one  York  shilling,  which  goes  by  the  name  of  only 
a  ninepence  in  this  part  of  the  world." 

"  Dat  berry  little,  to  tell  'e  trut',  sah,  for  two 
gentleum,  and  two  large,  hungry  bosses.  Berry 
little,  indeed,  sah  !  I  wish  he  war'  more." 

"  Yet,  I  have  not  a  copper  more.  I  gave  one 
thousand  two  hundred  dollars  for  the  dinner  and 
baiting  and  oats,  at  noon." 

« Yes,  sah — but,  dat  conternental,  sah,  I  sup 
poses — no  great  t'ing,  a'ter  all.'" 

"  It's  a  great  thing  in  sound,  Jaap,  but  not  much 
when  it  comes  to  the  teeth,  as  you  perceive.  Ne 
vertheless,  we  must  eat  and  drink,  and  our  nags 
must  eat  too — I  suppose  they  may  drink,  without 
paying." 

"  Yes,  sah — dat  true  'nough,  yah — yah — yah" 
— how  easily  that  negro  laughed  ! — "  But  'e  cider 
wonnerful  good  in  dis  part  of  'e  country,  young 
masser ;  just  needer  sweet  nor  sour — den  he  strong 
as  'e  jackass." 

"  Well,  Jaap,  how  are  we  to  get  any  of  this 
good  cider,  of  which  you  speak  1" 

"  You  t'ink,  sah,  dis  part  of  'e  country  been  talk 
to  much  lately  'bout  Patty  Rism  and  'e  country, 
sah  1" 

"  I  am  afraid  Patty  has  been  overdone  here,  as 
well  as  in  most  other  counties." 

I  may  observe  here,  that  Jaap  always  imagined 
the  beautiful  creature  he  had  heard  so  much  ex 
tolled,  and  commended  for  her  comeliness  and  vir 
tue,  was  a  certain  young  woman  of  this  name, 
with  whom  all  Congress  was  unaccountably  in 
love  at  the  same  time. 

"  Well,  den,  sah,  dere  no  hope,  but  our  wits. 


Let  me  be  masser  to-night,  and  you  mind  ole  Jaap, 
if  he  want  good  supper.  Jest  ride  ahead,  Masser 
Mordaunt,  and  give  he  order  like  General  Little- 
page  son,  and  leave  it  all  to  ole  Jaap." 

As  there  was  not  much  to  choose,  I  did  ride  on, 
and  soon  ceased  to  hear  the  hoofs  of  the  negro's 
horse  at  my  heels.  I  reached  the  inn  an  hour  ere 
Jaap  appeared,  and  was  actually  seated  at  a  capital 
supper  before  he  rode  up,  as  one  belonging  only 
to  himself.  Jaap  had  taken  off  the  Littlepage  em 
blems,  and  had  altogether  a  most  independent  air. 
His  horse  was  stabled  alongside  of  mine,  and  I 
soon  found  that  he  himself  was  at  work  on  the 
remnants  of  my  supper,  as  they  retreated  toward 
the  kitchen. 

A  traveller  of  my  appearance  was  accommodated 
with  the  best  parlour,  as  a  matter  of  course ;  and, 
having  appeased  my  appetite,  I  sat  down  to  read 
some  documents  that  were  connected  with  the  duty 
I  was  on.  No  one  could  have  imagined  that  I  had 
only  a  York  shilling,  which  is  a  Pennsylvania 
"  levy,"  or  a  Connecticut "  ninepence,"  in  my  purse ; 
for  my  air  was  that  of  one  who  could  pay  for  all  he 
wanted ;  the  certainty  that,  in  the  long  run,  my  host 
could  not  be  a  loser,  giving  me  a  proper  degree  of 
confidence.  I  had  just  got  through  with  the  docu 
ments,  and  was  thinking  how  I  should  employ  the 
hour  or  two  that  remained  until  it  would  be  time 
to  go  to  bed,  when  I  heard  Jaap  tuning  his  fiddle 
in  the  bar-room.  Like  most  negroes,  the  fellow 
had  an  ear  for  music,  and  had  been  indulged  in 
his  taste,  until  he  played  as  well  as  half  the  coun 
try  fiddlers  that  were  to  be  met. 

The  sound  of  a  fiddle  in  a  small  hamlet,  of  a  cool 
October  evening,  was  certain  of  its  result.  In  hal 
an  hour,  the  smiling  landlady  came  to  invite  me  to 
join  the  company,  with  the  grateful  information  I 
should  not  want  for  a  partner,  the  prettiest  girl  in 
the  place  having  come  in  late,  and  being  still  un 
provided  for.  On  entering  the  bar-room,  I  was 
received  with  plenty  of  awkward  bows  and  curtsies, 
but  with  much  simple  and  well-meaning  hospitality. 
Jaap's  own  salutations  were  very  elaborate,  and 
altogether  of  a  character  to  prevent  the  suspicion 
of  our  ever  having  met  before. 

The  dancing  continued  for  more  than  two  hours 
with  spirit,  when  the  time  admonished  the  village 
maidens  of  the  necessity  of  retiring.  Seeing  an 
indication  of  the  approaching  separation,  Jaap  held 
out  his  hat  to  me,  in  a  respectful  manner,  when  I 
magnificently  dropped  my  shilling  into  it,  in  a  way 
to  attract  attention,  and  passed  it  round  among  the 
males  of  the  party.  One  other  gave  a  shilling,  two 
clubbed  and  actually  produced  a  quarter,  several 
threw  in  sixpences,  or  fourpence-halfpennies,  and 
coppers  made  up  the  balance.  By  way  of  climax, 
the  landlady,  who  was  goodlooking  and  loved  danc 
ing,  publicly  announced  that  the  fiddler  and  his 
horse  should  go  scot  free,  until  he  left  the  place. 
By  these  ingenious  means  of  Jaap's,  I  found  in 
my  purse  next  morning  seven-and-sixpence  in  sil 
ver,  in  addition  to  my  own  shilling,  besides  copper 
enough  to  keep  a  negro  in  cider  for  a  week. 

I  have  often  laughed  over  Jaap's  management, 
though  I  would  not  permit  him  to  repeat  it. 


ALEXANDER  H.   EVERETT. 


[Born  1790.  Died  1847.] 


RICHARD  EVERETT,  the  first  American  an 
cestor  of  ALEXANDER  HILL  EVERETT,  was  one 
of  the  earliest  settlers  of  Dedham,  in  Mas 
sachusetts,  his  name  appearing  in  the  pub 
lic  records  of  that  town  for  the  year  1630. 
His  grandfather,  Ebenezer  Everett,  was  a  re 
spectable  farmer,  and  his  father,  Oliver  Eve 
rett,  was  apprenticed  to  a  carpenter,  but  on 
coming  of  age,  prepared  himself  for  college, 
and  having  obtained  a  degree  at  Cambridge, 
and  completed  his  theological  studies,  was  or 
dained  minister  of  the  New  South  Church,  in 
Boston,  in  1782.  At  the  end  of  ten  years,  in 
which  he  had  acquired  much  reputation  for 
talents,  declining  health  compelled  him  to  re 
linquish  his  position,  and  he  removed  to  Dor 
chester,  where  he  was  engaged  in  the  cultiva 
tion  of  a  small  farm  and  in  the  discharge  of 
the  duties  of  a  Justice  of  the  Common  Pleas, 
until  his  death,  in  1802. 

Alexander  H.  Everett  was  born  in  Boston 
on  the  nineteenth  of  March,  1790.  He  was 
prepared  for  college  in  the  free  school  of  Dor 
chester,  and  entered  Harvard  in  the  thirteenth 
year  of  his  age.  Though  the  youngest  of  his 
class,  he  graduated  with  the  highest  honours, 
in  1806,  and  at  the  end  of  a  year,  passed  as 
assistant  teacher  in  the  Phillips  Exeter  Aca 
demy,  commenced  the  study  of  the  law  in  the 
office  of  John  Quincy  Adams,  in  Boston.  In 
this  city  he  became  a  member  of  the  club 
formed  about  that  time  by  several  gentlemen 
of  taste  an  leisure  to  conduct  The  Monthly 
Anthology,  in  which  miscellany  appeared  his 
first  essays  in  literature.  In  1809  he  accom 
panied  Mr.  Adams  on  his  mission  to  Russia, 
and  after  studying  in  St.  Petersburgh  for  two 
years  the  modern  languages,  public  law,  poli 
tical  economy,  and  history,  proceeded  to  Lon 
don,  where  he  remained  about  a  year,  except 
during  a  short  visit  to  Paris,  in  1812.  Upon 
the  declaration  of  war  he  returned  to  the  Uni 
ted  States,  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  opened 
an  office  in  Boston ;  but  devoting  more  atten 
tion  to  literature  and  politics  than  to  his  pro 
fession,  had  probably  few  clients,  and  so  ac 
cepted  without  much  hesitation  the  office  of  Se- 


cretary  of  Legation  to  the  Netherlands.  Hav 
ing  remained  a  year  or  two  in  this  situation  he 
returned  home,  but  on  the  retirement  of  Mr. 
Eustis  from  that  mission,  in  1818,  he  was  ap 
pointed  to  succeed  him  as  charge  d'affaires, 
and  continued  to  occupy  this  post  until  1824. 
A  portion  of  his  leisure  during  this  period 
was  employed  in  the  composition  of  Europe, 
or  a  General  Survey  of  the  Political  Situation 
of  the  Principal  Powers,  with  Conjectures  on 
their  Future  Prospects,  published  in  London 
and  Boston  in  1821.  This  work  was  trans 
lated  into  German,  French  and  Spanish,  and 
the  German  version  was  edited  by  Professor 
Jacobi,  of  the  University  of  Halle.  In  the  fol 
lowing  year  he  published  in  the  same  cities 
New  Ideas  on  Population,  with  Remarks  on 
the  Theories  of  Godwin  and  Malthus.  This 
work  is  able  and  ingenious,  and  though  in 
most  respects  original,  is  not  so  much  a  pro 
position  of  novelties  on  the  subject  as  a  de 
fence  of  the  old  and  common  opinion  against 
the  modern  and  infidel  notion  of  Mr.  Malthus 
and  his  followers  that  an  increase  of  popula 
tion,  except  in  some  peculiar  cases,  is  a  pub 
lic  misfortune,  which  it  is  the  business  of  wise 
legislators  to  check.  Lord  Brougham  declared 
in  the  House  of  Commons  that  he  could  see 
no  error  in  the  argument  of  Malthus,  but  that 
he  was  so  disgusted  with  his  conclusions  that 
he  would  vote  a  civic  crown  to  any  one  who 
would  prove  his  theory  to  be  untrue.  Many 
volumes  were  written  on  the  subject  by  able 
men,  but  none  of  them  met  the  difficulty. 
Mr.  Everett's  plan  is  to  give  men  liberty,  to 
permit  them  everywhere  to  enjoy  the  fruits  of 
their  labour,  which,  being  more  productive  in 
proportion  to  the  density  of  the  population,  be 
cause  more  skilfully  applied,  would,  through 
the  distributing  processes  of  trade,  invariably 
furnish  a  supply  of  the  means  of  subsistence 
equal  to  the  demand.  He  regards  the  progress 
of  population  as  a  principle  of  abundance  ra 
ther  than  as  one  of  scarcity.  He  has  since  dis 
cussed  the  same  subject  in  a  correspondence 
with  Professor  George  Tucker,  of  the  Univer 
sity  of  Virginia,  which  was  published  in  1845. 


ALEXANDER   H.   EVERETT. 


285 


During  his  residence  in  the  Netherlands  Mr. 
Everett  also  wrote  many  articles  for  the  North 
American  Review,*  which  at  this  time  was 
edited  by  his  brother  Edward,  and  in  the  ze 
nith  of  its  popularity. 

In  1824  he  returned  to  the  United  States, 
on  leave  of  absence,  and  in  the  spring  of  the 
following  year  was  appointed  by  President 
Adams  minister  to  Spain.  At  this  time  the 
Spanish  mission  was  one  of  much  interest  and 
importance,  on  account  of  the  state  of  our  rela 
tions  with  that  court,  partly  growing  out  of  our 
recognition  of  the  independence  of  the  Span 
ish  American  states,  and  Mr.  Everett's  judi 
cious  and  arduous  labours  not  only  gave  abun 
dant  satisfaction  to  his  countrymen,  but  were 
productive  of  much  advantage  to  the  new  na 
tions.  In  the  midst  of  his  official  duties  he 
found  leisure  for  literary  pursuits,  and  besides 
many  elaborate  articles  in  the  North  American 
Review, f  wrote  his  work  entitled  America,  or 
a  General  Survey  of  the  Political  Situation  of 
the  Several  Powers  of  the  Western  Continent, 
with  Conjectures  on  their  Future  Prospects. 
The  greater  part  of  it  is  devoted  to  the  conside 
ration  of  the  position  of  our  own  country  in  the 
general  political  system,  of  our  condition,  and 
of  our  prospective  situation  and  influence  on  the 
fortunes  of  the  world  ;  and  he  dwells  with  en 
thusiasm  on  his  anticipations  of  the  continued 
progress  and  final  success  of  the  cause  of  civi 
lization  and  humanity  throughout  this  whole 
continent.  It  was  much  read  at  home,  in 
Great  Britain,  and  in  central  and  southern  Eu 
rope,  where  it  was  republished  in  three  or  four 
•languages.  Its  style  is  very  good,  though  by 
no  means  deserving  of  the  praises  lavished 
upon  it  by  a  friendly  critic  in  the  North  Ame 
rican  Review,  soon  after  its  appearance.  Mr. 
Everett  also  served  the  cause  of  letters  while 
» in  Spain  by  inviting  Mr.  Irving  to  Madrid  and 

*His  principal  contributions  are  on  the  following  sub 
jects: — French  Dramatic  Literature ;  Louis  Eonaparte; 
Private  Life  of  Voltaire ;  Literature  of  the  Eighteenth 
Century  ;  Dialogue  on  Representative  Government,  be 
tween  Dr.  Franklin  and  President  Montesquieu ;  Ber- 
nardin  de  St.  Pierre  ;  Madame  de  Stae'l ;  J.  J.  Rous 
seau;  Mirabeau;  Schiller;  Chinese  Grammar;  Cicero 
on  Government ;  Memoirs  of  Madame  Campan ;  Dege- 
rando's  History  of  Philosophy ;  Lord  Byron. 

t  He  wrote,  while  in  Spain,  articles  under  the  following 
titles: — M'Culloch's  Political  Economy  ;  Authorship  of 
Gil  Bias ;  Baron  de  Stael's  Letters  on  England ;  Para 
guay  ;  The  Art  of  Being  Happy ;  Politics  of  Europe ; 
Chinese  Manners ;  Irving's  Columbus ;  Definitions  in  Po 
litical  Economy  by  Malthus;  Cousin's  Intellectual  Philo 
sophy  ;  Canova. 


procuring  for  him  access  to  the  public  archives 
from  which  he  drew  many  of  the  materials  for 
his  Life  of  Columbus  and  other  works  on 
Spanish  subjects,  and  by  aiding  Mr.  Prescott, 
Mr.  Longfellow  and  other  Americans  in  their 
literary  pursuits. 

He  returned  to  the  United  States  in  the  au 
tumn  of  1829,  and  determining  to  devote  him 
self  chiefly  to  literature,  became  soon  after 
proprietor  and  editor  of  the  North  American  \ 
Review,  which  he  conducted  for  about  five 
years.  His  papers*  during  this  period  were 
on  a  considerable  variety  of  subjects,  and  were 
generally  indicative  of  erudition  and  a  wide 
range  of  information ;  but  they  lacked  the  con 
densation,  point  and  vivacity  essential  in  writ 
ings  for  such  periodicals,  and  I  believe  the 
Review  gained  little  in  reputation  or  influence 
while  he  was  thus  connected  with  it. 

From  1830  to  1835  he  was  a  senator  or  re 
presentative  in  the  legislature  of  Massachu 
setts  ;  in  1831  a  delegate  from  that  state  in  the 
convention  at  Baltimore  which  nominated  Mr. 
Clay  for  the  presidency,  and  author  of  the  ad 
dress  in  which  this  body  urged  the  election 
of  its  candidate ;  and  in  1833  a  leading  mem 
ber  of  the  Tariff  Convention  in  the  city  of 
New  York,  and  as  chairman  of  one  of  its 
committees  prepared  the  memorial  which  it 
addressed  to  Congress  as  a  reply  to  one  writ 
ten  by  Mr.  Gal  latin  for  the  Free  Trade  Con 
vention  held  in  Philadelphia.  After  the  close 
of  the  first  term  of  President  Jackson's  ad 
ministration  he  acted  with  the  democratic 
party,  advocated  its  policy  in  various  writings 
and  public  speeches,  and  on  several  occasions 
was  among  its  unsuccessful  candidates  for 
elective  offices. 

His  attention  was  never  long  diverted, 
however,  from  literary  studies,  and  in  addi 
tion  to  his  political  addresses  he  delivered 
many  oralionsf  before  societies  of  scholars  and 


*The  most  important  ones  are  on  the  following  sub 
jects  :  British  Opinions  on  the  Protecting  System ;  Politics 
of  Europe ;  Tone  of  British  Criticism ;  Stewart's  Moral 
Philosophy ;  The  American  System ;  Life  of  Henry 
Clay;  Life  and  Writings  of  Sir  James  Mackintosh:  Ir 
ving's  Alhambra;  Nullification;  The  Union  and  the1 
States;  Hamilton's  Men  and  Manners  in  America;  Ear 
ly  Literature  of  Modern  Europe ;  Early  Literature  of 
France ;  Progress  and  Limits  of  Social  improvement ; 
Origin  and  Character  of  the  Old  Parties;  Character  of 
Jefferson ;  Dr.  Channing ;  Thomas  carlyle. 

t  His  published  orations  are  on  The  Progress  and 
Limits  of  the  Improvement  of  Society  ;  The  French  Re 
volution  ;  The  Constitution  of  the  United  States ;  State 


286 


ALEXANDER   H.    EVERETT. 


philanthropists,  and  wrote  largely  for  the 
Boston  Quarterly  Review,  the  Democratic 
Review,  and  other  periodicals.* 

In  the  winter  of  1840  he  resided  in  the 
Island  of  Cuba,  as  a  confidential  agent  of  the 
government,  and  while  there  was  appointed 
President  of  Jefferson  College  in  Louisiana. 
He  accepted  this  office  and  entered  upon  the 
discharge  of  its  duties  in  June,  1841,  but  ill 
health  did  not  permit  him  long  to  retain  it,  and 
he  returned  to  New  England. 

In  1845  he  published,  under  the  title  of  Cri 
tical  and  Miscellaneous  Essays  to  which  are 
added  a  Few  Poems,  a  selection  from  his  con 


tributions  to  the  reviews  and  other  periodi 
cals.    A  second  volume  appeared  in  1847. 

Soon  after  the  return  of  Mr.  Caleb  Cushing 
from  his  mission  to  China,  Mr.  Everett  was 
appointed  to  succeed  him  as  Minister  Pleni 
potentiary  to  that  empire,  and  he  sailed  for 
Canton  in  a  national  ship  on  the  fourth  of 
July,  1845.  Arriving  at  Rio  de  Janeiro  he 
was  detained  by  illness,  and  despairing  of  re 
covery  he  returned  to  the  United  States ;  but 
in  the  summer  of  1846  his  health  was  suffi 
ciently  restored  for  him  to  proceed  again  upon 
the  voyage,  and  he  succeeded  in  reaching  Can 
ton,  but  died  there  on  the  28th  of  June,  1847. 


BOOK  MAKING. 

FROM  AN  ARTICLE  ON  MADAME  DE  SEVIGNE. 

IT  is  remarkable  that  many  of  the  best  books  of 
all  sorts  have  been  written  by  persons  who,  at  the 
time  of  writing  them,  had  no  intention  of  becom 
ing  authors.  Indeed,  with  a  slight  inclination  to 
systemize  and  exaggerate,  one  might  be  almost 
tempted  to  maintain  the  position, — however  para 
doxical  it  may  at  first  blush  appear, — that  no  good 
book  can  be  written  in  any  other  way ;  that  the 
only  literature  of  any  value  is  that  which  grows 
indirectly  out  of  the  real  action  of  society,  in 
tended  directly  to  effect  some  other  purpose;  and 
that  when  a  man  sits  down  doggedly  in  his  study, 
and  says  to  himself, "  I  mean  to  write  a  good  book," 
it  is  certain,  from  the  necessity  of  the  case,  that  the 
result  will  be  a  bad  one. 

To  illustrate  this  by  a  few  examples:  Shaks- 
peare,  the  Greek  Dramatists,  Lope  arid  Calderon, 
Corneille,  Racine,  and  Moliere, — in  short,  all  the 
dramatic  poets  of  much  celebrity,  prepared  their 
works  for  actual  representation,  at  times  when  the 
drama  was  the  favourite  amusement.  Their  plays, 
when  collected,  make  excellent  books.  At  a  later 


of  Polite  Literature  in  England  and  the  United  States; 
Moral  Character  of  the  Literature  of  the  last  and  pre 
sent  century;  Literary  Character  of  the  Scriptures; 
Progress  of  Moral  Science ;  Discovery  of  America  by 
the  Northmen;  German  Literature;  Battle  of  New  Or 
leans  ;  Battle  of  Bunker  Hill.  This  list,  I  believe,  is  incom 
plete. 

*In  the  Quarterly  Review  he  wrote  chiefly  or  altoge 
ther  on  the  Currency.  In  the  Democratic  Review  his  prin 
cipal  articles  are  eruitled  The  Spectre  Bridegroom,  from 
bu-o'er;  The  Water  King,  a  Legend  of  the  Norse;  The 
Grecian  Gossips,  imitated  from  Theocritus ;  The  Worth 
of  Woman,  from  Schiller  ;  Enigma;  The  Framers  of  the 
Constitution  (two  articles) ;  Mrs.  Sigourney ;  Sketch  of 
Harro  Harring ,  The  Texas  Question ;  The  Re-annexation 
of  Texas;  Contemporary  Spanish  Poetry;  Greenough's 
Statue  of  Washington ;  The  Young  American ;  The  Mal- 
thusian  Theory  discussed  in  Letters  to  Professor  George 
Tucker ;  The  Portress,  a  Ballad ;  The  Funeral  of  Goethe, 
from  Harro  Harring. 


period,  when  the  drama  had  in  a  great  measure 
gone  out  of  fashion,  Lord  Byron,  a  man  not  inferior, 
perhaps,  in  poetical  genius  to  any  of  the  persons 
just  mentioned,  undertakes,  without  any  view  to 
the  stage,  to  write  a  book  of  the  same  kind.  What 
is  the  result?  Something  which,  as  Ninon  de 
1'Enclos  said  of  the  young  Marquis  de  Sevigne, 
has  very  much  the  character  of  fricasseed  snow. 
Homer,  again,  or  the  Homerites,  a  troop  of  wan 
dering  minstrels,  composed,  probably  without  put 
ting  them  to  paper,  certain  songs  and  ballads,  which 
they  sung  at  the  tables  of  the  warriors  and  princes 
of  their  time.  Some  centuries  afterwards,  Pisis- 
tratus  made  them  up  into  a  book,  which  became 
the  bible  of  Greece.  Voltaire,  whose  genius  was 
perhaps  equal  tS  that  of  any  of  the  Homerites,  at 
tempted,  in  cold  blood,  to  make  just  such  a  book; 
and  here,  again,  the  product  called  the  Henriade 
is  no  book,  but  another  lump  of  fricasseed  snow. 
What  are  all  your  pretended  histories  1  Fables, 
jest  books,  satires,  apologies,  any  thing  but  what 
they  profess  to  be.  Bring  together  the  correspond 
ence  of  a  distinguished  public  character,  a  Wash-., 
ington,  a  Wellington,  and  then,  for  the  first  time, 
you  have  a  real  history.  Even  in  so  small  a  mat 
ter  as  a  common  letter  to  a  friend,  if  you  write  one 
for  the  sake  of  writing  it,  in  order  to  produce  a 
good  letter  as  such,  you  will  probably  fail.  Who 
ever  read  one  of  Pliny's  precious  specimens  of  af 
fectation  and  formality,  without  wishing  that  he 
had  perished  in  the  same  eruption  of  Vesuvius 
that  destroyed  his  uncle  1  On  the  contrary,  let 
one  who  has  any  thing  to  say  to  another  at  a  dis 
tance,  in  the  way  of  either  business  or  friendship, 
commit  his  thoughts  to  paper  merely  for  the  pur 
pose  of  communicating  them,  and  he  will  not  only 
effect  his  immediate  object,  but,  however  humble 
may  be  his  literary  pretensions,  will  commonly 
write  something  that  may  be  read  with  pleasure  by 
an  indifferent  third  person.  In  short,  experience 
seems  to  show  that  every  book,  prepared  with  a 
view  to  mere  book-making,  is  necessarily  a  sort  of 
counterfeit,  bearing  the  same  relation  to  a  real  book 
which  the  juggling  of  the  Egyptian  magicians  did 
to  the  miracles  of  Moses. 


ALEXANDER   H.   EVERETT. 


287 


CLAIMS  OF  LITERATURE  UPON 
AMERICANS. 

FROM   ORATIONS   AND   ADDRESSES. 

INDEPENDENCE  and  liberty,  the  great  political 
objects  of  all  communities,  have  been  secured  to 
us  by  our  glorious  ancestors.  In  these  respects, 
we  are  only  required  to  preserve  and  transmit  un 
impaired  to  our  posterity  the  inheritance  which 
our  fathers  bequeathed  to  us.  To  the  present,  and 
to  the  following  generations,  is  left  the  easier  task 
of  enriching,  with  arts  and  letters,  the  proud  fabric 
of  our  national  glory.  Our  Sparta  is  indeed  a  no 
ble  one.  Let  us  then  do  our  best  for  it. 

Let  me  not,  however,  be  understood  to  intimate, 
that  the  pursuits  of  literature  or  the  finer  arts  of 
life,  have  been,  at  any  period  of  our  history,  fo 
reign  to  the  people  of  this  country.  The  found 
ers  of  the  colonies,  the  Winthrops,  the  Smiths, 
the  Raleighs,  the  Penns,  the  Oglethorpes,  were 
among  the  most  accomplished  scholars  and  ele 
gant  writers,  as  well  as  the  loftiest  and  purest  spi 
rits  of  their  time.  Their  successors  have  constantly 
sustained,  in  this  respect,  the  high  standard  esta 
blished  by  the  founders.  Education  and  Religion, — 
the  two  great  cares  of  intellectual  and  civilized 
men, — were  always  with  them  the  foremost  objects 
of  attention.  The  principal  statesmen  of  the  Re 
volution  were  persons  of  high  literary  cultivation ; 
their  public  documents  were  declared,  by  Lord 
Chatham,  to  be  equal  to  the  finest  specimens  of 
Greek  and  Roman  wisdom.  In  every  generation, 
our  country  has  contributed  its  full  proportion  of 
eminent  writers.  Need  I  mention  names  in  proof 
of  this?  Recollect  your  Edwards,  erecting,  in 
this  remote  region,  the  standard  of  Orthodoxy,  for 
enlightened  Protestant  Europe.  Recollect  your 
Franklin,  instructing  the  philosophers  of  the  elder 
world  in  the  deepest  mysteries  of  science ;  her 
statesmen  in  political  economy,  her  writers  in  the 
forms  of  language.  In  the  present  generation, 
your  Irvings,  your  Coopers,  your  Bryants,  with 
their  distinguished  contemporaries,  form,  perhaps, 
the  brightest  constellation  that  remains  in  the  lite 
rary  hemisphere,  since  the  greater  lights  to  which 
I  have  pointed  your  attention  already  were  eclipsed  ; 
while  the  loftier  heights  of  mathematical,  moral 
and  political  science  are  occupied  with  not  inferior 
distinction,  by  your  Bowditches,  your  Adamses, 
your  Channings,  your  Waylands  and  your  Web- 
sters. 

In  this  respect,  then,  our  fathers  did  their  part ; 
our  friends  of  the  present  generation  are  doing 
theirs,  and  doing  it  well.  But  thus  far  the  rela 
tive  position  of  England  and  the  United  States 
has  been  such  that  our  proportional  contribution 
to  the  common  literature  was  naturally  a  small  one. 
England,  by  her  great  superiority  in  wealth  and  po 
pulation,  was  of  course  the  head-quarters  of  science 
and  learning.  All  this  is  rapidly  changing.  You 
are  already  touching  the  point  when  your  wealth 
and  population  will  equal  those  of  England.  The 
superior  rapidity  of  your  progress  will,  at  no  dis 
tant  period,  give  you  the  ascendency.  It  will  then 
belong  to  your  position  to  take  the  lead  in  arts 


and  letters,  as  in  policy,  and  to  give  the  tone  to 
the  literature  of  the  language.  Let  it  be  your 
care  and  study  not  to  show  yourselves  unequal  to 
this  high  calling, — to  vindicate  the  honour  of  the 
new  world  in  this  generous  and  friendly  competi 
tion  with  the  old.  You  will  perhaps  be  told  that 
literary  pursuits  will  disqualify  you  for  the  active 
business  of  life.  Heed  not  the  idle  assertion.  Re 
ject  it  as  a  mere  imagination,  inconsistent  with 
principle,  unsupported  by  experience.  Point  out 
to  those  who  make  it,  the  illustrious  characters 
who  have  reaped  in  every  age  the  highest  honours 
of  studious  and  active  exertion.  Show  them  De 
mosthenes,  forging  by  the  light  of  the  midnight 
lamp  those  thunderbolts  of  eloquence,  which 

"  Shook  the  arsenal  and  fulmined  over  Greece — 
To  Macedon  and  Artaxerxes'  throne." 

Ask  then  if  Cicero  would  have  been  hailed  with 
rapture  as  the  father  of  his  country,  if  he  had  not 
been  its  pride  and  pattern  in  philosophy  and  let 
ters.  Inquire  whether  Caesar,  or  Frederick,  or  Bo 
naparte,  or  Wellington,  or  Washington,  fought  the 
worse  because  they  knew  how  to  write  their  own 
commentaries.  Remind  them  of  Franklin,  tearing 
at  the  same  time  the  lightning  from  heaven,  and  the 
sceptre  from  the  hands  of  the  oppressor.  Do  they 
say  to  you  that  study  will  lead  you  to  skepticism  ? 
Recall  to  their  memory  the  venerable  names  of 
Bacon,  Milton,  Newton  and  Locke.  Would  they 
persuade  you  that  devotion  to  learning  will  with 
draw  your  steps  from  the  paths  of  pleasure?  Tell 
them  they  are  mistaken.  Tell  them  that  the  only 
true  pleasures  are  those  which  result  from  the  dili 
gent  exercise  of  all  the  faculties  of  body,  and  mind, 
and  heart,  in  pursuit  of  noble  ends  by  noble  means. 
Repeat  to  them  the  ancient  apologue  of  the  youth 
ful  Hercules,  in  the  pride  of  strength  and  beauty, 
giving  up  his  generous  soul  to  the  worship  of  vir 
tue.  Tell  them  your  choice  is  also  made.  Tell 
them,  with  the  illustrious  Roman  orator,  you  would 
rather  be  in  the  wrong  with  Plato,  than  in  the  right 
with  Epicurus.  Tell  them  that  a  mother  in  Sparta 
would  have  rather  seen  her  son  brought  home  from 
battle  a  corpse  upon  his  shield,  than  dishonoured 
by  its  loss.  Tell  them  that  your  mother  is  America, 
y  our  battle  the  warfare  of  life,  your  shield  the  breast 
plate  of  Religion. 


GREENOUGH'S  STATUE  OF  WASH 
INGTON. 

GHEENOUGH'S  great  work  has  surpassed  my  ex 
pectations,  high  as  they  were.  It  is  truly  sublime. 

The  statue  is  of  colossal  grandeur ;  about  twice 
the  size  of  life.  The  hero  is  represented  in  a  sit 
ting  posture.  A  loose  drapery  covers  the  lower 
part  of  the  figure,  and  is  carried  up  over  the  right 
arm,  which  is  extended,  with  the  elbow  bent  and 
the  forefinger  of  the  hand  pointed  upward.  The 
left  arm  is  stretched  out  a  little  above  the  thigh  : 
and  the  hand  holds  a  Roman  sword  reversed. 

The  design  of  the  artist  was,  of  course,  to  indi 
cate  the  ascendency  of  the  civic  and  humane  over 


288 


ALEXANDER   H.   EVERETT. 


the  military  virtues,  which  distinguished  the  whole 
career  of  Washington,  and  which  forms  the  great 
glory  of  his  character.  It  was  not  intended  to 
bring  before  the  eye  the  precise  circumstance  under 
which  he  resigned  his  commission  as  commander- 
in-chief.  This  would  have  required  a  standing 
posture  and  a  modern  military  costume  ;  and,  with 
out  an  accompanying  group  of  members  of  Con 
gress,  would  have  been  an  incomplete  work.  The 
sword  reversed,  and  the  finger  pointed  upward,  in 
dicate  the  moral  sentiment,  of  which  the  resigna 
tion,  of  his  commission,  as  commander-in-chief,  was 
the  strongest  evidence,  without  the  details,  which 
were  inconsistent  with  the  general  plan. 

The  face  is  that  of  Stuart's  portrait,  modified  so  as 
to  exhibit  the  highest  point  of  manly  vigour  and 
maturity.  Though  not  corresponding  exactly  with 
any  of  the  existing  portraits,  it  is  one  of  the  as 
pects  which  the  countenance  of  Washington  must 
necessarily  have  worn  in  the  course  of  his  progress 
through  life,  and  is  obviously  the  proper  one  for  the 
purpose.  In  expression,  the  countenance  is  admira 
bly  adjusted  to  the  character  of  the  subject  and  the 
intention  of  the  work.  It  is  stamped  with  dignity, 
and  radiant  with  benevolence  and  moral  beauty. 

The  execution  is  finished  to  the  extreme  point 
of  perfection,  as  well  in  the  accessories  as  in  the 
statue  itself.  The  seat  is  a  massy  arm-chair  of  an 
tique  form  and  large  dimensions,  the  sides  of  which 
are  covered  with  exquisitely  wrought  bas-reliefs. 
The  subject  of  one  is  the  infant  Hercules  stran 
gling  the  serpent  in  his  cradle  :  that  of  the  other, 
Apollo  guiding  the  four  steeds  that  draw  the  cha 
riot  of  the  sun.  The  back  of  the  chair  is  of  open 
work.  At  the  left  corner  is  placed  a  small  statue 
of  Columbus,  holding  in  his  hand  a  sphere,  which 
he  is  examining  with  fixed  attention :  at  the  right 
corner  is  a  similar  small  statue  of  an  Indian  chief. 
The  effect  of  these  comparatively  diminutive  im 
ages  is  to  heighten  by  contrast  the  impression  of 
grandeur,  which  is  made  by  the  principal  figure 

I  make  no  pretensions  to  connoisseurship  in  the 
art  of  sculpture,  and  judge  of  the  merit  of  the  work 
merely  by  the  impression  which  it  makes  upon  my 
own  mind  ;  but  I  can  say  for  myself,  that  after  see 
ing  the  most  celebrated  specimens  of  ancient  and 
modern  sculpture  to  be  found  in  Europe,  includ 
ing  the  Laocoon  and  the  Apollo  Belvedere,  with  the 
finest  productions  of  Canova,  Thorwaldsen,  Ser- 
gell  and  Chantry,  I  consider  the  Washington  of 
Greenough  as  superior  to  any  of  them,  and  as  the 
master-piece  of  the  art.  The  hint  seems  to  have  been 
taken  from  the  Olympian  Jupiter  of  Phidias,  who 
said  himself  that  he  had  caught  the  inspiration  un 
der  which  he  conceived  the  plan  of  that  great  glory 
of  ancient  sculpture,  from  a  passage  in  the  Iliad. 
In  this  way  the  noble  work  of  Greenough  connects 
itself  by  the  legitimate  filiation  of  kindred  genius, 
transmitting  its  magnetic  impulses  through  the  long 
lines  of  intervening  centuries  with  the  poetry  of 
Homer.  The  vast  dimensions  of  the  Jupiter  of 
Phidias  may  have  made  it  to  the  eye  a  more  im 
posing  and  majestic  monument;  but  if  the  volun 
tary  submission  of  transcendant  power  to  the  mo 
ral  law  of  duty  be,  as  it  certainly  is,  a  more  sublime 


spectacle  than  any  positive  exercise  of  the  same 
power  over  inferior  natures,  then  the  subject  of  the 
American  sculptor  is  more  truly  divine  than  that  of 
his  illustrious  prototype  in  Greece.  When  Jupiter 
shakes  Olympus  with  his  nod,  the  imagination  is 
affected  by  a  grand  display  of  energy,  but  the  heart 
remains  untouched.  When  Washington,  with  an 
empire  in  his  grasp,  resigns  his  sword  to  the  Presi 
dent  of  Congress,  admiration  of  his  great  intellec 
tual  power  is  mingled  with  the  deepest  emotions 
of  delightful  sympathy. 

THE  DURABILITY  OF  REPUTATION. 

FROM  MISCELLANIES. 

THE  age  of  Louis  XIV.  is  universally  consi 
dered  as  one  of  the  brightest  periods  in  the  history 
of  civilization.  What  gave  it  this  splendid  pret'mi- 
nence]  Louis  XIV.  himself,  although  he  pos 
sessed  great  qualities  and  eclipsed  the  glory  of 
most  of  his  predecessors,  now  cornes  in  for  a  very 
moderate  share  of  the  attention  we  bestow  on  the 
time  in  which  he  lived.  His  generals,  Conde,  Tu- 
renne,  Luxemburg,  and  the  rest, — unquestionably 
men  of  distinguished  talent, — were  yet  in  no  way 
superior  to  the  thunderbolts  of  war  that  have  wasted 
mankind  from  age  to  age,  and  are  now  forgotten. 
His  ministers,  Fouquet,  Colbert,  Louvois,  have  left 
no  marked  traces  in  history.  The  celebrated  beau 
ties  that  charmed  all  eyes  at  the  court  festivals 
have  long  since  mouldered  into  dust.  Yet  we  still 
cling  with  the  deepest  interest  to  the  memory  of 
the  age  of  Louis  XIV.,  because  it  was  the  age  of 
Pascal  and  Corneille,  of  Racine,  Moliere,  and  La 
Fontaine,  of  Bossuet,  Fenelon,  Bourdaloue,  Mas- 
sillon,  La  Bruyere,  La  Rochefoucalt,  and  Madame 
de  Sevigne.  The  time  will  probably  come,  in  the 
progress  of  civilization,  when  the  military  and  civic 
glories  of  this  period  will  be  still  more  lightly,  be 
cause  more  correctly,  estimated  than  they  are  now  : 
when  the  King,  who  could  make  war  upon  Hol 
land,  because  he  was  offended  by  the  device  of  a 
bourgomaster's  seal,  and  the  general  who  burnt  the 
Palatinate  in  cold  blood,  will  be  looked  upon, — 
with  all  their  refinement  and  merit  of  a  certain 
kind, — as  belonging  essentially  to  the  same  class 
of  semi-barbarians  with  the  Tamerlanes  and  Attilas, 
the  Rolands  and  the  Red  Jackets :  when  the  Fou- 
quets  and  Colberts  will  be  considered  as  possessing 
a  moral  value  very  little  higher  than  that  of  the 
squirrels  and  snakes,  which  they  not  inappropriately 
assumed  as  their  emblems.  But  the  maxims  of 
La  Rochefoucault  will  never  lose  their  point,  nor 
the  poetry  of  Racine  its  charm.  The  graceful  elo 
quence  of  Fenelon  will  flow  for  ever  through  the 
pages  of  Telemachus,  and  the  latest  posterity  will 
listen  with  as  much  or  even  greater  pleasure  than 
their  contemporaries  to  the  discourses  of  Bossuet 
and  Massillon.  The  masterly  productions  of  these 
great  men  and  their  illustrious  contemporaries  will 
perpetuate  to  the  <  last  syllable  of  recorded  time' 
the  celebrity  which  they  originally  conferred  upon 
the  period  when  they  lived,  and  crown  with  a  light  of 
perennial  and  unfading  glory  the  age  of  Louis  XIV. 


JAMES  HALL. 


[Born  1793.    Died  1868.] 


JAMES  HALL,  a  son  of  John  Hall,  formerly 
marshal  for  the  District  of  Pennsylvania,  was 
born  in  Philadelphia  in  1793.  Intending  to 
educate  him  for  the  mercantile  profession,  his 
father  placed  him  at  an  early  age  in  a  counting- 
house;  but  the  business  was  not  congenial 
to  his  tastes,  and  he  soon  quitted  it  to  enter 
upon  the  study  of  the  law,  in  which  he  was 
engaged  on  the  breaking  out  of  the  war  in 
1812.  He  now  joined  the  Washington  Grays, 
a  corps  composed  from  the  most  respectable 
young  men  of  the  city,  under  Captain  Condy 
Raguet,  and  marched  to  Camp  Dupont,  where 
he  received  a  commission  as  lieutenant  in  the 
army  of  the  United  States.  Transferred  to 
the  company  of  Captain  Biddle,  he  proceeded 
to  Canada,  and  distinguished  himself  in  the 
battles  of  Chippewa,  Lundy's  Lane,  and  Nia 
gara  ;  and  being  despatched  on  a  private  mis 
sion  to  the  enemy  by  General  Brown,  was  de 
tained,  and  finally  compelled  to  find  his  way 
home  by  the  St.  Lawrence  and  Quebec.  At  the 
close  of  the  war,  disliking  the  inactivity  and 
monotony  of  a  military  life  in  time  of  peace,  he 
resumed  the  study  of  the  law  under  Mr.  James 
Ross,  of  Pittsburgh,  who  had  long  been  inti 
mately  acquainted  with  his  family,  and  on  be 
ing  admitted  to  the  bar,  resigned  his  commis 
sion  and  removed  to  Shawneetown,  in  Illinois. 

Mr.  Hall  had  already  shown  a  decided  pre 
dilection  for  literature  and  had  written  many 
spirited  or  graceful  trifles  for  the  gazettes,  and 
he  now  became  wedded  to  the  occupation  of 
an  author  by  establishing  a  weekly  newspaper 
and  The  Illinois  Monthly  Magazine,  both  of 
which  were  conducted  by  him  several  years 
with  much  industry  and  ability. 

Descending  the  Ohio  river  on  the  way  to 
his  new  home,  in  an  ark,  as  a  kind  of  boat  on 
the  western  waters  is  called,  he  commenced 
a  series  of  letters  for  publication  in  the  Port 
Folio*  at  Philadelphia,  which  were  subse 
quently  rewritten,  and  printed  in  London  un 
der  the  title  of  Letters  from  the  West.  They 

*Then  edited  by  his  brother,  Mr.  John  E.  Hall,  who 
was  also  editor  of  the  American  Law  Journal,  and  other 
works  on  jurisprudence. 

37 


form  an  interesting  account  of  the  natural  and 
social  conditkm  of  the  western  states  as  they 
were  twenty  years  ago.* 

Besides  editing  and  publishing  his  news 
paper  and  magazine,  Mr.  Hall  practised  suc 
cessfully  as  a  counsellor.  He  rose  steadily 
in  the  estimation  of  the  people;  was  appointed 
district  attorney,  and  subsequently  one  of  the 
justices  of  the  Circuit  Court;  and  on  the  re 
organization  of  the  judiciary  was  elected  trea 
surer  of  the  state.  His  new  duties  rendering 
it  necessary  for  him  to  reside  in  the  capital, 
he  disposed  of  his  property  at  Shawneetown 
and  removed  to  Vandalia,  where  he  remained 
until  he  lost  his  office  by  the  accession  to 
power  of  an  opposing  political  party,  when 
he  went  to  Cincinnati,  to  practise  his  profes 
sion  and  continue  his  literary  pursuits. 

His  first  publication  in  Cincinnati  was  The 
Western  Souvenir  for  1829.  Among  the  arti 
cles  written  for  it  by  himself  was  a  graceful 
poem  entitled  Wedded  Love's  First  Home,f 
and  several  tales  and  sketches,  and  it  con 
tained  pieces  by  Timothy  Flint,  Morgan  Ne 
ville,  and  other  authors,  which  were  quite 
equal  in  their  way  to  the  best  contents  of  the 
more  elegant  annuals  published  in  the  eastern 
cities.  In  1832  he  gave  to  the  public  his 
Legends  of  the  West,  of  which  a  second  edi 
tion  was  issued  in  the  following  year,  and 
about  the  same  time  The  Soldier's  Bride  and 
Other  Tales.  In  1833  he  commenced  The 
Western  Monthly  Magazine,  a  literary  mis 
cellany  which  was  continued  three  years,  and 
made  attractive  chiefly  by  his  own  various 
and  numerous  contributions.  He  also  pub 
lished  in  Philadelphia  in  1833  The  Harpe's 
Head,  a  Legend  of  Kentucky,  in  1834  Tales 
of  the  Border,  and  in  1835  Statistics  of  the 
West,  which  in  1838  was  reprinted,  much 
enlarged,  under  the  title  of  Notes  on  the 
Western  States. 


*  Letters  from  The  West,  containing  Sketches  of 
Scenery,  Manners  and  Customs,  and  Anecdotes  con 
nected  with  the  First  Settlements  of  the  western  sec 
tions  of  the  United  States:  By  the  Hon.  Judge  Hall. 
1  vol.  8vo,  pp.  386.  London,  Henry  Colburn,  1828. 

t  See  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America.  8th  ed.  page  538. 
2B  2e9 


290 


JAMES   HALL. 


The  splendidly  illustrated  work  in  three 
folio  volumes  entitled  A  History  of  the  Indian 
Tribes  of  North  America,  with  Biographical 
Sketches  and  Anecdotes  of  the  Principal 
Chiefs,  by  Mr.  Hall  and  Mr.  T.  L.  McKen- 
ny,  a  large  part  of  whose  life  had  been  passed 
in  the  service  of  the  government  as  Indian 
agent,  was  begun  about  the  year  1836,  and 
finished  in  1844.  It  contains  one  hundred 
and  twenty  portraits,  engraved  and  coloured 
by  Mr.  Bowen,  from  original  pictures  by  Mr. 
McKenny,  and  the  literary  part  of  it,  which  is 
understood  to  have  been  written  chiefly  by 
Mr.  Hall,  has  much  of  the  freshness  and 
spirit,  and  to  the  common  reader  all  of  the  in 
terest,  of  the  sketches  by  Audubon,  or  Wilson. 

In  1845  Mr.  Hall  published  in  Wiley  and 
Putnam's  Library  of  American  books  The 
Wilderness  and  the  War  Path,  a  collection  of 
tales  illustrative  of  western  life  and  manners, 
most  of  which  had  appeared  in  his  earlier  vo 


lumes.  A  new  edition  of  his  works,  in  tour 
vols.  revised  by  himself,  was  published  about 
1856.  Judge  Hall  died  in  Cincinnati,  iu  July, 
1868. 

Mr.  Hall's  writings  are  pervaded  by  a  gen 
tlemanly  tone  and  spirit,  and  have  touches  oi 
humour  and  reflective  sentiment.  The  sub 
jects  of  some  of  his  happiest  sketches  are  the 
early  French  settlers  of  Illinois.  The  man 
ners  and  customs  which  have  prevailed  in 
this  state  he  has  depicted  with  much  fidelity, 
though  he  has  been  less  successful  than  some 
others  in  representing  the  frontier  Indian,  to 
whose  character  he  seems  to  have  given  little 
attention.  The  descriptions  of  western  scene 
ry  scattered  through  his  works  are  generally 
graphic  andf  truthful. 

His  Sketches  of  the  West  and  Notes  on  the 
Western  States  are  valuable  for  the  informa 
tion  they  contain,  and  will  be  likely  to  live 
longer  than  any  of  his  other  writings. 


PETE  FEATHERTON. 

FROM   THE   WILDERNESS   AND   THE   WAR   PATH. 

EVERY  country  has  its  superstitions,  and  will 
continue  to  have  them,  so  long  as  men  are  blessed 
with  lively  imaginations,  and  while  any  portion  of 
mankind  remain  ignorant  of  the  causes  of  natural 
phenomena.  That  which  cannot  be  reconciled 
with  experience  will  always  be  attributed  to  su 
pernatural  influence ;  and  those  who  know  little, 
will  imagine  much  more  to  exist  than  has  ever 
been  witnessed  by  their  own  senses.  I  am  not 
displeased  with  this  state  of  things,  for  the  journey 
of  life  would  be  dull  indeed,  if  those  who  travel  it 
were  confined  for  ever  to  the  beaten  highway,  worn 
smooth  by  the  sober  feet  of  experience.  To  turn 
pikes,  for  our  beasts  of  burden,  I  have  no  ob 
jection  ;  but  I  cannot  consent  to  the  erection  of 
railways  for  the  mind,  even  though  the  architect 
be  "  wisdom,  whose  ways  are  pleasant,  and  whose 
paths  are  peace."  It  is  sometimes  agreeable  to 
stray  oft"  into  the  wilderness  which  fancy  creates, 
to  recline  in  fairy  bowers,  and  to  listen  to  the  mur 
murs  of  imaginary  fountains.  When  the  beaten 
roacl  becomes  tiresome,  there  are  many  sunny 
bpots  where  the  pilgrim  may  loiter  with  advantage 
— many  shady  paths,  whose  labyrinths  may  be 
traced  with  delight.  The  mountain  and  the  vale, 
on  whose  scenery  we  gaze  enchanted,  derive  new 
charms,  when  their  deep  caverns  and  gloomy  re 
cesses  are  peopled  with  imaginary  beings. 

But  above  all,  the  enlivening  influence  of  fancy 
is  felt  when  it  illumines  our  firesides,  giving  to  the 
\vings  of  time,  when  they  grow  heavy,  a  brighter 
plumage,  and  a  more  sprightly  motion.  There 
are  seasons  when  the  spark  of  life  within  us  seems 
to  burn  with  less  than  its  wonted  vigour;  the 


blood  crawls  heavily  through  the  veins ;  the  con 
tagious  chillness  seizes  on  our  companions,  and 
the  sluggish  hours  roll  painfully  along.  Some 
thing  more  than  a  common  impulse  is  then  re 
quired  to  awaken  the  indolent  mind,  and  give  a 
new  tone  to  the  flagging  spirits.  If  necromancy 
draws  her  magic  circle,  we  cheerfully  enter  the 
ring;  if  folly  shakes  her  cap  and  bells,  we  are 
amused ;  a  witch  becomes  an  interesting  person 
age,  and  we  are  even  agreeably  surprised  -by  the 
companionable  qualities  of  a  ghost. 

We,  who  live  on  the  frontier,  have  little  ac 
quaintance  with  imaginary  beings.  These  gentry 
never  emigrate;  they  seem  to  have  strong  local 
attachments,  which  not  even  the  charms  of  a  new 
country  can  overcome.  A  few  witches,  indeed, 
were  imported  into  New  England  by  the  Puritans ; 
but  were  so  badly  used,  that  the  whole  race  seems 
to  have  been  disgusted  with  new  settlements. 
With  them  the  spirit  of  adventure  expired,  and 
the  weird  women  of  the  present  day  wisely  cling 
to  the  soil  of  the  old  countries.  That  we  have 
but  few  ghosts  will  not  be  deemed  a  matter  of  sur 
prise  by  those  who  have  observed  how  miserably 
destitute  we  are  of  accommodations  for  such  inha 
bitants.  We  have  no  baronial  castles,  nor  ruined 
mansions ; — no  turrets  crowned  with  ivy,  nor  an 
cient  abbeys  crumbling  into  decay  ;  and  it  would 
be  a  paltry  spirit  who  would  be  content  to  wander 
in  the  forest  by  silent  rivers  and  solitary  swamps. 

It  is  even  imputed  to  us  as  a  reproach  by  en 
lightened  foreigners,  that  our  land  is  altogether 
populated  with  the  living  descendants  of  Adam — 
creatures  with  thews  and  sinews,  who  eat  when 
they  are  hungry,  laugh  when  they  are  tickled,  and 
die  when  they  are  done  living.  The  creatures  of 
romance,  say  they,  exist  not  in  our  territory.  A 


JAMES    HALL. 


291 


witch,  a  ghost,  or  a  brownie  perishes  in  America, 
as  a  serpent  is  said  to  die  the  instant  it  touches 
the  uncongenial  soil  of  Ireland.  This  is  true  only 
in  part  If  we  have  no  ghosts,  we  are  not  without 
miracles.  Wonders  have  happened  in  these  United 
States.  Mysteries  have  occurred  in  the  Valley  of 
the  Mississippi.  Supernatural  events  have  tran 
spired  on  the  borders  of  •<  the  beautiful  stream ;" 
and  in  order  to  rescue  my  country  from  undeserved 
reproach,  I  shall  proceed  to  narrate  an  authentic 
history  which  I  received  from  the  lips  of  the  party 
principally  concerned, 

A  clear  morning  had  succeeded  a  stormy  night 
in  December ;  the  snow  laid  ankle-deep  upon  the 
ground,  and  glittered  on  the  boughs,  while  the 
bracing  air  and  the  cheerful  sunbeams  invigorated 
the  animal  creation,  and  called  forth  the  tenants 
of  the  forest  from  their  warm  lairs  and  hidden 
lurking-places. 

The  inmates  of  a  small  cabin  on  the  margin  of 
the  Ohio  were  commencing  with  the  sun  the  busi 
ness  of  the  day.  A  stout,  raw-boned  forester  plied 
his  keen  axe,  and,  lugging  log  after  log,  erected  a 
pile  on  the  ample  hearth,  sufficiently  large  to  have 
rendered  the  last  honours  to  the  stateliest  ox.  A 
female  was  paying  her  morning  visit  to  the  cow- 
yard,  where  a  numerous  herd  of  cattle  claimed  her 
attention.  The  plentiful  breakfast  followed  ;  corn- 
bread,  milk,  and  venison  crowned  the  oaken  board, 
while  a  tin  coffee-pot  of  ample  dimensions  supplied 
the  beverage  which  is  seldom  wanting  at  the  morn 
ing  repast  of  the  substantial  A'merican  farmer. 

The  breakfast  over,  Mr.  Featherton  reached 
down  a  long  rifle  from  the  rarters  and  commenced 
certain  preparations,  fraught  with  danger  to  the 
brute  inhabitants  of  the  forest.  The  lock  was 
carefully  examined,  the  screws  tightened,  the  pan 
wiped,  the  flint  renewed,  and  the  springs  oiled ; 
and  the  keen  eye  of  the  backwoodsman  glittered 
with  an  ominous  lustre,  as  its  glance  rested  on  the 
destructive  engine.  His  blue-eyed  partner,  lean 
ing  fondly  on  her  husband's  shoulder,  essayed 
those  coaxing  and  captivating  blandishments,  which 
every  young  wife  so  well  understands,  to  detain 
her  husband  from  the  contemplated  sport.  Every 
pretext  was  urged  with  affectionate  pertinacity 
which  female  ingenuity  could  supply ; — the  wind 
whistled  bleakly  over  the  hills,  the  snow  lay  deep 
in  the  valleys,  the  deer  would  surely  not  venture 
abroad  in  such  bitter  cold  weather,  the  adventu 
rous  hunter  might  get  his  toes  frost-bitten,  and  her 
own  hours  would  be  sadly  lonesome  in  his  absence. 
He  smiled  in  silence  at  the  arguments  of  his  bride, 
for  such  she  was,  and  continued  his  preparations 
with  the  cool,  but  good-natured  determination  of 
one  who  is  not  to  be  turned  from  his  purpose. 

He  was  indeed  a  person  with  whom  such  argu 
ments,  except  the  last,  would  not  be  very  likely  to 
prevail.  Mr.  Peter  Featherton,  or  as  he  was  fa 
miliarly  called  by  all  who  knew  him,  Pete  Fea 
therton,  was  a  bold,  rattling  Kentuckian  of  twenty- 
five,  who  possessed  the  characteristic  peculiarities 
of  his  countrymen — good  and  evil — in  a  striking 
degree.  His  red  hair  and  sanguine  complexion 
announced  an  ardent  temperament;  his  tall  form 


and  bony  limbs  indicated  an  active  frame  inured 
to  hardships ;  his  piercing  eye  and  high  cheek 
bones  evinced  the  keenness  and  resolution  of  his 
mind.  He  was  adventurous,  frank,  and  social — 
boastful,  credulous,  illiterate,  and  at  times  wonder 
fully  addicted  to  the  marvellous.  His  imagination 
was  a  warm  and  fruitful  soil,  in  which  "tall  oaks 
from  little  acorns  grew,"  and  his  vocabulary  was 
overstocked  with  superlatives.  He  loved  his  wife 
— no  mistake  about  that — but  next  to  her  his 
affections  entwined  themselves  about  his  gun,  and 
expanded  over  his  horse ;  he  was  true  to  his  friends, 
never  missed  an  election  day,  turned  his  back 
upon  a  frolic,  nor  affected  to  dislike  a  social  glass. 
He  believed  that  the  best  qualities  of  all  coun 
tries  were  combined  in  Kentucky ;  and  had  the 
most  whimsical  manner  of  expressing  his  national 
attachments.  He  was  firmly  convinced  that  the 
battle  of  the  Thames  was  the  most  sanguinary 
conflict  of  the  age — "  a  raal  reg'lar  skrimmage," — 
and  extolled  Colonel  Dick  Johnson  as  a  "  severe 
old  colt."  He  would  admit  freely  that  Napoleon 
was  a  great  genius — Metternich,  Castlereagh  "  and 
them  fellows"  knew  "  a  thing  or  two,"  but  then 
they  "were  no  part  of  a  priming  to  Henry  Clay." 

When  entirely  "  at  himself" — to  use  his  own 
language — that  is  to  say,  when  duly  sober,  Pete 
was  friendly  and  rational,  courteous,  and  consider 
ate,  and  a  better  tempered  fellow  never  shouldered 
a  rifle.  But  he  was  a  social  man,  ,vho  was  liable 
to  be  "  overtaken,"  and  let  him  get  a  glass  too 
much,  and  there  was  no  end  to  his  extravagance. 
Then  it  was  that  his  genius  bloomed  and  brought 
forth  strange  boasts  and  strong  oaths,  his  loyalty 
to  old  Kentuck  waxed  warm,  and  his  faith  in  his 
horse,  his  gun,  and  his  own  manhood  grew  into 
idolatry.  Always  bold  and  self-satisfied,  and  ha 
bitually  energetic  in  the  expression  of  his  predilec 
tions,  he  now  became  invested  with  the  agreeable 
properties  of  the  snapping-turtle,  the  alligator,  and 
the  steamboat,  and  gifted  with  the  most  affable 
and  affectionate  spirit  of  autobiography.  It  was 
now  that  he  would  dwell  upon  his  own  bodily 
powers  and  prowess  with  the  enthusiasm  of  a  de 
votee,  and  as  the  climax  of  this  rhetorical  display, 
would  slap  his  hands  together,  spring  perpendicu 
larly  into  the  air,  and  after  uttering  a  yell  worthy 
of  the  stoutest  Winnebago,  swear  that  he  was 
"  the  best  man  in  the  country,"  and  "  could  whip 
his  weight  in  wild  cats,"  «  no  two  ways  about  it" 
— he  was  "  not  afraid  of  no  man,  no  way  you 
could  fix  it;"  and  finally,  after  many  other  extra 
vagancies,  he  would  urge,  with  no  gentle  asseve 
ration,  his  ability  to  "  ride  through  a  crab-apple 
orchard  on  a  streak  of  lightning." 

In  addition  to  all  this,  which  one  would  think 
was  enough  for  any  reasonable  man,  Pete  would 
sometimes  brag  that  he  had  the  best  gun,  the  pret 
tiest  wife,  the  best-looking  sister,  and  the  fastest 
nag  in  all  Kentuck ;  and  that  no  man  dare  say  to 
the  contrary.  It  is  but  justice  to  remark,  that 
there  was  more  truth  in  this  last  boast  than  is 
usually  found  on  such  occasions,  and  that  Pete 
had  good  reason  to  be  proud  of  his  horse,  his  gun, 
and  his  lady-love. 


292 


JAMES    HALL. 


These,  however,  were  the  happy  moments  which 
are  few  and  far  between ;  they  were  the  brilliant 
inspirations  playing  like  the  lightning  in  an  over 
heated  atmosphere, — gleaming  over  the  turbid 
stream  of  existence,  as  the  meteor  flashes  through 
the  gloom  of  the  night.  When  the  fit  was  off, 
Pete  was  a  quiet,  good-natured,  listless  soul,  as 
one  would  see  on  a  summer's  day — strolling  about 
with  a  grave  aspect,  a  drawling,  and  a  deliberate 
gait,  a  stoop  of  the  shoulders,  and  a  kind  of  gene 
ral  relaxation  of  the  whole  outward  and  inward 
man — in  a  state  of  entire  freedom  from  restraint, 
reflection,  and  want,  and  without  any  impulse 
strong  enough  to  call  forth  his  latent  manhood — 
as  the  panther,  with  whom  he  often  compared 
himself,  when  his  appetite  for  food  is  sated,  sleeps 
calmly  in  his  lair,  or  wanders  harmlessly  through 
his  native  thickets. 

Our  hero  was  a  farmer,  or  as  the  very  appro 
priate  phrase  is,  «« made  a  crap1'  on  his  own  hind 
— for  besides  making  a  crop  he  performed  but  fcw 
of  the  labours  of  the  husbandman.  While  plant 
ing  his  corn,  tending  it,  and  gathering  in  the  har 
vest,  he  worked  with  a  good  will;  but  these,  thanks 
to  a  prolific  soil  and  a  free  country,  were  all  his 
toils,  and  they  occupied  not  half  of  the  year,  the 
remainder  of  which  was  spent  in  the  more  manly 
and  gentlemanly  employments  of  hunting,  attend 
ing  elections,  and  officiating  at  horse-races.  He 
was  a  rare  hand  at  a  "shucking,"  a  house  raising, 
or  a  log  rolling ;  merry  and  strong,  he  worked  like 
a  young  giant,  and  it  was  worth  while  to  hear  the 
gladsome  tones  of  his  clear  voice,  and  the  inspiring 
sound  of  his  loud  laugh;  while  the  way  he  handled 
the  axe,  the  beauty  and  keenness  of  the  implement, 
the  weight  and  precision  of  the  blows,  and  the 
gracefulness  of  the  action,  were  such  as  are  not 
seen  except  in  the  wilderness,  where  chopping  is 
an  accomplishment  as  well  as  the  most  useful  of 
labours. 

It  will  readily  be  perceived  that  our  hunter  was 
not  one  who  could  be  turned  from  his  purpose  by 
the  prospect  of  danger  or  fatigue;  and  a  few  mi 
nutes  sufficed  to  complete  his  preparations.  His 
feet  were  cased  in  moccasins,  and  his  legs  in  wrap 
pers  of  dressed  deerskin ;  and  he  was  soon  accou 
tred  with  a  powder-horn,  quaintly  carved  all  over 
with  curious  devices, — an  ample  pouch  with  flints, 
patches,  balls,  and  other  «  fixens" — and  a  hunter's 
knife, — and  throwing  "  Brown's  Bess,"  for  so  he 
called  his  rifle,  over  his  shoulder,  he  sallied 
forth. 

But  in  passing  a  store  hard  by,  which  supplied 
the  country  with  gunpowder,  whisky,  and  other 
necessaries,  as  well  as  with  the  luxuries  of  tea, 
sugar,  coffee,  calico,  calomel,  and  chandlery,  he 
was  hailed  by  one  of  the  neighbours,  who  invited 
him  to  "  light  off  and  take  something."  Pete  said 
he  had  «  no  occasion,"  but  "  rather  than  be  nice," 
he  dismounted  and  joined  a  festive  circle,  among 
whom  the  cup  was  circulating  freely.  Here  he 
was  soon  challenged  to  swap  rifles,  and  being  one 
of  those  who  could  not  "  stand  a  banter,"  he  ban 
tered  back  again  without  the  least  intention  of 
parting  with  his  favourite  weapon.  Making  offers 


like  a  skilful  diplomatist,  which  he  knew  would 
not  be  accepted,  and  feigning  great  eagerness  to 
accede  to  any  reasonable  proposition,  while  in 
wardly  resolved  to  reject  all,  he  magnified  the  per 
fections  of  Brown  Bess. 

"  She  can  do  any  thing  but  talk,"  said  he.  "  If 
she  had  legs  she  could  hunt  by  herself.  It  is  a 
pleasure  to  tote  her — I  naterally  believe  there  is 
not  a  rifle  south  of  Green  river  that  can  throw  a 
ball  so  far,  or  so  true.  I  can  put  a  bullet  in  that 
tree,  down  the  road,  a  mile  off." 

"  You  can't  do  it,  Pete — I'll  bet  a  treat  for  the 
whole  company." 

"  No" — said  the  hunter.  "  I  could  do  it — but 
I  don't  want  to  strain  my  gun." 

These  discussions  consumed  much  time  and 
much  whisky — for  the  rule  on  such  occasions  is, 
that  he  who  rejects  an  offer  to  trade  must  treat  the 
company,  and  thus  every  point  in  the  negotiation 
costs  a  pint  of  spirits. 

At  length,  bidding  adieu  to  his  companions,  Pete 
struck  into  the  forest — it  was  getting  late,  and  he 
"must  look  about  pretty  peart,"  he  said,  to  get  a 
venison  before  night.  Lightly  crushing  the  snow 
beneath  his  active  feet,  he  beat  up  the  coverts  and 
traversed  all  the  accustomed  haunts  of  the  deer. 
He  mounted  every  hill  and  descended  into  every 
valley — not  a  thicket  escaped  the  penetrating 
glance  of  his  practised  eye.  Fruitless  labour !  not 
a  deer  was  to  be  seen.  Pete  marvelled  at  this  un 
usual  circumstance,  as  the  deer  were  very  abun 
dant  in  this  neighbourhood,  and  no  one  knew  bet 
ter  where  to  look  for  them  than  himself. 

But  what  surprised  him  still  more,  was,  that  the 
woods  were  less  familiar  to  him  than  formerly. 
He  knew  them  "  like  a  book."  He  thought  he 
was  acquainted  with  every  tree  within  ten  miles 
of  his  cabin  ;  but  now,  although  he  certainly  had 
not  wandered  so  far,  some  of  the  objects  around 
him  seemed  strange,  while  others  again  were 
faintly  recognised:  and  there  was,  altogether,  a 
singular  confusion  in  the  character  of  the  scenery, 
which  was  partly  familiar  and  partly  new ;  or  rather, 
in  which  many  of  the  component  parts  were  sepa 
rately  well  known,  but  were  so  mixed  up  and 
changed  in  relation  to  each  other,  as  to  baffle  even 
the  knowledge  of  an  expert  woodsman. 

The  more  he  looked,  the  more  he  was  bewil 
dered.  Had  such  a  thing  been  possible,  he  would 
have  thought  himself  a  lost  man.  He  came  to  a 
stream  which  had  heretofore  rolled  to  the  west, 
but  now  its  course  pointed  to  the  east ;  and  the 
shadows  of  the  tall  trees,  which,  according  to 
Pete's  experience  and  philosophy,  ought  at  noon 
to  fall  toward  the  north,  all  pointed  to  the  south. 
He  looked  at  his  right  and  his  left  hands,  some 
what  puzzled  to  know  which  was  which ;  then 
scratched  his  head — but  scratching  the  head,  though 
a  good  thing  in  its  way,  will  not  always  get  a  man 
out  of  a  scrape.  He  cast  his  eye  upon  his  own 
shadow,  which  had  never  deceived  him — when  lo ! 
a  still  more  extraordinary  phenomenon  presented 
itself.  It  was  travelling  round  him  like  the  shade 
on  a  dial — only  a  great  deal  faster,  as  it  veered 
round  to  all  the  points  of  the  compass  in  the  course 


JAMES    HALL. 


293 


of  a  single  minute.  Mr.  Peter  Featherton  was 
"  in  a  bad  fix." 

It  was  very  evident,  too,  from  the  dryness  of  the 
snow  and  the  brittleness  of  the  twigs  which  snapped 
off  as  he  brushed  his  way  through,  the  thickets, 
that  the  weather  was  intensely  cold ;  yet  the  per 
spiration  was  rolling  in  large  drops  from  his  brow. 
He  stopped  at  a  clear  spring,  and  thrusting  his 
hands  into  the  cold  water,  attempted  to  carry  a 
portion  to  his  lips ;  but  the  element  recoiled  and 
hissed,  as  if  his  hands  and  lips  had  been  composed 
of  red  hot  iron.  Pete  felt  quite  puzzled  when  he 
reflected  on  all  these  contradictions  in  the  aspect 
of  nature;  and  began  to  consider  what  act  of  wick 
edness  he  had  been  guilty  of  which  could  have 
rendered  him  so  hateful,  that  the  deer  fled  at  his 
approach,  tlte  streams  turned  back,  and  the  sha 
dows  fell  the  wrong  way,  or  danced  round  their 
centre. 

He  began  to  grow  alarmed,  and  would  have 
liked  to  turn  back,  but  was  ashamed  to  betray 
such  weakness,  even  to  himself;  and  being  natu 
rally  bold,  he  resolutely  kept  on  his  way.  At  last, 
to  his  great  joy,  he  espied  the  tracks  of  deer  im 
printed  on  the  snow:  they  were  fresh  signs — and, 
dashing  upon  the  trail  with  the  alacrity  of  a  well- 
trained  hound,  he  pursued  in  hopes  of  soon  over 
taking  the  game.  Presently  he  discovered  the 
tracks  of  a  man  who  had  struck  the  same  trail  in 
advance  of  him,  and  supposing  it  to  be  one  of  his 
neighbours,  he  quickened  his  pace,  as  well  to  gain 
a  companion,  which  in  the  present  state  of  his 
feelings  he  so  much  needed,  as  to  share  the  spoil 
with  his  fellow-hunter.  Indeed,  in  his  present 
situation  and  condition  of  mind,  Pete  thought  he 
would  be  willing  to  give  half  of  what  he  was  worth 
for  the  sight  of  a  human  face. 

"  I  don't  like  the  signs,  no  how,"  said  he,  cast 
ing  a  rapid  glance  around  him;  and  then  throwing 
his  eyes  downward  at  his  own  shadow,  which  had 
ceased  its  rotatory  motion,  and  was  now  swinging 
backward  and  forward  like  a  pendulum — "  I  don't 
like  the  signs,  no  way  they  can  be  fixed." 

"  You  are  not  scared,  are  you,  Pete  T'  he  con 
tinued,  smiling  at  the  oddity  of  such  a  question. 

"  Oh  no,  bless  your  heart,  Mr.  Featherton,  I'm 
not  scared — I'm  not  of  that  breed  of  dogs — there's 
no  back  out  in  me — but  then  I  must  say — to  speak 
sentimentally — that  I  feel  sort  o'  jubus — I  do  so. 
But  I'll  soon  see  whether  other  people's  shadows 
act  the  fool  like  mine." 

Upon  further  observation,  there  appeared  to  be 
something  peculiar  in  the  human  tracks  before 
him,  which  were  evidently  made  by  a  pair  of  feet 
which  were  not  fellows — or  were  odd  fellows — for 
one  of  them  was  larger  than  the  other.  As  there 
was  no  person  in  the  settlement  who  was  thus  de 
formed,  Pete  began  to  doubt  whether  it  might  not 
be  the  devil,  who  in  borrowing  shoes  to  conceal 
his  cloven  hoofs  might  have  got  those  that  did  not 
match.  He  stopped  and  scratched  his  head,  as 
many  a  learned  philosopher  has  done,  when  placed 
between  the  horns  of  a  dilemma  less  perplexing 
than  that  which  now  vexed  the  spirit  of  our  hunter, 
ft  was  said  long  ago,  that  there  is  a  tide  in  the 


affairs  of  men ;  and  although  our  good  friend  Pete 
had  never  seen  this  sentiment  in  black  and  white, 
yet  it  is  one  of  those  truths  which  are  written  in 
the  heart  of  every  reasonable  being,  and  was  only 
copied  by  the  poet  from  the  great  book  of  nature, 
a  source  from  which  he  was  a  great  borrower.  It 
readily  occurred  to  Pete  on  this  occasion ;  and  as 
he  had  enjoyed  through  life  an  uninterrupted  tide 
of  success,  he  reflected  whether  the  stream  of  for 
tune  might  not  have  changed  its  course  like  the 
brooks  he  had  crossed,  whose  waters,  for  some 
sinister  reason,  seemed  to  be  crawling  up-hill. 

He  stopped,  drew  out  his  handkerchief,  and 
wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  brow.  "  This 
thing  of  being  scared,"  said  he,  "  makes  a  man  feel 
mighty  queer — the  way  it  brings  the  sweat  out  is 
curious !"  And  again  it  occurred  to  him,  that  it 
was  incumbent  on  him  to  see  the  end  of  the  ad 
venture,  as  otherwise  he  would  show  a  want  ot 
that  courage  which  he  had  been  taught  to  consider 
as  the  chief  of  the  cardinal  virtues. 

"  I  can't  back  out,"  said  he, "  I  never  was  raised 
to  it,  no  how ;  and  if  the  devil's  a  mind  to  hunt  in 
this  range,  he  shan't  have  all  the  game." 

Then  falling  into  the  sentimental  vein,  as  one 
naturally  does  from  the  heroic :  "  Here's  this  han- 
kercher  that  my  Polly  hemmed  for  me,  and  marked 
the  two  first  letters  of  my  name  on  it — P.  for  Pete 
and  F.  Featherton — would  she  do  the  like  of  that 
for  a  coward  1  Could  I  ever  look  in  her  pretty 
face  again  if  I  was  mean  enough  to  be  scared  1 
No — I'll  go  ahead — let  what  will  come." 

He  soon  overtook  the  person  in  advance  of  him, 
who,  as  he  had  suspected,  was  a  perfect  stranger. 
He  had  halted  and  was  quietly  seated  on  a  log, 
gazing  at  the  sun,  when  our  hunter  approached 
and  saluted  him  with  the  usual  hearty,  "  How  are 
you,  stranger?"  The  person  addressed  made  no 
reply,  but  continued  to  gaze  at  the  sun,  as  if  to 
tally  unconscious  that  any  other  individual  was 
present.  He  was  a  small,  thin  old  man,  with  a 
gray  beard  of  about  a  month's  growth,  and  a  long 
sallow  melancholy  visage,  while  a  tarnished  suit  of 
snuff-coloured  clothes,  cut  after  the  quaint  fashion 
of  some  religious  sect,  hung  loosely  about  his  shri 
velled  person. 

Our  bold  backwoodsman,  somewhat  awed,  now 
coughed,  threw  the  butt  end  of  his  gun  heavily  up 
on  the  frozen  ground,  and,  still  failing  to  elicit  any 
attention,  quietly  seated  himself  on  the  other  end 
of  the  log  occupied  by  the  stranger.  Both  re 
mained  silent  for  some  minutes — Pete  with  open 
mouth  and  glaring  eyeballs,  observing  his  compa 
nion  with  mute  astonishment,  and  the  latter  look 
ing  at  the  sun. 

"  It's  a  warm  day,  this,"  said  Pete,  at  length, 
passing  his  hand  across  his  brow  as  he  spoke,  and 
sweeping  off  the  heavy  drops  of  perspiration  that 
hung  there.  But  receiving  no  answer,  he  began 
to  get  nettled.  He  thought  himself  not  civilly 
treated.  His  native  assurance,  which  had  been 
damped  by  the  mysterious  deportment  of  the  per- 
son  who  sat  before  him,  revived.  "  One  man's  as 
good  as  another" — thought  he ;  and  screwing  up 
his  courage  to  the  sticking  point,  he  arose,  ap- 
2B2 


294 


JAMES    HALL. 


preached  the  silent  man,  and  slapping  him  on  the 
back,  exclaimed — 

«  Well,  stranger !  don't  the  sun  look  mighty 
droll  away  out  there  in  the  north?" 

As  the  heavy  hand  fell  on  his  shoulder,  the 
stranger  slowly  turned  his  face  toward  Pete,  who 
recoiled  several  paces, — then  rising  without  pay 
ing  the  abashed  hunter  any  further  attention,  he 
began  to  pursue  the  trail  of  the  deer.  Pete  pre 
pared  to  follow,  when  the  other,  turning  upon  him 
with  a  stern  glance,  inquired  : 
«  Who  are  you  tracking  1" 
"  Not  you,"  replied  the  hunter,  whose  alarm  had 
subsided  when  the  enemy  began  to  retreat;  and 
whose  pride,  piqued  by  the  abruptness  with  which 
he  had  been  treated,  enabled  him  to  assume  his 
usual  boldness  of  manner. 

«  Why  do  you  follow  this  trail,  then  7" 
« I  trail  deer." 

"  You  must  not  pursue  them  further,  they  are 
mine  !*' 

The  sound  of  the  stranger's  voice  broke  the  spell 
which  had  hung  over  Peter's  natural  impudence, 
and  he  now  shouted — 

"  Yt,ur  deer !  that's  droll  too !  who  ever  heard 
of  a  man  claiming  the  deer  in  the  woods !" 
"  Provoke  me  not, — I  tell  you  they  are  mine." 
"  Well,  now — you're  a  comical  chap  !      Why 
stranger, — the  deer  are  wild  !     They're  jist  nateral 
to  the  woods  here,  the  same  as  the  timber.     You 
might  as  well  say  the  wolves  arid  the  painters  are 
yours,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  wild  varments." 

"  The  tracks  you  behold  here  are  those  of  wild 
deer,  undoubtedly — but  they  are  mine.  I  routed 
them  from  their  bed,  and  am  driving  them  home." 
"Home — where  is  your  home?"  inquired  Pete, 
at  the  same  time  casting  an  inquisitive  glance  at 
the  stranger's  feet. 

To  this  home  question  no  reply  was  given,  and 
Pete,  fancying  that  he  had  got  the  best  of  the 
altercation,  pushed  his  advantage, — adding  sneer- 
ingly — 

« Couldn't  you  take  a  pack  or  two  of  wolves 
along  7  We  can  spare  you  a  small  gang.  It  is 
mighty  wolfy  about  here." 

"If  you  follow  any  further  it  is  at  your  peril," 
said  the  stranger. 

"  You  don't  reckon  I'm  to  be  skeered,  do  you  7 
If  you  do,  you  are  barking  up  the  wrong  tree. 
There's  no  back  out  in  none  of  my  breed,  no  how. 
You  mustn't  come  over  them  words  agin,  stranger." 

"  I  repeat " 

"  You  had  best  not  repeat — I  allow  no  man  to 
do  that  to  me" — interrupted  the  irritated  woods 
man.  "  You  must  not  imitate  the  like  of  that.  I'm 
Virginy  born,  and  Kentucky  raised,  and  drot  my 
skin,  if  I  take  the  like  of  that  from  any  man — no, 
sir!" 

"  Desist,  rash  man,  from  altercation — I  despise 
your  threats!" 

"  The  same  to  you,  sir  ! 

"  I  tell  you  what,  stranger !"  continued  Pete, 
endeavouring  10  imitate  the  coolness  of  the  other, 
"  as  to  the  vally  of  a  deer  or  two — I  don't  vally 
them  to  the  tantamount  of  this  here  cud  of  tobacco ; 


but  I'm  not  to  be  backed  out  of  my  tracks.  So 
keep  off,  stranger — don't  come  fooling  about  me. 
I  might  hurt  you.  I  feel  mighty  wolfy  about  the 
head  and  shoulders.  Keep  off,  I  say,  or  you  might 
run  agin  a  sn£g." 

With  this  the  hunter  "  squared  himself,  and  sot 
his  triggers,"  fully  determined  either  to  hunt  the 
disputed  game,  or  be  vanquished  in  combat.  To 
his  surprise,  the  stranger,  without  appearing  to 
notice  his  preparations,  advanced  and  blew  with 
his  breath  upon  his  rifle. 

"  Your  gun  is  charmed  !"  said  he.  «  From  this 
day  forward  you  will  kill  no  deer." 

So  saying,  that  mysterious  old  man,  with  the 
most  provoking  coolness,  resumed  his  way  ;  while 
Pete  remained  bewildered;  and  fancied  that  he 
smelt  brimstone. 

Pete  Featherton  remained  a  moment  or  two  lost 
in  confusion.  He  then  thought  he  would  pursue 
the  stranger,  and  punish  him  as  well  for  his  threats 
as  for  the  insult  intended  to  his  gun  ;  but  a  little 
reflection  induced  him  to  change  his  decision.  The 
confident  manner  in  which  that  singular  being 
had  spoken,  together  with  a  kind  of  vague  assu 
rance  in  his  own  mind  that  the  spell  had  really 
taken  effect,  so  unmanned  and  stupified  him,  that 
he  quietly  «  took  the  back  track"  and  strode  home 
ward.  He  had  not  gone  far,  when  he  saw  a  fine 
buck  half-concealed  among  the  hazel  bushes  which 
beset  his  path;  and  resolved  to  know  at  once  how 
matters  stood  between  Brown  Bess  and  the  pre 
tended  conjurer,  he  took  a  deliberate  aim,  fired,— 
and  away  bounded  the  buck  unharmed ! 

With  a  heavy  heart  our  mortified  forester  re 

entered  his  own  dwelling  and  replaced  his  degraded 

weapon  in  its  accustomed  berth  under  the  rafters. 

"  You  have  been  long  gone,"  said  his  wife, "  but 

where  is  the  venison  you  promised  me  7" 

Pete  was  constrained  to  confess  that  he  had  shot 
nothing. 

"  That  is  strange !"  said  the  lady, "  I  never  knew 
you  fail  before." 

Pete  framed  twenty  excuses.  He  had  felt  un 
well — his  gun  was  out  of  fix — it  was  a  bad  day 
for  hunting — the  moon  was  not  in  the  right  place 
— and  there  were  no  deer  stirring. 

Had  not  Pete  been  a  very  young  husband,  he 
would  have  known  that  the  vigilant  eye  of  a  wife 
is  not  to  be  deceived  by  feigned  apologies.  Fe 
male  curiosity  never  sleeps ;  and  the  love  of  a  de 
voted  wife  is  the  most  sincere  and  the  most  absorb 
ing  of  human  passions.  Pretty  Mrs.  Featherton 
saw  at  a  glance  that  something  had  happened  to 
her  helpmate,  more  than  he  was  willing  to  confess; 
and  being  quite  as  tenacious  as  himself,  in  her  re 
luctance  against  being  "  backed  out  of  her  tracks," 
she  determined  to  bring  her  inferior  moiety  to 
auricular  confession,  and  advanced  firmly  to  her 
object,  until  Pete  was  compelled  to  own,  "  That 
he  believed  Brown  Bess  was,  somehow — sort  o' — 
charmed." 

"  Now,  Mr.  Featherton !"  remonstrated  his 
sprightly  bride,  leaning  fondly  on  his  shoulder 
and  parting  the  long  red  locks  on  his  forehead — 
"  are  you  not  ashamed  to  tell  me  such  a  talc  as* 


JAMES    HALL. 


295 


that?  Charmed  indeed!  Ah,  well,  I  know  how 
it  is.  You  have  been  down  at  the  store  shooting 
for  half  pints !" 

"  No,  indeed — "  replied  the  husband  emphati 
cally,  "  I  wish  I  may  be  kissed  to  death  if  I've 
pulled  a  trigger  for  a  drop  of  liquor  this  day." 

Ah,  Peter — what  a  sad  evasion  was  that! 
Surely  the  adversary  when  he  blew  his  breath — 
sadly  sulphureous  of  smell — upon  thy  favourite 
gun,  breathed  into  thee  the  spirit  of  lying,  of  which 
he  is  the  father.  Mrs.  Featherton  saw  farther  into 
a  millstone  than  he  was  aware  of — but  she  kept 
her  own  counsel. 

"  I  believe  you,  Peter, — you  did  not  shoot  for  it 
— but  do  now — that's  a  dear  good  soul ! — tell  me 
where  you  have  been,  and  what  has  happened  ] 
You  are  not  well — or  something  is  wrong — for 
never  did  Pete  Featherton  and  Brown  Bess  fail 
to  get  a  venison  any  day  in  the  year." 

Soothed  by  this  well-timed  compliment,  and  not 
unwilling  to  have  the  aid  of  counsel  in  this  trying 
emergency,  and  to  apply  to  his  excited  spirit  the 
balm  of  conjugal  sympathy,  Pete  narrated  minutely 
to  his  wife  all  the  particulars  of  his  meeting  with 
the  mysterious  stranger.  The  lady  was  all  atten 
tion;  but  was  as  much  wonder-struck  as  Pete 
himself.  She  had  heard  of  spells  being  cast  upon 
guns,  and  so  had  Peter — often — but  then  neither 
of  them  had  ever  known  such  a  case  in  their  own 
experience  ;  and  although  she  had  recipes  for  pick 
ling  fruit,  and  preserving  life,  and  preventing  va 
rious  maladies,  she  knew  of  no  remedy  which 
would  remove  the  spell  from  a  rifle.  '  As  she  could 
give  no  sage  advice,  she  prescribed  sage  tea,  bath 
ing  the  feet,  and  going  to  bed,  and  Pete  submitted 
passively  to  all  this — not  perceiving,  however,  how 
it  could  possibly  affect  his  gun. 

When  Pete  awoke  the  next  morning,  the  events 
which  we  have  described  appeared  to  him  as  a 
dream;  indeed,  he  had  been  dreaming  of  them  all 
night,  and  it  was  somewhat  difficult  to  unravel  the 
tangled  thread  of  recollection,  so  as  to  separate  the 
realities  of  the  day  from  the  illusions  of  the  pillow. 
But  resolving  to  know  the  truth,  he  seized  his 
gun  and  hastened  to  the  woods.  Alas!  every  ex 
periment  produced  the  same  vexatious  result. 
The  gun  was  charmed !  "  No  two  ways  about 
that !"  It  was  too  true  to  make  a  joke  of;  and 
the  hunter  stalked  harmlessly  through  the  forest. 

Day  after  day  he  went  forth,  and  returned  with 
no  better  success.  The  very  deer  became  sensible 
of  his  inoffensiveness,  and  would  raise  their  heads 
and  gaze  mildly  at  him  as  he  passed;  or  throw 
back  their  antlers  and  bound  carelessly  across  his 
path.  Day  after  day  and  week  after  week  passed 
without  bringing  any  change ;  and  Pete  began  to 
feel  very  ridiculously.  A  harmless  man — a  fellow 
with  a  gun  that  could  not  shoot!  he  could  ima 
gine  no  .situation  more  miserable  than  his  own. 
To  walk  through  the  woods,  to  see  the  game,  to 
come  within  gun-shot  of  it,  and  yet  to  be  unable 
to  kill  a  deer,  seemed  to  be  the  height  of  human 
wretchedness.  He  felt  as  if  he  was  "  the  meanest 
kind  of  a  white  man."  There  was  a  littleness,  an 
insignificance  attached  to  the  idea  of  not  being 


able  to  kill  a  deer,  which,  to  Pete's  mind,  was 
downright  disgrace.  More  than  once  he  was 
tempted  to  throw  the  gun  into  the  river;  but  the 
excellence  of  the  weapon,  and  the  recollection  of 
former  exploits  restrained  him  ;  and  he  continued 
to  stroll  through  the  woods,  firing  now  and  then 
at  a  fat  buck,  under  the  hope  that  the  charm  would 
expire  some  time  or  other  by  its  own  limitation ; 
but  the  fat  bucks  continued  to  treat  him  with  a 
familiarity  amounting  to  contempt,  and  to  frisk 
fearlessly  in  his  path. 

At  length  Pete  bethought  him  of  a  celebrated 
Indian  doctor,  who  lived  at  no  great  distance. 
We  do  not  care  to  say  much  of  doctors,  as  they 
are  a  touchy  race — and  shall  therefore  touch  upon 
this  one  briefly.  An  Indian  doctor  is  not  necessa 
rily  a  descendant  of  the  Aborigines.  The  title,  it 
is  true,  originates  from  the  confidence  which  many 
of  our  countrymen  repose  in  the  medical  skill  of 
the  Indian  tribes.  But  to  make  an  Indian  doctor 
a  red  skin  is  by  no  means  indispensable.  To  have 
been  taught  by  a  savage,  to  have  seen  one,  or,  at 
all  events,  to  have  heard  of  one,  is  all  that  is  ne 
cessary  to  enable  any  individual  to  practise  this 
lucrative  and  popular  branch  of  the  healing  art. 
Neither  is  any  great  proficiency  in  literature  requi 
site  ;  it  is  important  only  to  be  expert  in  spelling. 
Your  Indian  doctor  is  one  who  practises  without 
a  diploma — the  only  degree  he  exhibits  is  a  high 
degree  of  confidence.  He  neither  nauseates  the 
stomach  with  odious  drugs,  nor  mars  the  fair  pro 
portions  of  nature  with  the  sanguinary  lancet.  He 
believes  in  the  sympathy  which  is  supposed  to 
exist  between  the  body  and  the  mind,  which,  like, 
the  two  arms  of  a  syphon,  always  preserve  a  cor 
responding  relation  to  each  other ;  and  the  differ 
ence  between  him  and  the  regular  physician — 
called  in  the  vernacular  of  the  frontier  the  marcury 
doctor — is  that  they  operate  at  different  points  of 
the  same  figure — the  one  practising  on  the  imma 
terial  spirit,  while  the  other  grapples  with  the 
bones  and  muscles.  I  cannot  determine  which  is 
right ;  but  must  award  to  the  Indian  doctor  at  least 
this  advantage,  that  his  art  is  the  most  widely 
beneficial ;  for  while  your  doctor  of  medicine  re 
stores  a  lost  appetite,  his  rival  can,  in  addition, 
recover  a  strayed  or  stolen  horse.  If  the  former 
can  bring  back  the  faded  lustre  to  a  fair  maiden?s 
cheeks,  the  latter  can  remove  the  spell  from  a  churn 
or  a  rifle.  The  dyspeptic  and  the  dropsical  may 
hie  to  the  disciples  of  Rush  and  Wistar,  but  the 
crossed-in-love  and  lack-adaysical  find  a  charm  in 
the  practitioner  who  professes  to  follow  nature. 

To  a  sage  of  this  order  did  Pete  disclose  his  mis 
fortune,  and  apply  for  relief.  The  doctor  examined 
the  gun  and  looked  wise ;  and  having  measured 
the  calibre  of  the  bore  with  a  solemnity  which  was 
as  imposing  as  it  was  unquestionably  proper  on 
so  serious  an  occasion,  directed  the  applicant  to 
come  again. 

At  the  appointed  time,  the  hunter  returned  and 
received  from  the  wise  man  two  balls,  one  of  pink, 
the  other  of  a  silver  hue.  The  doctor  instructed 
him  to  load  his  piece  with  one  of  these  bullets, 
which  he  pointed  out,  and  pioceed  through  the 


JAMES   HALL. 


woods  to  a  certain  secluded  hollow,  at  the  head  of 
which  was  a  spring.  Here  he  would  see  a  white 
fawn,  at  which  he  was  to  shoot.  It  would  be 
wounded,  but  would  escape,  and  he  was  to  pursue 
its  trail  until  he  found  a  buck,  which  he  was  to 
kill  with  the  other  ball.  If  he  accomplished  all 
this  accurately,  the  charm  would  be  broken ;  but 
success  would  depend  upon  his  having  faith,  keep 
ing  up  his  courage,  and  firing  with  precision. 

Pete,  who  was  well  acquainted  with  all  the  lo 
calities,  carefully  pursued  the  route  which  had 
been  indicated,  treading  lightly  along,  sometimes 
elated  with  the  prospect  of  speedily  breaking  the 
spell,  and  restoring  his  beloved  gun  to  usefulness 
and  respectability — sometimes  doubting  the  skill 
of  the  doctor — admiring  the  occult  knowledge  of 
men  who  could  charm  and  uncharm  deadly  wea 
pons — and  ashamed  alternatively  of  his  doubts  and 
his  belief.  At  length  he  reached  the  lonely  glen  ; 
and  his  heart  bounded  with  delight  as  he  beheld 
the  white  fawn  quietly  grazing  by  the  fountain. 
The  ground  was  open,  and  he  was  unable  to  get 
within  his  usual  distance  before  the  fawn  raised  her 
delicate  head,  looked  timidly  around,  and  snuffed 
the  breeze,  as  if  conscious  of  the  approach  of  danger. 
Pete  trembled  with  excitement — his  heart  palpi 
tated.  It  was  a  long  shot  and  a  bad  chance — but 
he  could  not  advance  a  step  further  without  dan 
ger  of  starting  the  game — and  Brown  Bess  could 
carry  a  ball  farther  than  that  with  fatal  effect. 

"  Luck's  a  lord,"  said  he,  as  he  drew  the  gun 
up  to  his  face,  took  a  deliberate  aim  and  pulled 
the  trigger.  The  fawn  bounded  aloft  at  the  report, 
and  then  darted  away  through  the  brush,  while 
the  hunter  hastened  to  examine  the  signs.  To 
his  great  joy  he  found  the  blood  profusely  scat 
tered  ;  and  now  flushed  with  the  confidence  of 
success,  he  stoutly  rammed  down  the  other  ball, 
and  pursued  the  trail  of  the  wounded  fawn.  Long 
did  he  trace  the  crimson  drops  upon  the  snow 
without  beholding  the  promised  victim.  Hill  after 
hill  he  climbed,  vale  after  vale  he  passed — search 
ing  every  thicket  with  penetrating  eyes ;  and  he 
was  about  to  renounce  the  chase,  the  wizard,  and 
the  gun,  when  lo ! — directly  in  his  path  stood  a 
noble  buck,  with  numerous  antlers  branching  over 
his  fine  head  ! 

«  Aha  !  my  jolly  fellow !  I've  found  you  at  last !" 
exclaimed  the  delighted  hunter,  "  you  are  the  very 
chap  I've  been  looking  after.  Your  blood  shall 
wipe  off  the  disgrace  from  my  charming  Bess,  that 
never  hung  fire,  burned  priming,  nor  missed  the 
mark  in  her  born  days  till  that  vile  abominable 
varment  blowed  his  brimstone  breath  on  her ! 
Here  goes — " 

He  shot  the  buck.  The  spell  was  broken — 
Brown  Bess  was  restored  to  favour,  and  Pete 
Featherton  never  again  wanted  venison. 


THE  PRAIRIES. 

FROM   THE  SAME. 

THE  smaller  prairies,  or  those  in  which  the  plain 
and  woodland  alternate  frequently,  are  the  most 
beautiful.  The  points  of  woodland  which  make 


into  them  like  so  many  capes  or  promontories,  and 
tne  groves  which  are  interspersed  like  islands,  are 
in  these  lesser  prairies  always  sufficiently  near  to 
be  clearly  defined  to  the  eye,  and  to  give  the  scene 
an  interesting  variety.  We  see  plains,  varying 
from  a  few  hundred  acres  to  several  miles  in  ex 
tent,  not  perfectly  level,  but  gently  rolling  and 
undulating,  like  the  swelling  of  the  ocean  when 
nearly  calm.  The  graceful  curve  of  the  surface  is 
seldom  broken,  except  when  here  and  there  the 
eye  rests  upon  one  of  those  huge  mounds,  which 
are  so  pleasing  to  the  poet  and  so  perplexing  to 
the  antiquarian.  The  whole  is  overspread  with 
grass  and  flowers,  constituting  a  rich  and  varied 
carpet,  in  which  a  ground  of  lively  green  is  orna 
mented  with  a  profusion  of  the  gaudiest  hues,  and 
fringed  with  a.  rich  border  of  forest  and  thicket. 
Deep  recesses  in  the  edge  of  the  timber  resemble 
the  bays  and  inlets  of  a  lake ;  while  occasionally 
a  long  vista,  opening  far  back  into  the  forest,  in 
vites  the  eye  to  roam  off  and  refresh  itself  with  the 
calm  beauty  of  a  distant  perspective. 

The  traveller,  as  he  rides  along  over  these 
smaller  prairies,  finds  his  eye  continually  attracted 
to  the  edges  of  the  forest,  and  his  imagination  em 
ployed  in  tracing  the  beautiful  outline,  and  in  find 
ing  out  resemblances  between  these  wild  scenes 
and  the  most  tastefully  embellished  productions  of 
art.  The  fairest  pleasure-grounds,  the  noblest 
parks  of  European  noblemen  and  princes,  where 
millions  have  been  expended  to  captivate  the  senses 
with  Elysian  scenes,  are  but  mimic  representations, 
on  a  reduced  scale,  of  the  beauties  which  are  here 
spread  by  nature ;  for  here  are  clumps  and  lawns, 
groves  and  avenues,  the  tangled  thicket,  and  the 
solitary  tree,  the  lengthened  vista,  and  the  secluded 
nook,  and  all  the  varieties  of  scenic  attraction,  but 
on  a  plan  so  extensive  as  to  offer  a  wide  scope 
and  an  endless  succession  of  changes  to  the  eye. 

There  is  an  air  ofrefinement  here  that  wins  the 
heart, — even  here,  where  no  human  residence  is 
seen,  where  no  foot  of  man  intrudes,  and  where 
not  an  axe  has  ever  trespassed  on  the  beautiful 
domain.  It  is  a  wilderness  shorn  of  every  savage 
association,  a  desert  that  "  blossoms  as  the  rose." 
So  different  is  the  feeling  awakened  from  any  thing 
inspired  by  mountain  or  woodland  scenery,  that 
the  instan,t  the  traveller  emerges  from  the  forest 
into  the  prairie,  he  feels  no  longer  solitary.  The 
consciousness  that  he  is  travelling  alone,  and  in  a 
wilderness,  escapes  him;  and  he  indulges  in  the 
same  pleasing  sensations  which  are  enjoyed  by 
one  who,  having  lost  his  way,  and  wandered  be 
wildered  among  the  labyrinths  of  a  savage  moun 
tain,  suddenly  descendsjnto  rich  and  highly  cul 
tivated  plains,  and  sees  around  him  the  delightful 
indications  of  taste  and  comfort.  The  gay  land 
scape  charms  him.  He  is  encompassed  by  the 
refreshing  sweetness  and  graceful  beauty  of  the 
rural  scene;  and  recognises  at  every  step  some 
well-remembered  spot,  or  some  ideal  paradise  in 
which  the  fancy  had  loved  to  wander,  enlarged 
and  beautified,  and  as  it  were  retouched  by  nature's 
hand.  The  clusters  of  trees  so  fancifully  arranged, 
the  forest  outline  so  gracefully  curved,  seem  to 


JAMES    HALL. 


297 


have  beeri  disposed  by  the  hand  of  taste  for  the 
enjoyment  of  intelligent  beings ;  and  so  complete 
is  the  illusion,  that  it  is  difficult  to  dispel  the  belief 
that  each  avenue  leads  to  a  village,  and  each  grove 
conceals  a  splendid  mansion. 

Widely  different  was  the  prospect  exhibited  by 
the  more  northern  and  central  districts  of  the  state. 
Vast  in  extent,  the  distant  forest  was  either  be 
yond  the  reach  of  the  eye,  or  was  barely  discern 
ible  in  the  shapeless  outline  of  blue  faintly  im 
pressed  on  the  horizon.  As  the  smaller  prairies 
resembled  a  series  of  larger  and  lesser  lakes,  so 
these  boundless  plains  remind  one  of  the  ocean 
waste.  Here  and  there  a  solitary  tree,  torn  by  the 
wind,  stood  alone  like  a  dismantled  mast  in  the 
ocean.  As  I  followed  my  guide  through  this 
lonely  region,  my  sensations  were  similar  to  those 
of  the  voyager  when  his  bark  is  launched  upon 
the  sea.  Alone,  in  a  wide  waste,  with  my  faith 
ful  pilot  only,  I  was  dependent  on  him  for  support, 
guidance,  and  protection.  With  little  to  diversify 
the  path,  and  nothing  to  please  the  eye  but  the 
carpet  of  verdure,  which  began  to  pall  upon  the 
sense,  a  feeling  of  dreariness  crept  over  me — a 
desolation  of  the  spirit,  such  as  one  feels  when 
crossed  in  love,  or  when  very  drowsy  on  a  hot 
afternoon  after  a  full  dinner.  But  these  are  feel 
ings  which,  like  the  sea-sickness  of  the  young  ma 
riner,  are  soon  dispelled.  I  began  to  find  a  plea 
sure  in  gazing  over  this  immense,  unbroken  waste, 
in  watching  the  horizon  under  the  vague  hope  of 
meeting  a  traveller,  and  in  following  the  deer  with 
my  eyes  as  they  galloped  off — their  agile  forms 
growing  smaller  and  smaller  as  they  receded,  until 
they  shrunk  into  nothing.  Sometimes  I  descried 
a  dark  spot  at  an  immense  distance,  and  pointed 
it  out  to  rny  companion  with  a  joy  like  that  of  the 
seaman  who  discovers  a  sail  in  the  distant  speck 
which  floats  on  the  ocean.  When  such  an  object 
happened  to  be  in  the  direction  of  our  path,  I 
watched  it  with  interest  as  it  rose  and  enlarged 
upon  the  vision — supposing  it  at  one  moment  to 
be  a  solitary  horseman,  and  wondering  what  man 
ner  of  man  he  would  turn  out  to  be — at  another 
supposing  it  might  be  a  wild  animal,  or  a  wagon, 
or  a  pedestrian ;  until,  after  it  had  seemed  to  ap 
proach  for  hours,  I  found  it  to  be  a  tree. 


PIERRE  BLONDO'S  FIRST  SIGHT  OF 
A  PRAIRIE  ON  FIRE. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

'  THE  shades  of  night  had  begun  to  close,  when 
they  again  ascended  one  of  those  elevations  which 
swells  so  gradually  that  the  traveller  scarcely  re 
marks  them  until  he  reaches  the  summit  and  be 
holds,  from  a  commanding  eminence,  a  boundless 
landscape  spread  before  him.  The  veil  of  night, 


without  concealing  the  scene,  rendered  it  indis 
tinct;  the  undulations  of  the  surface  were  no 
longer  perceptible ;  and  the  prairie  seemed  a  per 
fect  plain.  One  phenomenon  astonished  and  per 
plexed  him:  before  him  the  prairie  was 'lighted 
up  with  a  dim  but  supernatural  brilliancy,  like 
that  of  a  distant  fire,  while  behind  was  the  black 
ness  of  darkness.  An  air  of  solitude  reigned  over 
that  wild  plain,  and  not  a  sound  relieved  the  deso 
lation  of  the  scene.  A  chill  crept  over  him  as  he 
gazed  around,  and  not  an  object  met  his  eye  but 
that  dark  maid,  who  stood  in  mute  patience  by 
his  side  as  waiting  his  pleasure ;  but  on  whose 
features,  as  displayed  by  the  uncertain  light  that 
glimmered  on  them,  a  smile  of  triumph  seemed  to 
play.  He  looked  again,  and  the  horizon  gleamed 
brighter  and  brighter^  until  a  fiery  redness  rose 
above  its  dark  outline,  while  heavy,  slow-moving 
masses  of  cloud  curled  upward  above  it.  It  was 
evidently  the  intense  reflection  and  the  voluminous 
smoke  of  a  vast  fire.  In  another  moment  the 
blaze  itself  appeared,  first  shooting  up  at  one  spot, 
and  then  at  another,  and  advancing  until  the  whole 
line  of  horizon  was  clothed  with  flames  that  rolled 
around,  and  curled,  and  dashed  upward  like  the 
angry  waves  of  a  burning  ocean.  The  simple 
Frenchman  had  never  heard  of  the  fires  that  sweep 
over  our  wide  prairies  in  the  autumn,  nor  did  it 
enter  into  his  head  that  a  natural  cause  could  pro 
duce  an  effect  so  terrific.  The  whole  western  ho 
rizon  was  clad  in  fire,  and,  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
see,  to  the  right  and  left,  was  one  vast  conflagra 
tion,  having  the  appearance  of  angry  billows  of  a 
fiery  liquid  dashing  against  each  other,  and  foam 
ing,  and  throwing  flakes  of  burning  spray  into  the 
air.  There  was  a  roaring  sound  like  that  caused 
by  the  conflict  of  waves.  A  more  terrific  sight 
could  scarcely  be  conceived ;  nor  was  it  singular 
that  an  unpractised  eye  should  behold  in  that 
scene  a  wide  scene  of  flame,  lashed  into  fury  by 
some  internal  commotion. 

Pierre  could  gaze  no  longer.  A  sudden  horror 
thrilled  his  soul.  His  worse  fears  were  realized 
in  the  tremendous  landscape.  He  saw  before  him 
the  lake  of  fire  prepared  for  the  devil  and  his  an 
gels.  The  existence,  of  such  a  place  of  punish 
ment  he  had  never  doubted  ;  but,  heretofore,  it 
had  been  a  mere  dogma  of  faith,  while  now  it  ap 
peared  before  him  in  its  terrible  reality.  He 
thought  he  could  plainly  distinguish  gigantic  black 
forms  dancing  in  the  flames,  throwing  up  their 
long  mis-shapen  arms,  and  writhing  their  bodies 
into  fantastic  shapes.  Uttering  a  piercing  shriek, 
he  turned  and  fled  with  the  swiftness  of  an  arrow. 
Fear  gave  new  vigour  to  the  muscles  which  had 
before  been  relaxed  with  fatigue,  and  his  feet,  so 
lately  heavy,  now  touched  the  ground  with  the 
light  and  springy  tread  of  the  antelope.  Yet,  to 
himself,  his  steps  seemed  to  linger  as  if  his  heels 
were  lead. 


HENRY  ROWE  SCHOOLCRAFT. 


[Born  1793.   Died  1864.] 


Mu.  SCHOOLCRAFT  was  of  English  descent  by 
the  paternal  side,  his  great-grandfather  having 
come  from  England  during  the  wars  of  Queen 
Anne,  and  settled  in  what  is  now  Schoharie 
county  in  New  York,  where  in  old  age  he 
taught  the  first  English  school  in  that  part  of 
the  country,  from  which  circumstance  his 
name  was  not  unnaturally  changed  by  the 
usage  of  the  people  from  Calcraft  to  School- 
crtift.  Our  author  recently  attempted  in  his 
own  person  to  revive  the  old  family  name, 
but  soon  abandoned  it,  and  concluded  to  re 
tain  that  which  was  begotten  upon  his  native 
soil,  and  by  which  he  has  long  been  so  ho 
nourably  distinguished.  He  is  a  son  of  Colo 
nel  Lawrence  Schoolcraft,  who  joined  the  re 
volutionary  army  at  seventeen  years  of  age  and 
participated  in  the  movements  under  Mont 
gomery  and  Schuyler,  and  the  memorable  de 
fence  of  Fort  Stanwix  under  Gansevoort.  He 
was  born  in  Guilderland,  near  Albany,  on  the 
twenty-eighth  of  March,  1793.  In  a  secluded 
part  of  the  country  where  there  were  few  ad 
vantages  for  education  and  scarce  any  persons 
who  thought  of  literature,  he  had  an  ardent 
love  of  Knowledge,  and  sat  at  home  with  his 
books  and  pencils  while  his  equals  in  age 
were  at  cock-fights  and  horse-races,  for  which 
Guilderland  was  then  famous.  He  is  still 
remembered  by  some  of  the  octogenarians  of 
the  village  as  the  "  learned  boy."  At  thirteen 
he  drew  subjects  in  natural  history,  and  land 
scapes,  which  attracted  the  attention  of  the  late 
Lieutenant-Governor  Van  Rensselaer,  then  a 
frequent  visiter  of  his  father,  through  whose 
agency  he  came  near  being  apprenticed  to  one 
Ames,  the  only  portrait  painter  at  that  time  in 
Albany ;  but  as  it  was  demanded  that  he  should 
commence  with  house  painting  the  plan  was 
finally  abandoned.  At  fourteen  he  began  to 
contribute  pieces  in  prose  and  verse  to  the 
newspapers,  and  for  several  years  after  he 
pursued  without  aid  the  study  of  natural  his 
tory,  English  literature,  Hebrew,  German,  and 
French,  and  the  philosophy  of  language. 

Mr.  Schoolcraft's  first  work  was  an  elabo 
rate  treatise,  but  partly  known  to  the  public, 


entitled  Vitreology,  which  was  published  in 
1817.  The  design  of  it  was  to  exhibit  the 
application  of  chemistry  to  the  arts  in  the  fu 
sion  of  siliceous  and  alkaline  substances  in 
the  production  of  enamels,  glass,  etc.  He 
had  had  opportunities  of  experimenting  largely 
and  freely  by  his  position  as  conductor  for  a 
series  of  years  of  the  extensive  works  of  the 
Ontario  Company  at  Geneva  in  New  York,  the 
Vermont  Company  at  Middlebury  and  Salis 
bury  in  Vermont,  and  the  found ery  of  crystal 
glass  at  Keene,  in  New  Hampshire.  In  1818 
and  the  following  year,  he  made  a  geological 
survey  of  Missouri  and  Arkansas  to  the  spurs 
of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  and  in  the  fall  of 
1819  published  in  New  York  his  View  of  the 
Lead  Mines  of  Missouri,  which  is  said  by 
Professor  Silliman  to  have  been  "  the  only 
elaborate  and  detailed  account  of  a  mining 
district  in  the  United  States"  which  had  then 
appeared.  It  attracted  much  attention  and 
procured  for  the  author  the  friendship  of  many 
eminent  men.  In  the  same  year  he  printed 
Transallegania,  a  poetical  jeu  d? esprit  of  which 
mineralogy  is  the  subject,  and  which  preceded 
some  clever  English  attempts  in  the  same 
vein.  It  was  republished  in  London  by  Sir 
Richard  Phillips  in  the  next  year. 

Early  in  1820  he  published  a  Journal  of  a 
Tour  in  the  Interior  of  Missouri  and  Arkan 
sas,  extending  from  Potosi  toward  the  Rocky 
Mountains.  His  writings  having  attracted 
the  notice  of  the  government,  he  was  com 
missioned  by  Mr.  Calhoun,  then  Secretary  of 
War,  to  visit  the  copper  region  of  Lake  Supe 
rior,  and  to  accompany  General  Cass  in  his 
expedition  to  the  head  waters  of  the  Missis 
sippi.  His  Narrative  Journal  of  this  tour  was 
published  in  1821,  and  was  eminently  suc 
cessful,  an  edition  of  twelve  hundred  copies 
being  sold  in  a  few  weeks.  In  the  same  year 
he  was  appointed  secretary  to  the  commission 
for  treating  with  the  Indian  tribes  at  Chicago, 
and  on  the  conclusion  of  his  labours  pub 
lished  his  sixth  work,  entitled  Travels  in  the 
Central  Portions  of  the  Mississippi  Valley, 
in  which  he  described  the  country  between 


HENRY   ROWE    SCHOOLCRAFT. 


299 


the  regions  of  which  he  had  given  an  account 
in  his  previous  works.  His  reputation  was 
now  widely  and  firmly  established  as  an  ex 
plorer,  and  as  a  man  of  science  and  letters. 
From  this  time  his  attention  was  devoted 
principally  to  the  Red  Race,  though  he  still 
cultivated  natural  history,  and  wrote  occasion 
ally  for  the  reviews  and  magazines. 

In  1822  he  was  appointed  by  President 
Monroe  agent  for  Indian  Affairs,  to  reside  at 
St.  Mary's,  at  the  foot  of  Lake  Superior.  In 
the  years  1825,  1826  and  1827  he  attended 
the  important  convocations  of  the  north-west 
tribes  at  Prairie  du  Chien,  Pont  du  Lac,  and 
Buttes  des  Morts.  In  1831  he  was  sent  on  a 
special  embassy,  accompanied  by  troops,  to 
conciliate  the  Sioux  and  Odjibwas,  and  bring 
the  existing  war  between  them  to  a  close.  In 
1832  he  proceeded  in  the  same  capacity  to 
the  tribes  near  the  head  waters  of  the  Missis 
sippi,  and  availed  himself  of  the  opportunity 
to  trace  that  river,  in  small  canoes,  from  the 
point  where  Pike  stopped  in  1807  and  Cass 
in  1820,  to  its  true  source  in  Itasca  Lake,  upon 
which  he  entered  on  the  thirteenth  of  July, 
the  one  hundred  and  forty-ninth  anniversary 
of  the  discovery  of  the  mouth  of  the  river  by 
La  Salle.  His  account  of  this  tour  was  pub 
lished  in  New  York  in  1834,  under  the  title 
of  An  Expedition  to  Itasca  Lake,  and  attracted 
much  attention  in  all  parts  of  the  country. 

From  1827  to  1831  Mr.  Schoolcraft  was  a 
member  of  the  legislative  council  of  Michigan. 
In  1828  he  organized  the  Michigan  Historical 
Society,  in  which  he  was  elected  president 
on  the  removal  of  General  Cass  to  Washing 
ton,  in  1831.  In  the  fall  of  the  same  year  he 
set  on  foot  the  Algic  Society  at  Detroit,  be 
fore  which  he  delivered  a  course  of  lectures 
on  the  grammatical  construction  of  the  Indian 
languages,*  and  at  its  first  anniversary  a  poem 
on  The  Indian  Character.  Guided  by  patriot 
ism  and  good  taste,  he  took  a  successful  stand 
in  the  west  against  the  absurd  nomenclature 
which  has  elsewhere  made  such  confusion  in 
geography  by  repeating  over  and  over  the 
names  of  European  places  and  characters, 
giving  us  Romes,  Berlins  and  Londons,  in 
the  wilderness,  and  Hannibals,  Scipios,  Ho 
mers,  and  Hectors,  wherever  there  was  suffi 
cient  learning  to  make  its  possessors  ridicu- 

*Two  of  Ihese  lectures  were  published  in  1834,  trans 
lated  into  French  by  the  late  Mr.  Du  Ponceau,  and  sub 
sequently  read  before  the  National  Institute  of  France. 


lous.  He  submitted  to  the  legislature  of  the 
territory  a  system  of  county  and  township 
names  based  upon  the  Indian  vocabularies 
with  which  he  was  familiar,  and  happily  se 
cured  its  general  adoption. 

At  Sault  Ste.  Marie  Mr.  Schoolcraft  became 
acquainted  with  Mr.  John  Johnston,  a  gentle 
man  from  the  north  of  Ireland,  who  had  long 
resided  there,  and  in  the  person  of  his  eldest 
daughter  married  a  descendant  of  the  heredi 
tary  chief  of  Lake  Superior,  or  Lake  Algoma, 
as  it  is  known  to  the  Indians.  She  had  been 
educated  in  Europe,  and  was  an  accomplished 
and  highly  interesting  woman.  After  a  resi 
dence  there  of  eleven  years  he  removed  to 
Michilimackinac  and  assumed  the  joint-agency 
of  the  two  districts.  In  1836  he  was  appointed 
by  President  Jackson  a  commissioner  to  treat 
with  the  north-west  tribes  for  their  lands  in 
the  region  of  the  upper  lakes,  and  succeeded 
in  effecting  a  cession  to  the  United  States  of 
some  sixteen  millions  of  acres.  In  the  same 
year  he  was  appointed  acting  Superintendent 
of  Indian  Affairs  for  the  Northern  Department, 
and  in  1839  principal  disbursing  agent  for  the 
same  district. 

In  the  last  mentioned  year  he  published 
two  volumes  of  Algic  Researches,  comprising 
Indian  Tales  and  Legends,  and  soon  after, 
having  passed  more  than  twenty  years  as  a 
traveller  or  resident  on  the  frontiers,  he  re 
moved  to  the  city  of  New  York,  intending  to 
prepare  for  the  press  the  great  mass  of  his 
original  papers  which  had  accumulated  in  this 
long  period.  In  1841  he  issued  proposals  for 
an  Indian  Cyclopedia,  geographical,  histori 
cal,  philological,  etc.,  of  which  only  one  num 
ber  was  printed,  no  publisher  appearing  willing 
to  undertake  so  costly  and  extensive  a  work 
of  such  a  description.  In  1842  he  visited 
England,  France,  Germany,  Prussia,  and  Hol 
land.  During  his  absence  his  wife  died,  at 
Dundee,  in  Canada  West,  where  she  was  visit 
ing  her  sister.  Soon  after  his  return  he  made 
another  journey  to  the  west  to  examine  some 
of  the  great  mounds,  respecting  which  he  has 
since  communicated  a  paper  to  the  Royal 
Geographical  Society  of  Denmark,  of  which 
he  was  many  years  ago  elected  an  honorary 
member,  and  soon  after  published  a  collection 
of  his  poetical  writings,  under  the  title  of  Al- 
halla,  or  the  Lord  of  Talladega,  a  Tale  oftiie 
Creek  War,  with  some  Miscellanies,  chiefly 
of  early  date.  In  1844  he  commenced  in 


300 


HENRY   ROWE    SCHOOLCRAFT. 


numbers  the  publication  of  Oneota,  or  the  Red 
Race  in  America,  their  History,  Traditions, 
Customs,  Poetry,  Picture  Writing,  etc.,  in 
Extracts  from  Notes,  Journals,  and  other  Un 
published  Writing's,  of  which  one  octavo  vo 
lume  has  been  completed.  In  1845  he  deli 
vered  an  address  before  a  society  known  as  the 
"  Was-ah  Ho-de-no-sonne,  or  New  Confede 
racy  of  the  Iroquois,"and  published  Observa 
tions  on  the  Grave  Creek  Mound  in  Western 
Virginia,  in  the  Transactions  of  the  American 
Ethnological  Society ;  and  early  in  the  follow 
ing  year  presented  in  the  form  of  a  Report  to 
the  legislature  of  his  native  state,  his  Notes 
on  the  Iroquois,  or  Contributions  to  the  Statis 
tics,  Aboriginal  History,  and  General  Ethno- 
logy  of  Western  New  York.  His  latest  essay 
was  an  Address  delivered  at  the  anniversary 
meeting  of  the  New  York  Historical  Society, 
on  the  first  Tuesday  of  December,  1846. 

Mr.  Schoolcraft's  ethnological  writings  are 
among  the  most  important  contributions  that 
have  been  made  to  the  literature  of  this  coun 
try.  His  long  and  intimate  connection  with 
the  Indian  tribes,  and  the  knowledge  pos 
sessed  by  his  wife  and  her  family  of  the  peo 
ple  from  whom  they  were  descended  by  the 
maternal  side,  with  his  power  of  examining 
their  character  from  the  European  point  of 
view,  have  enabled  him  to  give  us  more  au 
thentic  and  valuable  information  respecting 
their  manners,  customs,  and  physical  traits, 
and  more  insight  into  their  moral  and  intel 
lectual  constitution,  than  can  be  derived,  per 
haps,  from  all  other  authors.  His  works 
abound  in  materials  for  the  future  artist  and  man 
of  letters,  and  will  on  this  account  continue 
to  be  read  when  the  greater  portion  of  the  po 
pular  literature  of  the  day  is  forgotten.  With 
the  forests  which  they  inhabited,  the  red  race 
have  disappeared  with  astonishing  rapidity ; 
until  recently  they  have  rarely  been  the  sub 
jects  of  intelligent  study  ;  and  it  began  to  be 
regretted,  as  they  were  seen  fading  from  our 
sight,  that  there  was  so  little  written  respect* 
ing  them  that  had  any  pretensions  to  fidelity. 
I  would  not  be  understood  to  undervalue  the 
productions  of  Eliot,  Loskiel,  Heckewelder, 
Brainerd,  and  other  early  missionaries,  but 
they  were  restricted  in  design,  and  it  is  not 
to  be  denied  that  confidence  in  their  repre 
sentations  has  been  much  impaired,  less  per 
haps  from  doubts  of  their  integrity  than  of 
their  ability  and  of  the  advantages  of  the  points 


of  view  from  which  they  made  their  observa 
tions.  The  works  on  Indian  philology  by 
Roger  Williams  and  the  younger  Edwards  are 
more  valuable  than  any  others  of  the  seven 
teenth  and  eighteenth  centuries,  but  it  now 
appears  that  these  authors  knew  very  little  of 
the  philosophy  of  the  American  language. 
Du  Ponceau's  knowledge  was  still  more  su 
perficial,  and  excepting  Mr.  Gallatin  and  the 
late  Mr.  Pickering,  who  made  use  of  the  im 
perfect  data  furnished  by  others,  I  believe  no 
one  besides  Mr.  Schoolcraft  has  recently  pro 
duced  any  thing  on  the  subject  worthy  of 
consideration.  Something  has  been  done  by 
General  Cass,  and  Mr.  McKenny  and  Mr. 
Catlin  have  undoubtedly  accomplished  much 
in  this  department  of  ethnography;  but  allow 
ing  all  that  can  reasonably  be  claimed  for 
these  artist-travellers,  Mr.  Schoolcraft  must 
still  be  regarded  as  the  standard  and  chief 
authority  respecting  the  Algic  tribes. 

The  influence  which  the  original  and  pe 
culiar  myths  and  historical  traditions  of  the 
Indians  is  to  have  on  our  imaginative  lite 
rature,  has  been  recently  more  than  ever  ex 
hibited  in  the  works  of  our  authors.  The 
tendency  of  the  public  taste  to  avail  itself  of 
the  American  mythology  as  a  basis  for  the 
exhibition  of  "  new  lines  of  fictitious  crea 
tions"  has  been  remarked  by  Mr.  Schoolcnift 
himself  in  Oneota,  and  he  refers  to  the  tales 
of  Mrs.  Oakes  Smith,  and  to  the  Wild  Scenes 
in  the  Forest  and  the  Prairie,  and  the  Vigil  of 
Faith,  by  Mr.  Charles  F.  Hoffman,  as  works 
in  which  this  tendency  is  most  distinctly  per 
ceptible.  In  the  writings  of  W.  H.  C.  Hos- 
mer,  the  legends  of  Mr.  Whittier,  and  some 
of  the  poems  of  Mr.  Longfellow,  and  Mr. 
Lowell,  we  see  manifestations  of  the  same 
disposition. 

In  1847,  Mr.  Schoolcraft  married  Miss  How 
ard,  of  South  Carolina,  and  resided  in  Wash 
ington,  till  his  death,  Dec.  10,  1864.  The  re 
sults  of  his  busy  life  are  best  shown  in  the  41 
distinct  works,  and  numerous  essays,  that  he 
wrote,  edited,  or  published,  for  list  of  which, 
see  Allibone's  Dicty.,  II.,  1951.  His  most  im 
portant  work,  "  On  the  Indian  Tribes  of  the 
U.  S.",  was  published  by  Congress,  1851-57,  in 
6  vols.,  4to.,  fully  illustrated.  A  mass  of  facts 
useful  to  the  future  historian,  but  an  ill-digested 
compilation,  of  little  interest  to  the  general 
reader.  A  cheaper  edition,  comprising  a  por 
tion  of  this  work  was  pubUshed  in  3  vols. 


HENRY    ROWE    SUHOOLCRAFT. 


301 


SCENERY  OF  LAKE  SUPERIOR. 

FROM   ONEOTA. 

FEW  portions  of  America  can  vie  in  scenic  at 
tractions  with  this  interior  sea.  Its  size  alone 
gives  it  all  the  elements  of  grandeur,  but  these 
have  been  heightened  by  the  mountain  masses 
which  nature  has  piled  along  its  shores.  In  some 
places  these  masses  consist  of  vast  walls  of  coarse 
gray  or  drab  sandstone,  placed  horizontally  until 
they  have  attained  many  hundred  feet  in  height 
above  the  water.  The  action  of  such  an  immense 
liquid  area,  forced  against  these  crumbling  walls 
by  tempests,  has  caused  wide  and  deep  arches  to 
be  worn  into  the  solid  structure  at  their  base,  into 
which  the  billows  rush  with  a  noise  resembling 
low  pealing  thunder.  By  this  means,  large  areas 
of  the  impending  mass  arc  at  length  undermined 
and  precipitated  into  the  lake,  leaving  the  split 
and  rent  parts  from  which  they  have  separated 
standing  like  huge  misshapen  turrets  and  battle 
ments.  Such  is  the  varied  coast  called  the  Pic 
tured  Rocks. 

At  other  points  of  the  coast  volcanic  forces  have 
operated,  lifting  up  these  level  strata  into  positions 
nearly  vertical,  and  leaving  them  to  stand  like  the 
leaves  of  an  open  book.  At  the  same  time,  the 
volcanic  rocks  sent  up  from  below  have  risen  in 
high  mountain  piles.  Such  is  the  condition  of 
things  at  the  Porcupine  Mountains. 

The  basin  and  bed  of  this  lake  act  as  a  vast 
geological  mortar,  in  which  the  masses  of  broken 
and  fallen  stones  are  whirled  about  and  ground 
down  till  all  the  softer  ones,  such  as  the  sandstones, 
are  brought  into  the  state  of  pure  yellow  sand. 
This  sand  is  driven  ashore  by  the  waves,  where  it 
is  shoved  up  in  long  wreaths  till  dried  by  the  sun. 
The  winds  now  take  it  up  and  spread  it  inland,  or 
pile  it  immediately  along  the  coast,  where  it  pre 
sents  itself  in  mountain  masses.  Such  are  the 
great  Sand  Dunes  of  the  Grande  Sables. 

There  are  yet  other  theatres  of  action  for  this 
sublime  mass  of  inland  waters,  where  it  has  mani 
fested  perhaps  still  more  strongly,  if  not  so  strik 
ingly,  its  abrasive  powers.  The  whole  force  of 
the  lake,  under  the  impulse  of  a  north-west  tem 
pest,  is  directed  against  prominent  portions  of  the 
shore,  which  consist  of  the  black  and  hard  volca 
nic  rocks.  Solid  as  these  are,  the  waves  have 
found  an  entrance  in  veins  of  spar  or  minerals  of 
softer  structure,  and  have  thus  been  led  inland, 
and  torn  up  large  fields  of  amygdaloid  and  other 
rock,  or  left  portions  of  them  standing  in  rugged 
knobs  or  promontories.  Such  are  the  east  and 
west  coasts  of  the  great  peninsula  of  Keweena, 
which  has  recently  become  the  theatre  of  mining 
operations. 

When  the  visitor  to  these  remote  and  boundless 
waters  come  to  see  this  wide  and  varied  scene  of 
complicated  attractions,  he  is  absorbed  in  wonder 
and  astonishment.  The  eye,  once  introduced  to 
this  panorama  of  waters,  is  never  done  looking  and 
admiring.  Scene  after  scene,  cliff  after  cliff,  island 
after  island,  and  vista  after  vista  are  presented. 
One  day's  scenes  are  but  the  prelude  to  another, 


and  when  weeks  and  months  have  been  spent  in 
picturesque  rambles  along  its  shores,  the  traveller 
has  only  to  ascend  some  of  its  streams  and  go  in 
land  to  find  falls  and  cascades,  and  cataracts  of  the 
most  beautiful  or  magnificent  character.  Go  where 
he  will,  there  is  something  to  attract  him.  Be 
neath  his  feet  the  pebbles  are  agates.  The  water 
is  of  the  most  crystalline  purity.  The  sky  is  filled 
at  sunset  with  the  most  gorgeous  piles  of  clouds. 
The  air  itself  is  of  the  purest  and  most  inspiriting 
kind.  To  visit  such  a  scene  is  to  draw  health 
from  its  purest  fountains,  and  to  revel  in  intel 
lectual  delights. 


SHINGEBISS. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 
[From  the  Odjibwa-Algonquin.] 

THERE  was  once  a  Shingebiss,*  living  alone  in 
a  solitary  lodge  on  the  shores  of  the  deep  bay  of  a 
lake,  in  the  coldest  winter  weather.  The  ice  had 
formed  on  the  water,  and  he  had  but  four  logs  of 
wood  to  keep  his  fire.  Each  of  these  would,  how 
ever,  burn  a  month ;  and,  as  there  were  but  four 
cold  winter  months,  they  were  sufficient  to  carry 
him  through  till  spring. 

Shingebiss  was  hardy  and  fearless,  and  cared  ibr 
no  one.  He  would  go  out  during  the  coldest  day 
and  seek  for  places  where  flags  and  rushes  grew 
through  the  ice,  and  plucking  them  up  with  his 
bill,  would  dive  through  the  openings  in  quest  of 
fish.  In  this  way  he  found  plenty  of  food,  while 
others  were  starving ;  and  he  went  home  daily  to 
his  lodge,  dragging  strings  of  fish  after  him  on 
the  ice. 

Kabeboniccaf  observed  him,  and  felt  a  little 
piqued  at  his  perseverance  and  good  luck  in  de 
fiance  of  the  severest  blasts  of  wind  he  could  send 
from  the  North- West.  "  Why  !  this  is  a  wonder 
ful  man,"  said  he ;  "  he  does  not  mind  the  cold, 
and  appears  as  happy  and  contented  as  if  it  were 
the  month  of  June.  I  will  try  whether  he  cannot 
be  mastered."  He  poured  forth  ten-fold  colder 
blasts  and  drifts  of  snow,  so  that  it  wa»  next  to 
impossible  to  live  in  the  open  air.  Still  tiie  fire 
of  Shingebiss  did  not  go  out;  he  wore  but  a  single 
strip  of  leather  around  his  body,  and  he  was  seen 
in  the  worst  weather  searching  the  shores  for 
rushes  and  carrying  home  fish. 

"  I  shall  go  and  visit  him,"  said  Kabebonicca 
one  day,  as  he  saw  Shingebiss  dragging  along  a 
quantity  of  fish ;  and  accordingly  that  very  night 
he  went  to  the  door  of  his  lodge.  Meantime 
Shingebiss  had  cooked  his  fish  and  finished  his 
meal,  and  was  lying,  partly  on  his  side,  before  the 
fire,  singing  his  songs.  After  Kabebonicca  had 
come  to  the  door  and  stood  listening  there,  he 
sang  as  follows  : 

Ka  be  bon  oc  ca  Nee;  ;r.  .n  ec  we-ya  ! 
Ka  be  bon  oc  ca  Neej  in  in  ec  we-ya ! 

The  number  of  words  in  this  song  are  few  and 
simple,   but  they  are  made  up  from  compounds 


*The  name  of  a  kind  of  duck, 
f  A  personification  of  the  North-West. 
on 


302 


HENRY    ROWE   SCHOOLCRAFT. 


which  carry  the  whole  of  their  original  meanings, 
and  are  rather  suggestive  of  the  ideas  floating  in  the 
mind  than  actual  expressions  of  those  ideas.  Lite 
rally  he  sings : 

Spirit  of  the  North- West !  you  are  but  my  fellow-man. 
By  being  broken  into  syllables  to  correspond  with 
a  simple  chant,  and  by  the  power  of  intonation 
and  repetition,  with  a  chorus,  these  words  are  ex 
panded  into  melodious  utterance,  if  we  may  be 
allowed  the  term,  and  may  be  thus  rendered  • 

Windy  god,  I  know  your  plan, 
You  are  but  my  fellow-man; 
Blow  you  may  your  coldest  breeze, 
Shingebiss  you  "cannot  freeze  ; 
Sweep  the  strongest  wind  you  can, 
Shingebiss  is  still  your  man. 
Heigh!  for  life— and  ho  !  for  bliss; 
Who  so  free  as  Shingebiss  ? 

The  hunter  knew  that  Kabebonicca  was  at  his 
door,  for  he  felt  his  cold  and  strong  breath ;  but  he 
kept  on  singing  his  songs,  and  affected  utter  in 
difference.  At  length  Kabebonicca  entered,  and 
took  his  seat  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  lodge ; 
but  Shingebiss  did  not  regard  or  notice  him.  He 
got  up  as  if  nobody  were  present,  and,  taking  his 
poker,  pushed  the  log,  which  made  his  fire  burn 
brighter,  repeating  as  he  sat  down  again : 
You  are  but  my  fellow-man. 

Very  soon  the  tears  began  to  flow  down  Kabe 
bonicca' s  cheeks,  which  increased  so  fast  that  pre 
sently  he  said  to  himself,  "  I  cannot  stand  this — I 
must  go  out."  He  did  so,  and  left  Shingebiss  to 
his  songs ;  but  resolved  to  freeze  up  all  the  flag 
orifices  and  make  the  ice  thick,  so  that  he  could 
not  get  any  more  fish.  Still  Shingebiss,  by  dint 
of  great  diligence,  found  means  to  pull  up  new 
roots  and  dive  under  for  fish.  At  last  Kabebonicca 
was  compelled  to  give  up  the  contest.  "  He  must 
be  aided  by  some  Monedo,"  said  he ;  "I  can  nei 
ther  freeze  him,  nor  starve  him ;  he  is  a  very  sin 
gular  being.  I  will  let  him  alone." 

THE  IROQUOIS. 

FRO*  AN  ADDRESS  BEFORE  THE  WAS-AH  HO-DE-NO-SON-NE. 

LOOKING  around  over  the  wide  forests  and 
translucent  lakes  of  New  York,  we  have  beheld 
the  footprints  of  the  lordly  Iroquois,  crowned  by 
the  feathers  of  the  eagle,  bearing  in  his  hand  the 
bow  and  arrows,  and  scorning  by  the  keen  glances 
of  his  black  eye,  and  the  loftiness  of  his  tread,  the 
very  earth  that  bore  him  up.  History  and  tradi 
tion  speak  of  the  story  of  this  ancient  race. — They 
paint  him  as  a  man  of  war — of  endurance — of  in 
domitable  courage — of  capacity  to  endure  tortures 
without  complaint — of  a  heroic  and  noble  inde 
pendence.  They  tell  us  that  these  precincts,  now 
waving  with  yellow  corn,  and  smiling  with  vil 
lages,  and  glittering  with  spires,  were  once  vocal 
with  their  war  songs,  and  resounded  with  the  cho- 
russes  of  their  corn  feasts.  We  descry,  as  we 
plough  the  plain,  the  well-chipped  darts  which 
pointed  their  arrows,  and  the  elongated  pestles 
that  crushed  their  maze.  We  exhume  from  their 
obliterated  and  simple  graves  the  pipe  of  steatite, 
in  which  they  smoked,  and  offered  incense  to  these 


deities,  and  the  fragments  of  the  culinary  vases, 
around  which  the  lodge  circle  gathered  to  their 
forest  meal.  Mounds  and  trenches  and  ditches 
speak  of  the  movement  of  tribe  against  tribe,  and 
dimly  'shadow  forth  the  overthrow  of  nations. 
There  are  no  plated  columns  of  marble — no  tab 
lets  of  inscribed  stone — no  gates  of  rust-coated 
brass.  But  the  man  himself  survives  in  his  gene 
ration.  He  is  a  walking  statue  before  us.  His 
looks  and  his  gestures  and  his  language  remain. 
And  he  is  himself  an  attractive  monument  to  be 
studied.  Shall  we  neglect  him  and  his  antiquarian 
vestiges,  to  run  after  foreign  sources  of  intellectual 
study  1  Shall  we  toil  amid  the  ruins  of  Thebes 
and  Palmyra,  while  we  have  before  us  the  monu 
mental  enigma  of  an  unknown  race  7  Shall  phi 
losophical  ardour  expend  itself  in  searching  after 
the  buried  sites  of  Nineveh,  and  Baby  Ion,  and  Troy, 
while  we  have  not  attempted,  with  decent  research, 
to  collect,  arrange,  and  determine  the  leading  data 
of  our  aboriginal  history  and  antiquities'?  ..." 

No  branch  of  the  human  family  is  an  object  un 
worthy  of  high  philosophic  inquiry.  Their  food, 
their  language,  their  arts,  their  physical  peculiar 
ities,  and  their  mental  traits  are  each  topics  of  deep 
interest,  and  susceptible  of  being  converted  into 
evidences  of  high  importance.  Mistaken  our  Red 
Men  clearly  were,  in  their  theories  and  opinions 
on  many  points.  They  were  wretched  theologists 
and  poor  casuists.  But  not  more  so,  in  three- 
fourths  of  their  dogmas,  than  the  disciples  of  Zo 
roaster,  or  Confucius.  They  were  polytheists 
from  their  very  position.  And  yet,  there  is  a 
general  idea,  that  under  every  form  they  acknow 
ledged  but  one  divine  intelligence  under  the  name 
of  the  Great  Spirit. 

They  paid  their  sacrifices  to  the  imaginary  and 
fantastic  gods  of  the  air,  the  woods  and  water,  as 
.Greece  and  Rome  had  done,  and  done  as  blindly, 
before  them.  But  they  were  a  vigorous,  hardy, 
and  brave  off-shoot  of  the  original  race  of  man. 
They  were  full  of  humanities.  They  had  many 
qualities  to  command  admiration.  They  were 
wise  in  council,  they  were  eloquent  in  the  defence 
of  their  rights.  They  were  kind  and  humane  to 
the  weak,  bewildered,  and  friendless.  Their  lodge- 
board  was  ever  ready  for  the-  wayfarer.  They 
were  constant  to  a  proverb  in  their  professed  friend 
ships.  They  never  forgot  a  kind  act.  Nor  can 
it  be  recorded,  to  their  dispraise,  that  they  were  a 
terror  to  their  enemies.  Their  character  was 
formed  on  the  military  principle,  and  to  acquire 
distinction  in  this  line,  they  roved  over  half  the 
continent.  .  .  . 

But  all  their  efforts  would  have  ended  in  disap 
pointment  had  it  not  been  for  that  principle  of  con 
federation,  which,  at  an  early  day,  pervaded  their 
councils  and  converted  them  into  a  phalanx,  which 
no  other  tribe  could  successfully  penetrate  or  resist. 
It  is  this  trait  by  which  they  are  most  distinguished 
from  the  other  hunter  nations  of  North  America; 
and  it  is  to  their  rigid  adherence  to  the  verbal  com 
pact,  which  bound  them  together  as  tribes  and 
clans,  that  they  owe  their  present  celebrity,  and 
owed  their  former  power. 


ORVILLE  DEWEY. 


[Born  1733.  J 


THE  REVEREND  ORVILLE  DEWEY,  D.D.,  was 
born  in  Sheffield,  Berkshire  county,  Massachu 
setts,  in  the  year  1794,  and  after  grad»ating  in 
1814  at  Williams  College,  studied  theology  in 
the  seminary  at  Andover.  His  views  respect 
ing  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity  had  from  the 
first  been  unsettled,  and  at  the  end  of  a  year 
from  his  first  entrance  into  the  ministry  he 
joined  the  Unitarians.  When  Dr.  Channing, 
soon  after,  went  to  Europe,  Mr.  Dewey  took 
his  place  ;  and  that  he  was  able  for  a  long  time 
to  give  perfect  satisfaction  to  a  society  accus 
tomed  to  the  sermons  of  Channing  is  evidence 
that  he  had  great  merits  as  a  preacher. 

He  was  subsequently  pastor  of  a  cburch  in 
New  Bedford,  for  about  ten  years,  at  the  end 
of  which  period  ill  health  made  necessary  his 
temporary  retirement  from  the  pulpit,  and  he 
passed  two  years  in  foreign  travel.  Soon  af 
ter  his  return  he  became  pastor  of  the  church 
of  the  Messiah  in  New  York,  with  which  he 
has  since  retained  his  connection,  except  dur 
ing  a  second  visit  to  Europe  in  1841  and  1842. 

In  1835  he  published  Discourses  on  Various 
Subjects,  selected  from  those  he  had  preached 
to  his  congregation  at  New  Bedford,  and  con 
taining  some  of  his  finest  religious  essays. 

This  volume  was  followed  in  the  spring  of 
1836  with  The  Old  World  and  the  New,  be 
ing  a  Journal  of  Observations  and  Reflections 
made  on  a  Visit  to  Europe  in  1833  and  1834: 
a  very  interesting  work,  with  descriptive  pas 
sages  quite  equal  to  any  in  the  books  of  Sli- 
dell  Mackenzie,  Caleb  Gushing,  or  the  later 
American  travellers  in  the  same  countries,  and 
others  betraying  a  profound  sympathy  with  hu 
manity,  and  containing  just  reflections  on  the 
social,  political  and  religious  condition  of  the 
people,  dnder  various  institutions,  which  place 
it  in  the  first  class  of  speculative  diaries. 

In  1838  he  published  Moral  Views  of  Com 
merce,  Society  and  Politics,  in  Twelve  Dis 
courses,  on  the  moral  laws  of  trade,  the  uses 
of  labour  and  passion  for  a  fortune,  the  moral 
limits  of  accumulation,  the  natural  and  artifi 
cial  relations  of  society,  the  moral  evil  to 
which  American  society  is  exposed,  the  place 


which  education  and  religion  must  have  in  the 
improvement  of  society,  and  on  associations, 
social  ambition,  war,  political  morality,  and 
the  blessings  of  freedom  :  subjects  out  of  the 
usual  range  of  pulpit  discussion,  (which  still 
has  too  little  to  do  with  the  great  mass  of  hu 
man  actions  and  interests,)  but  none  the  less 
worthy  on  this  account  of  being  treated  by  a 
Christian  minister.  This  is  one  of  the  best 
practical  books  on  the  dangers  and  duties  of 
the  Christian  freeman  that  has  been  written. 
The  interesting  questions  which  it  embraces  are 
discussed  with  calmness,  candor,  and  generally 
sound  judgment.  Customs  and  opinions  are 
subjected  to  the  test  of  Christian  morality, 
and  whatever  will  not  bear  this,  however  sanc 
tioned  by  observance  or  authority,  is  with  vi 
gor  and  manly  frankness  pointed  out  and  con 
demned.  In  1841  he  gave  to  the  public  his 
fourth  work,  under  the  title  of  Discourses  on 
Human  Life  ;  and  in  1846  a  fifth,  embracing 
Discourses  and  Reviews  on  Questions  relating 
to  Controversial  Theology  and  Practical  Re 
ligion.  In  addition  to  these  volumes  he  has 
published  many  single  sermons,  eulogies  and 
other  tracts,  some  of  which  are  among  his  best 
and  most  useful  performances. 

Dr.  Dewey  is  one  of  the  most  popular  pul 
pit  orators  this  courltry  has  produced.  He  is 
admired  by  those  who  are  capable  of  appreciat 
ing  the  philosophy  of  morals,  without  refer 
ence  to  his  peculiar  theological  belief.  His 
reasoning  is  generally  comprehensive,  and  his 
illustrations  often  poetical.  There  is  a  happy 
mixture  of  ease  and  finish  in  his  style,  and  he 
is  remarkable  for  interesting  the  hearer  in 
themes  which  would  be  trite  if  treated  with 
less  earnestness.  Perhaps  the  pathos  of  his 
rhetoric  is  its  most  effective  characteristic. 
In  speaking  of  the  wants,  sufferings  and  des 
tinies  of  humanity,  there  is  frequently  a  touch 
ing  eloquence  in  his  appeals  which  strikes  a  re 
sponsive  chord  in  every  sensitive  and  thought 
ful  heart. 

An  edition  of  his  works  has  recently  been 
published  in  England,  and  another,  enlarged, 
was  published  in  1847,  in  New  York,  in  3  vols. 


304 


ORVILLE    DEWEY. 


THE  DANGER  OF  RICHES. 

FROM     MOKAL     VIEWS     OF     SOCIETY,   ETC. 

AH  !  the  rust  of  riches ! — not  that  portion  of 
them  which  is  kept  bright  in  good  and  holy  uses — 
"  and  the  consuming  fire"  of  the  passions  which 
wealth  engenders !  No  rich  man — I  lay  it  down 
as  an  axiom  of  all  experience — no  rich  man  is  safe, 
who  is  not  a  benevolent  man.  No  rich  man  is  safe, 
but  in  the  imitation  of  that  benevolent  God,  who 
is  the  possessor  and  dispenser  of  all  the  riches  of 
the  universe.  What  else  mean  the  miseries  of  a 
selfish,  luxurious  and  fashionable  life  everywhere  1 
What  mean  the  sighs  that  come  up  from  the  pur 
lieus,  and  couches,  and  most  secret  haunts  of  all 
splendid  and  self-indulgent  opulence  1  Do  not  tell 
me  that  other  men  are  sufferers  too.  Say  not  that  the 
poor,  and  destitute  and  forlorn,  are  miserable  also. 
Ah !  just  heaven  !  thou  hast  in  thy  mysterious 
wisdom  appointed  to  them  a  lot  hard,  full  hard,  to 
bear.  Poor  houseless  wretches  !  who  «  eat  the  bit 
ter  bread  of  penury,  and  drink  the  baleful  cup  of 
misery;"  the  winter's  winds  blow  keenly  through 
your  "  looped  and  windowed  raggedness ;"  your 
children  wander  about  unshod,  unclothed  and  un- 
tended ;  I  wonder  not  that  ye  sigh.  But  why  should 
those  who  are  surrounded  with  every  thing  that 
heart  can  wish,  or  imagination  conceive — the  very 
crumbs  that  fall  from  whose  table  of  prosperity 
might  feed  hundreds — why  should  they  sigh  amidst 
their  profusion  and  splendour  1  They  have  broken 
the  Land  that  should  connect  power  with  usefulness, 
and  opulence  with  mercy.  That  is  the  reason.  They 
have  taken  up  their  treasures,  and  wandered  away 
into  a  forbidden  world  of  their  own,  far  from  the 
sympathies  of  suffering  humanity  ;  and  the  heavy 
night-dews  are  descending  upon  their  splendid  re 
vels  ;  and  the  all-gladdening  light  of  heavenly  be 
neficence  is  exchanged  for  the  sickly  glare  of  self 
ish  enjoyment;  and  happiness,  the  blessed  angel 
that  hovers  over  generous  deeds  and  heroic  virtues, 
has  fled  away  from  that  world  of  false  gaiety  and 
fashionable  exclusion. 


FREEDOM   OF  OPINION. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 


OBSERVE,  in  how  many  relations,  political,  reli 
gious  and  social,  a  man  is  liable  to  find  bondage  in 
stead  of  freedom.  If  he  wants  office,  he  must  at 
tach  himself  to  a  party,  and  then  his  eyes  must  be 
sealed  in  blindness,  and  his  lips  in  silence,  toward 
all  the  faults  of  his  party.  He  may  have  his  eyes 
open,  and  he  may  see  much  to  condemn,  but  he 
must  sny  nothing.  If  he  edits  a  newspaper,  his 
choice  is  often  between  bondage  and  beggary. 
That  may  actually  be  the  choice,  though  he  does 
not  know  it.  He  may  be  so  completely  a  slave, 
that  he  does  not  feel  the  chain.  His  passions  may 
be  so  enlisted  in  the  cause  of  his  party,  as  to  blind 
his  discrimination,  and  destroy  all  comprehension 
and  capability  of  independence.  So  it  may  be 
with  the  religious  partisan.  He  knows,  perhaps,  that 
there  are  errors  in  his  adopted  creed,  faults  in  his 
sect,  fanaticism  and  extravagance  in  some  of  its 


measures.  See  if  you  get  him  to  speak  of  them. 
See  if  you  can  get  him  to  breathe  a  whisper  of 
doubt.  No,  he  is  always  believing.  He  has  a  con, 
venient  phrase  that  covers  up  all  difficulties  in  his 
creed.  He  believes  it  "  for  substance  of  doctrine." 
Or  if  he  is  a  layman,  perhaps  he  does  not  be 
lieve  it  at  all.  What  then  is  his  conclusion  1 
Why,  he  has  friends  who  do  believe  it ;  and  he 
does  not  wish  to  offend  them.  And  so  he  goes  on, 
listening  to  what  he  does  not  believe  ;  outwardly 
acquiescing,  inwardly  remonstrating ;  the  slave  of 
fear  or  fashion,  never  daring,  not  once  in  his  life 
daring,  to  speak  out  openly  the  thought  that  is  in 
him.  Nay,  he  sees  men  suffering  under  the  weight 
of  public  reprobation,  for  the  open  espousal  of  the 
very  opinions  he  holds,  and  he  has  never  the  gene 
rosity  or  manliness  to  say,  "  /  think  so  too."  Nay, 
more ;  by  the  course  he  pursues,  he  is  made  to 
cast  his  stone,  or  he  holds  it  in  his  hand,  at  least, 
and  lets  another  arm  apply  the  force  necessary  to 
cast  it,  at  the  very  men  who  are  suffering  a  sort  of 
martyrdom  for  his  own  faith  ! 

I  am  not  now  advocating  any  particular  opin 
ions,  lam  only  advocating  a  manly  freedom  in 
the  expression  of  those  opinions  which  a  man  does 
entertain.  And  if  those  opinions  are  unpopular,  I 
hold  that,  in  this  country,  there  is  so  much  the 
more  need  of  an  open  and  independent  expression  of 
them.  Look  at  the  case  most  seriously,  I  beseech 
you.  What  is  ever  to  correct  the  faults  of  society, 
if  nobody  lifts  his  voice  against  them ;  if  every 
body  goes  on  openly  doing  what  everybody  pri 
vately  complains  of;  if  all  shrink  behind  the  faint 
hearted  apology,  that  it  would  be  over-bold  in  them 
to  attempt  any  reform  1  What  is  to  rebuke  politi 
cal  time-serving,  religious  fanaticism,  or  social  folly, 
if  no  one  has  the  independence  to  protest  against 
them  1  Look  at  it  in  a  larger  view.  What  bar 
rier  is  there  against  the  universal  despotism  of  pub 
lic  opinion  in  this  country,  but  individual  freedom  T 
Who  is  to  stand  up  against  it  here,  but  the  posses 
sor  of  that  lofty  independence  1  There  is  no  king, 
no  sultan,  no  noble,  no  privileged  class ;  nobody 
else  to  stand  against  it.  If  you  yield  this  point,  if 
you  are  for  ever  making  compromises,  if  all  men 
<3o  this,  if  the  entire  policy  of  private  life  here,  is 
to  escape  opposition  and  reproach,  every  thing  will 
be  swept  beneath  the  popular  wave.  There  will 
be  no  individuality,  no  hardihood,  no  high  and 
stern  resolve,  no  self-subsistence,  no  fearless  digni 
ty,  no  glorious  manhood  of  mind,  left  among  us. 
The  holy  heritage  of  our  fathers'  virtues  will  be 
trodden  under  foot,  by  their  unworthy  children. 
They  feared  riot  to  stand  up  against  kings  and  no- 
Dies,  and  parliament  and  people.  Better  did  they 
account  it,  that  their  lonely  bark  should  sweep  the 
wide  sea  in  freedom — happier  were  they,  when  their 
sail  swelled  to  the  storm  of  winter,  than  to  be 
slaves  in  palaces  of  ease.  Sweeter  to  their  ear  was 
the  music  of  the  gale,  that  shrieked  in  their  broken 
cordage,  than  the  voice  at  home  that  said,  "  submit, 
and  you  shall  have  rest."  And  when  they  reached 
this  wild  shore,  and  built  their  altar,  and  knelt 
upon  the  frozen  snow  and  the  flinty  rock  to  wor 
ship,  they  built  that  altar  to  freedom,  to  individual 


ORVILLE    DEWEY 


305 


freedom,  to  freedom  of  conscience  and  opinion  ;  and 
their  noble  prayer  was,  that  their  children  might  be 
thus  free.  Let  their  sons  remember  the  prayer  of 
their  extremity,  and  the  great  bequest  which  their 
magnanimity  has  left  us.  Let  them  beware  how 
they  become  entangled  again  in  the  yoke  of  bond 
age.  Let  the  ministers  at  God's  altar,  let  the  guar 
dians  of  the  press,  let  all  sober  and  thinking  men, 
speak  the  thought  that  is  in  them.  It  is  better  to 
speak  honest  error,  than  to  suppress  conscious  truth. 
Smothered  error  is  mdre  dangerous  than  that  which 
flames  and  burns  out.  But  do  I  speak  of  danger?  I 
know  of  but  one  thing  safe  in  the  universe,  and  that 
is  truth.  And  I  know  of  but  one  way  to  truth  for 
an  individual  mind,  and  that  is,  unfettered  thought. 
And  I  know  but  one  path  for  the  multitude  to 
truth,  and  that  is,  thought,  freely  expressed.  Make 
of  truth  itself  an  altar  of  slavery,  and  guard  it  about 
with  a  mysterious  shrine  ;  bind  thought  as  a  victim 
upon  it;  and  let  the  passions  of  the  prejudiced  mul 
titude  minister  fuel ;  and  you  sacrifice  upon  that  ac 
cursed  altar,  the  hopes  of  the  world  ! 


FREEDOM  AND  PATRIOTISM. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

Gob  has  stamped  upon  our  very  humanity  this 
impress  of  freedom.  It  is  the  unchartered  prero 
gative  of  human  nature.  A  soul  ceases  to  be  a 
soul,  in  proportion  as  it  ceases  to  be  free.  Strip  it 
of  this,  and  you  strip  it  of  one  of  its  essential  and 
characteristic  attributes.  It  is  this  that  draws  the 
footsteps  of  the  wild  Indian  to  his  wide  and  bound 
less  desert-paths,  and  makes  him  prefer  them  to 
the  gay  saloons  and  soft  carpets  of  sumptuous  pa 
laces.  It  is  this  that  makes  it  so  difficult  to  bring 
him  within  the  pale  of  artificial  civilization.  Our 
roving  tribes  are  perishing — a  sad  and  solemn  sa 
crifice  upon  the  altar  of  their  wild  freedom.  They 
come  among  us,  and  look  with  childish  wonder 
upon  the  perfection  of  our  arts,  and  the  splendour 
of  our  habitations :  they  submit  with  ennui  and 
weariness,  for  a  few  days,  to  our  burdensome 
forms  and  restraints  ;  and  then  turn  their  faces  to 
their  forest  homes,  and  resolve  to  push  those  homes 
onward  till  they  sink  in  the  Pacific  waves,  rather 
than  not  be  free. 

It  is  thus  that  every  people  is  attached  to  its 
country,  just  in  proportion  as  it  is  free.  No  mat 
ter  if  that  country  he  in  the  rocky  fastnesses  of 
Switzerland,  amidst  the  snows  of  Tartary,  or  on 
the  most  barren  and  lonely  Island-shore ;  no  mat 
ter  if  that  country  be  so  poor  as  to  force  away  its 
children  to  other  and  richer  lands,  for  employment 
and  sustenance;  yet  when  the  songs  of  those  free 
homes  chance  to  fall  upon  the  exile's  ear,  no  soft 
and  ravishing  airs  that  wait  upon  the  timid  feast- 
ings  of  Asiatic  opulence  ever  thrilled  the  heart 
with  such  mingled  rapture  and  agony  as  those  sim 
ple  tones.  Sad  mementoes  might  they  be  of  po 
verty  and  want  and  toil;  yet  it  was  enough  that 
they  were  mementoes  of  happy  freedom.  And 
more  than  once  has  it  been  necessary  to  forbid  by 
39 


military  orders,  in  the  armies  of  the  Swiss  merce 
naries,  the  singing  of  their  native  songs. 

And  such  an  attachment,  do  I  believe,  is  found 
in  our  own  people,  to  their  native  country.  It  is 
the  country  of  the  free ;  and  that  single  considera 
tion  compensates  for  the  want  of  many  advantages 
which  other  countries  possess  over  us.  And  glad 
am  I,  that  it  opens  wide  its  hospitable  gates,  to 
many  a  noble  but  persecuted  citizen,  from  the 
dungeons  of  Austria  and  Italy,  and  the  impri 
soning  castles  and  citadels  of  Poland.  Here 
may  they  find  rest,  as  they  surely  find  sympathy, 
though  it  is  saddened  with  many  bitter  remem 
brances  ! 

Yes,  let  me  be  free ;  let  me  go  and  come  at  my 
own  will ;  let  me  do  business  and  make  journeys, 
without  a  vexatious  police  or  insolent  soldiery  to 
watch  my  steps;  let  me  think,  and  do,  and  speak, 
what  I  please,  subject  to  no  limit  but  that  which 
is  set  by  the  common  weal ;  subject  to  no  law 
but  that  which  conscience  binds  upon  me ;  and  I 
will  bless  my  country,  and  love  its  most  rugged 
rocks  and  its  most  barren  soil. 

I  have  seen  my  countrymen,  and  have  been  with 
them  a  fellow-wanderer,  in  other  lands ;  and  little 
did  I  see  or  feel  to  warrant  the  apprehension,  some 
times  expressed,  that  foreign  travel  would  weaken 
our  patriotic  attachments.  One  sigh  for  home — 
home,  arose  from  all  hearts.  And  why,  from  pa 
laces  and  courts — why,  from  galleries  of  the  arts, 
where  the  marble  softens  into  life,  and  painting 
sheds  an  almost  living  presence  of  beauty  around 
it — why,  from  the  mountain's  awful  brow,  and  the 
lovely  valleys  and  lakes  touched  with  the  sunset 
hues  of  old  romance — why,  from  those  venerable 
and  touching  ruins  to  which  our  very  heart  grows 
— why,  from  all  these  scenes,  were  they  looking 
beyond  the  swellings  of  the  Atlantic  wave,  to  a 
dearer  and  holier  spot  of  earth — their  own,  own 
country.  Doubtless,  it  was,  in  part,  because  it  is 
their  country  1  But  it  was  also,  as  every  one's  ex 
perience  will  testify,  because  they  knew  that  ihere 
was  no  oppression,  no  pitiful  exaction  of  petty 
tyranny  ;  because  that  there,  they  knew,  was  no 
accredited  and  irresistible  religious  domination ;  be 
cause  that  there,  they  knew,  they  should  not  meet 
the  odious  soldier  at  every  corner,  nor  swarms  of 
imploring  beggars,  the  victims  of  misrule ;  that 
there,  no  curse  causeless  did  fall,  and  no  blight, 
worse  than  plague  and  pestilence,  did  descend^ 
amidst  the  pure  dews  of  heaven ;  because,  in  fine, 
that  there,  they  knew,  was  liberty — upon  all  the 
green  hills,  and  amidst  all  the  peaceful  valleys — 
liberty,  the  wall  of  fire  around  the  humblest  home; 
the  crown  of  glory,  studded  with  her  ever-blazing 
stars  upon  the  proudest  mansion! 

My  friends,  upon  our  own  homes  that  blessing 
rests,  that  guardian  care  and  glorious  crown ;  and 
when  we  return  to  those  homes,  and  so  long  as  we 
dwell  in  them — so  long  as  no  oppressor's  foot  invades 
their  thresholds,  let  us  bless  them,  and  hallow  them 
as  the  homes  of  freedom!  Let  us  make  them, 
too,  the  homes  of  a  nobler  freedom — of  freedom 
from  vice,  from  evil,  from  passion — from  every  cor 
rupting  bondage  of  the  soul. 
2c2 


306 


ORVILLE    DEWEY. 


MORAL  DANGER  OF  BUSINESS. 

FROM  THE   SAME. 

I  ASK,  if  there  is  not  good  ground  for  the  admo 
nitions  on  this  point,  of  every  moral  and  holy 
teacher  of  every  age  1  What  means,  if  there  is 
not,  that  eternal  disingenuity  of  trade,  that  is  ever 
putting  on  fair  appearances  and  false  pretences — of 
"  the  buyer  that  says,  it  is  naught,  it  is  naught,  but 
when  he  is  gone  his  way, then  boasteth" — of  the  sell 
er,  who  is  always  exhibiting  the  best  samples,  not  fair 
but  false  samples,  of  what  he  has  to  sell;  of  the  seller, 
I  say,  who,  to  use  the  language  of  another,  "  if  he 
is  tying  up  a  bundle  of  quills,  will  place  several  in 
the  centre,  of  not  half  the  value  of  the  rest,  and 
thus  sends  forth  a  hundred  liars,  with  a  fair  out 
side,  to  proclaim  as  many  falsehoods  to  the  world  1" 
These  practices,  alas!  have  fallen  into  the  regular 
course  of  the  business  of  many.  All  men  expect 
them ;  and  therefore,  you  may  say,  that  nobody  is 
deceived.  But  deception  is  intended  :  else  why  are 
these  things  done  ?  What  if  nobody  is  deceived  1 
The  seller  himself  is  corrupted.  He  may  stand 
acquitted  of  dishonesty  in  the  moral  code  of  world 
ly  traffic ;  no  man  may  charge  him  with  dishones 
ty  ;  and  yet  to  himself  he  is  a  dishonest  man.  Did 
I  say  that  nobody  is  deceived  1  Nay,  but  some 
body  is  deceived.  This  man,  the  seller,  is  grossly, 
wofully  deceived.  He  thinks  to  make  a  little  pro 
fit  by  his  contrivances ;  and  he  is  selling,  by  pen 
nyworths,  the  very  integrity  of  his  soul.  Yes, 
the  prettiest  shop  where  these  things  are  done,  may 
be  to  the  spiritual  vision,  a  place  of  more  than  tra 
gic  interest.  It  is  the  stage  on  which  the  great  ac 
tion  of  life  is  performed.  There  stands  a  man, 
who  in  the  sharp  collisions  of  daily  traffic,  might 
have  polished  his  mind  to  the  bright  and  beautiful 
image  of  truth,  who  might  have  put  on  the  noble 
brow  of  candor,  and  cherished  the  very  soul  of  up 
rightness.  I  have  known  such  a  man.  I  have 
looked  into  his  humble  shop.  I  have  seen  the 
mean  and  soiled  articles  with  which  he  is  dealing. 
And  yet  the  process  of  things  going  on  there,  was 
as  beautiful  as  if  it  had  been  done  in  heaven  ! 
But  now,  what  is  this  man — the  man  who  always 
turns  up  to  you  the  better  side  of  every  thing  he 
sells — the  man  of  unceasing  contrivances  and  ex 
pedients,  his  life  long,  to  make  things  appear  better 
than  they  are  ?  Be  he  the  greatest  merchant  or 
jhe  poorest  huckster,  he  is  a  mean,  a  knavish — and 
were. I  not  awed  by  the  thoughts  of  his  immortali 
ty,  I  should  say — a  contemptible  creature  ;  whom 
nobody  that  knows  him  can  love,  whom  nobody  can 
trust,  whom  nobody  can  reverence.  Not  one  thing  in 
the  dusty  repository  of  things,  great  or  small,  which 
he  deals  with,  is  so  vile  as  he.  What  is  this  thing 
then,  which  is  done,  or  may  be  done,  in  the  house  of 
traffic  1  I  tell  you,  though  you  may  have  thought  not 
so  of  it — I  tell  you  that  there,  even  there,  a  soul  may 
be  lost ! — that  that  very  structure,  built  for  the  gain 


of  earth,  may  be  the  gate  of  hell !  Say  not  that  this 
fearful  appellation  should  be  applied  to  worse  places 
than  that.  A  man  may  as  certainly  corrupt  all  the 
integrity  and  virtue  of  his  soul  in  a  warehouse  or 
a  shop,  as  in  a  gambling-house  or  a  brothel. 


THE  PEOPLE  NOT  ALWAYS  RIGHT. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

I  MAINTAIN,  that  our  democratic  principle  is  not 
that  the  people  are  always  right.  It  is  this  rather ; 
that  although  the  people  may  sometimes  be  wrong, 
yet  that  they  are  not  so  likely  to  be  wrong  and  to  do 
wrong  as  irresponsible,  hereditary  magistrates  and 
legislators ;  that  it  is  safer  to  trust  the  many  with 
the  keeping  of  their  own  interests,  than  it  is  to 
trust  the  few  to  keep  those  interests  for  them.  The 
people  are  not  always  right;  they  are  often  wrong. 
They  must  be  so,  from  the  very  magnitude,  diffi 
culty  and  complication  of  the  questions  that  are 
submitted  to  them.  I  am  amazed,  that  thinking 
men,  conversant  with  these  questions,  should  ad 
dress  such  gross  flattery  and  monstrous  absurdity 
to  the  people,  as  to  be  constantly  telling  them,  that 
they  will  put  all  these  questions  right  at  the  ballot- 
box.  And  I  am  no  less  amazed,  that  a  sensible  people 
should  suffer  such  folly  to  be  spoken  to  them.  Is 
it  possible  that  the  people  believe  it!  Is  it  possible 
that  the  majority  itself  of  any  people  can  be  so 
infatuated  as  to  hold,  that  in  virtue  of  its  being  a 
majority,  it  is  always  right!  Alas!  for  truth,  if 
it  is  to  depend  on  votes !  Has  the  majority  always 
been  right  in  religion  or  in  philosophy  1  But  the 
science  of  politics  involves  questions  no  less  intri 
cate  and  difficult.  And  on  these  questions,  there 
are  grave  and  solemn  decisions  to  be  made  by  the 
people ;  great  state  problems  are  submitted  to  them ; 
such,  for  instance,  as  concerning  internal  improve 
ments,  the  tariff,  the  currency,  banking,  and  the 
nicest  points  of  construction  ;  which  cost  even  the 
wisest  men  much  study ;  and  what  the  people  re 
quire  for  the  solution  of  these  questions,  is  not  rash 
haste,  boastful  confidence,  furious  anger  and  mad 
strife,  but  sobriety,  calmness,  modesty — qualities, 
indeed,  that  would  go  far  to  abate  the  violence  of 
our  parties,  and  to  hush  the  brawls  of  our  elec 
tions.  I  do  not  deny,  that  questions  of  deep  na 
tional  concern  may  justly  awaken  great  zeal  and 
earnestness ;  but  I  do  deny,  that  the  public  mind 
should  be  bolstered  up  with  the  pride  of  supposing 
itself  to  possess  any  complete,  much  less,  any  sud 
denly  acquired  knowledge  of  them.  I  am  willing 
to  take  my  fellow-citizens  for  my  governors,  with 
all  their  errors ;  I  prefer  their  will,  legally  signified, 
to  any  other  government ;  but  to  say  or  imply,  that, 
they  do  not  err  and  often  err,  is  a  doctrine  alike 
preposterous  in  general  theory,  and  pernicious  in 
its  effects  upon  themselves. 


JARED   SPARKS. 


[Born  about  1794.    Died  1866.] 


THE  former  Professor  of  History  in  Har 
vard  University  is  a  native  of  Connecticut. 
He  graduated  at  Cambridge  in  1815,  and  was 
subsequently  for  some  time  one  of  the  tutors 
there.  Having  completed  his  theological  stu 
dies,  and  entered  the  ministry,  he  was  ordained 
over  the  first  Unitarian  Church  in  Baltimore 
on  the  fifth  of  May,  1819,  on  which  occasion 
Dr.  Channing  delivered  his  celebrated  sermon 
on  Unitarian  Christianity. 

For  several  years  Mr.  Sparks  wrote  largely 
upon  subjects  of  theological  and  ecclesiastical 
controversy,  and  published,  with  other  works, 
in  1820,  Letters  on  the  Ministry,  Ritual  and 
Doctrines  of  the  Protestant  Episcopal  Church, 
and  in  1823,  An  Inquiry  into  the  Comparative 
Moral  Tendency  of  Trinitarian  and  Unitarian 
Doctrines,  in  a  series  of  Letters  to  Samuel  Mil 
ler,  D.  D.  of  Princeton.  From  1823  to  1830  he 
conducted  The  North  American  Review,  and 
in  1828  he  commenced  that  noble  series  of  vo 
lumes  illustrative  of  American  history  to  which 
he  has  nearly  ever  since  devoted  himself,  and 
which  have  for  ever  associated  his  own  with 
the  names  of  the  most  illustrious  of  our  coun 
trymen. 

The  first  of  his  historical  works  was  The 
Life  of  John  Ledyard,  the  American  Naviga 
tor  and  Traveller,  in  one  octavo  volume,  com 
posed  chiefly  from  manuscripts  in  possession 
of  Ledyard's  family.  The  second  was  The 
Diplomatic  Correspondence  of  the  American 
Revolution,  in  twelve  volumes,  published  from 
1829  to  1831,  by  order  of  Congress,  under  the 
direction  of  the  President  of  the  United  States. 
The  third  was  The  Life  of  Gouverneur  Morris, 
in  three  volumes,  issued  in  1832.  The  curi 
ous  details  contained  in  the  diary  of  Morris 
respecting  the  Revolution  in  France,  where 
he  was  our  minister  during  the  Reign  of  Ter 
ror,  and  the  vivacity  and  point  of  his  correspon 
dence  with  the  most  celebrated  persons  of  his 
age,  render  this  work  one  of  the  most  interest 
ing  in  our  historical  literature.  Mr.  Sparks 
exhibited  in  the  selection  and  arrangement  of 
his  materials  discriminating  judgment  and  in 
tegrity  ;  and  the  favour  with  which  it  was 


received  encouraged  him  to  proceed  in  the  pre 
paration  of  his  Life  and  Writings  of  Wash 
ington,  which  was  published  in  Boston  in 
twelve  octavo  volumes,  between  the  years  1833 
and  1840.  He  had  access  not  only  to  the 
manuscripts  of  Washington  but  to  every  thing 
that  could  illustrate  his  subject  in  the  archives 
of  the  United  States,  England  and  France,  and 
produced  a  work  in  all  respects  as  nearly  per 
fect  as  possible.  The  memoir  by  Mr.  Sparks, 
which  occupies  the  first  volume,  with  a  selec 
tion  of  the  most  important  of  the  letters,  was 
translated  into  French  and  published  in  Paris, 
in  six  volumes,  by  Guizot,  who  added  an  ori 
ginal  essay  on  Washington's  character ;  and 
the  whole  work  was  translated  into  German 
and  published  at  Leipsic  by  Von  Raumer. 

In.  1835  he  commenced  the  publication  of 
his  admirable  edition  of  the  Complete  Works 
of  Franklin,  with  a  memoir,  of  which  the 
tenth  and  last  volume  appeared  in  1840.  The 
autobiography  of  Franklin  is  continued  by 
Mr.  Sparks  to  his  death,  the  numerous  ques 
tions  respecting  the  authorship  of  writings  at 
tributed  to  him  are  satisfactorily  decided,  and 
elucidatory  notes  added  wherever  they  are  ne 
cessary.  It  was  a  labour  of  difficulty,  owing 
to  the  carelessness  of  Franklin  respecting  his 
literary  reputation,  and  on  other  accounts,  and 
it  was  executed  with  a  diligence  and  discretion 
which  left  nothing  to  be  desired. 

The  Library  of  American  Biography  was 
commenced  by  Mr.  Sparks  in  1835,  and  the 
first  series  of  ten  volumes  was  completed  in 
1839.  In  this  he  wrote  the  lives  of  Ethan 
Allen,  Benedict  Arnold,  and  Father  Marquette. 
The  second  series  of  ten  volumes,  for  which 
he  wrote  the  lives  of  Pulaski,  La  Salle,  Ri- 
bault,  and  Charles  Lee,  was  begun  in  1843 
and  finished  in  1846.  These  twenty  volumes, 
in  the  preparation  of  which  he  was  aided  by 
the  Everetts,  Prescott,  Wheaton,  Charles  F. 
Hoffman,  Henry  Reed,  George  Hillard,  and 
other  distinguished  men  of  letters,  is  second 
in  interest  and  value  to  no  series  of  original 
works  ever  printed  in  this  country. 

There  is  little  danger  of  estimating  the  la- 

307 


308 


JARED    SPARKS. 


hours  of  Mr.  Sparks  too  highly.  He  at  an 
early  age  entered  with  enthusiasm  on  his  fa 
vourite  pursuit,  and  has  devoted  to  it  the  best 
years  of  his  life.  His  researches  have  been 
prosecuted  with  untiring  diligence,  and  with 
such  success  that  almost  every  question  with 
in  their  scope,  which  was  open  at  their  com 
mencement,  has  through  them  been  definitive 
ly  settled.  We  feel  sure  that  the  documentary 
evidence  he  brings  to  bear  on  any  point  is  as 
full  and  satisfactory  as  can  be  had  ;  and  his  mere 
opinion,  observes  one  of  our  most  acute  and 
well  informed  critics,*  is  entitled  to  great 
weight,  when  not  supported  by  direct  proof. 
His  negative  testimony,  when  he  says  no 
thing  can  be  found  to  support  an  allegation,  is 
nearly  conclusive,  for  we  are  confident  the  as 
sertion  is  not  lightly  made,  and  may  fairly 
presume  that  what  has  escaped  his  researches 
does  not  exist. 

The  great  merits  of  Mr.  Sparks  are  reve 
rence  for  truth,  soundness  of  judgment  in  re 
gard  to  evidence,  and  exhausting  fulness  of 
detail  and  illustration.  His  defect  as  a  histo 
rian  seems  to  be  a  certain  timidity,  an  unwill 


ingness  to  disturb  old  prejudices,  which  oc 
casionally  has  prevented  his  removing  masks 
behind  which  he  himself  has  seen.  A  little 
more  boldness,  a  determination  to  give  the 
whole  truth  as  well  as  nothing  but  the  truth, 
would  have  proved  as  advantageous  for  the 
present  and  more  so  for  the  future. 

The  style  of  Mr.  Sparks  is  clear  and  exact, 
but  it  has  little  variety  or  vivacity.  He  lacks 
skill  in  grouping,  but  compensates  for  this  by 
the  accuracy  of  his  drawing,  and  the  studied 
propriety  of  his  costume.  It  is  less  probable 
that  he  will  be  a  popular  historian  than  that 
he  will  be  an  enduring  and  in  many  cases  an 
ultimate  authority. 

Mr.  Sparks  was  appointed  in  1839,  Professor 
of  History  in  Harvard,  and  in  1849  succeeded 
Mr.  Everett  as  president,  but  resigned  in  1853, 
on  account  of  ill  health.  In  1854,  appeared  the 
Correspondence  of  the  American  Revolution, 
4  vols.,  8vo.  He  visited  Europe  in  1858  to  ob 
tain  materials  to  assist  him  in  his  preparation 
of  a  History  of  the  Revolution,  which  he  did 
not  live  to  complete  or  publish,  as  he  died  at 
Cambridge,  March  14,  1866. 


AMERICAN  HISTORY. 

Ix  many  respects  the  history  of  North  America 
differs  from  that  of  every  other  country,  and  in  this 
difference  it  possesses  an  interest  peculiar  to  itself, 
especially  for  those  whose  lot  has  been  cast  here, 
and  who  look  back  with  a  generous  pride  to  the 
deeds  of  ancestors,  by  whom  a  nation's  existence 
has  been  created,  and  a  nation's  glory  adorned. 
We  shall  speak  of  this  history,  as  divided  into  two 
periods,  the  Colonial,  and  the  Revolutionary. 

When  we  talk  of  the  history  of  our  country, 
we  are  not  to  be  understood  as  alluding  to  any  par 
ticular  book,  or  to  the  labours  of  any  man,  or  num 
ber  of  men,  in  treating  this  subject.  If  we  have  a 
few  compilations  of  merit,  embracing  detached  por 
tions  and  limited  periods,  there  is  yet  wanting  a 
work,  the  writer  of  which  shall  undertake  the  task 
of  plodding  his  way  through  all  the  materials, 
printed  and  in  manuscript,  and  digesting  them  in 
to  a  united,  continuous,  lucid,  and  philosophical 
whole,  bearing  the  shape,  and  containing  the  sub 
stance  of  genuine  history.  No  tempting  encou 
ragement,  it  is  true,  has  been  held  out  to  such  an 
enterprise.  The  absorbing  present,  in  the  midst 
of  our  stirring  politics,  and  jarring  party  excite 
ments,  aad  bustling  activity,  has  almost  obliterated 
the  past,  or  at  least  has  left  little  leisure  for  pur 
suing  the  footsteps  of  the  pilgrims,  and  the  devious 

*Mr.  William  B.  Reed.  In  the  North  American  Re 
view,  and  in  various  tracts,  he  has  discussed  several  his 
torical  and  social  questions  with  signal  ability. 


fortunes  of  our  ancestors.  The  public  taste  has 
run  in  other  directions,  and  no  man  of  genius  and 
industry  has  been  found  so  courageous  in  his  re 
solves,  or  prodigal  of  his  labour,  as  to  waste  his 
life  in  digging  into  mines  for  treasures,  which  would 
cost  him  much,  and  avail  him  little.  But  symp 
toms  of  a  change  are  beginning  to  appear,  which 
it  may  be  hoped  will  ere  long  be  realized. 

And  when  the  time  shall  come  for  illustrating 
this  subject,  it  will  be  discovered,  that  there  are 
rich  stores  of  knowledge  among  the  hidden  and 
forgotten  records  of  our  colonial  history ;  that  the 
men  of  those  days  thought,  and  acted,  and  suffered 
with  a  wisdom,  a  fortitude,  and  an  endurance, 
which  would  add  lustre  to  any  age ;  and  that  they 
have  transmitted  an  inheritance  as  honourable  in  the 
mode  of  its  acquisition  as  it  is  dear  to  its  present 
possessors.  Notwithstanding  the  comparatively 
disconnected  incidents  in  the  history  of  this  period, 
and  the  separate  communities  and  governments  to 
which  it  extends,  it  has  nevertheless  a  uniiy  and  a 
consistency  of  parts,  as  well  as  copiousness  of 
events,  which  make  it  a  theme  for  the  most  gifted 
historian,  and  a  study  for  every  one  who  would 
enlarge  his  knowledge  and  profit  by  high  example. 

Unlike  any  other  people,  who  have  attained  the 
rank  of  a  nation,  we  may  here  trace  our  country's 
growth  to  the  very  elements  of  its  origin,  and  con 
sult  the  testimonies  of  reality,  instead  of  the  blind 
oracles  of  fable,  and  the  legends  of  a  dubious  tra 
dition.  Besides  a  love  of  adventure,  and  an  en 
thusiasm  that  surmounted  every  difficulty,  the  cha- 


JARED    SPARKS. 


309 


racter  of  its  founders  was  marked  by  a  hardy 
enterprise  and  sturdiness  of  purpose,  which  carried 
them  onward  through  perils  and  sufferings,  that 
would  have  appalled  weaker  minds  and  less  resolute 
hearts.  This  is  the  first  great  feature  of  resem 
blance  in  all  the  early  settlers,  whether  they  came 
to  the  north  or  to  the  south,  and  it  merits  notice 
from  the  influence  it  could  not  fail  to  exercise  on 
their  future  acts  and  character,  both  domestic  and 
political.  The  timid,  the  wavering,  the  feeble 
minded,  the  sons  of  indolence  and  ease,  were  not 
among  those  who  left  the  comforts  of  home,  braved 
the  tempests  of  the  ocean,  and  sought  danger  on 
the  shores  of  an  unknown  and  inhospitable  world. 
Incited  by  various  motives  they  might  have  been ; 
by  a  fondness  for  adventure,  curiosity,  gain,  or  a 
dread  of  oppression ;  yet  none  but  the  bold,  ener 
getic,  determined,  persevering,  would  yield  to  these 
motives  or  any  other. 

Akin  to  these  characteristics,  and  indeed  a  con 
comitant  with  them,  was  a  spirit  of  freedom,  and 
a  restlessness  under  constraint.  The  New  Eng 
land  settlers,  we  know,  came  away  on  this  ground 
alone,  goaded  to  a  sense  of  their  invaded  rights  by 
the  thorns  of  religious  intolerance.  But  whatever 
motives  may  have  operated,  the  prominent  fact  re 
mains  the  same,  and  in  this  we  may  see  through 
out  the  colonies  a  uniform  basis  of  that  vigour  of 
character,  and  indomitable  love  of  liberty,  which 
appeared  ever  afterwards,  in  one  guise  or  another, 
whenever  occasions  called  them  out. 

Hence  it  was,  also,  that  the  different  colonies, 
although  under  dissimilar  modes  of  government, 
some  more  and  some  less  dependent  on  the  crown, 
preserved  a  close  resemblance  in  the  spirit  of  their 
internal  regulations,  that  spirit,  or  those  principles, 
which  entered  deeply  into  the  opinions  of  the  peo 
ple,  and  upon  which  their  habits  were  formed. 

Beginning  everywhere  in  small  bodies,  elections 
implied  almost  a  universal  suffrage,  and  every  indi 
vidual  became  acquainted  with  his  rights,  -and  ac 
customed  to  use  the  power  they  gave  him.  In 
crease  of  numbers  made  no  change  in  this  respect. 
Charters  were  given  and  taken  away,  laws  were 
annulled,  and  the  King's  judges  decided  against 
the  colonial  pretensions.  The  liberties  of  the  mass 
were  thus  abridged,  and  the  powers  of  legislation 
curtailed,  but  the  people  still  went  on,  voting  for 
their  representatives  and  their  municipal  officers, 
and  practising  all  the  elementary  acts  of  indepen 
dent  government ;  and  the  legislatures  had  new 
opportunities  of  asserting  their  rights  before  the 
world,  studying  them  more  deeply,  watching  over 
them  more  cautiously,  and  in  this  way  gaining 
strength  to  their  cause,  through  the  agency  of  the 
very  means  that  were  employed  to  depress  or  de 
stroy  it.  The  primary  elections  were  never  reached 
by  these  oppressive  measures  of  the  supreme  power, 
and,  as  they  were  founded  on  principles  of  close 
analogy  in  all  the  colonies,  conformable  to  the  cir 
cumstances  of  their  origin,  they  were  not  only  the 
guardian  of  the  liberties  of  each,  from  its  first  foun 
dation,  but  they  became  at  last  the  cementing  force, 
which  bound  them  together,  when  a  great  and 
united  effort  was  necessary. 


Another  element  of  unity  in  the  colonial  period 
was  the  fact  of  the  colonists  springing  from  the 
same  stock ;  for  although  Holland,  Germany  and 
Sweden  contributed  a  few  settlers,  yet  the  mass 
was  of  English  origin,  inheriting  the  free  spirit 
that  had  been  at  work  from  the  era  of  Runny 
Mead  downwards,  in  building  up  the  best  parts  of 
the  British  Constitution,  and  framing  laws  to  pro 
tect  them.  The  Sidneys,  and  Miltons,  and  Lockes 
of  England  were  teachers  in  America  as  well  as 
in  their  native  land,  and  more  effectual,  because 
their  instructions  fell  in  a  readier  soil,  and  sprang 
up  with  a  livelier  and  bolder  growth.  The  books  of 
England  were  the  fountains  of  knowledge  in  Ame 
rica,  from  which  all  parts  drew  equally,  imbibing 
common  habitudes  of  thought  and  opinion,  and  an 
intellectual  uniformity.  Our  fathers  soon  saw,  that 
the  basis  of  virtue,  the  security  of  civil  order  and 
freedom,  must  be  laid  in  the  intelligence  of  the 
people.  Schools  were  established  and  means  pro 
vided,  not  everywhere  with  a  zeal  so  ardent,  and  a 
forethought  so  judicious,  as  among  the  descendants 
of  the  pilgrims,  but  yet  in  all  places  according  to 
their  situation,  arid  the  tendency  of  controlling 
causes. 

The  colonial  wars  form  another  combining  prin 
ciple  in  the  unity  of  that  period,  and  furnish  mate 
rials  for  vivid  delineations  of  character  and  ani 
mated  narrative.  The  English  and  French  colo 
nies  were  always  doomed  to  espouse  the  quarrels 
and  participate  in  the  broils  of  their  rival  heads  in 
Europe,  who  continued  to  nourish  a  root  of  bitter 
ness,  that  left  but  few  intervals  of  peace,  and  fewer 
still  of  harmonious  feeling.  When  the  fire  of  dis 
cord  was  kindled  into  open  hostility,  its  flame  soon 
reached  America,  and  roused  all  hearts  to  the  con 
flict.  Louisburg  and  Nova  Scotia,  Lake  George 
and  Braddock's  field,  Oswego  and  Niagara,  have 
witnessed  the  bravery  of  our  ancestors,  and  the 
blood  they  expended,  fighting  the  battles  as  well  of 
transatlantic  ambition  as  of  self-defence. 

But  there  was  a  great  moral  cause  at  work  in 
this  train  of  events.  By  these  trials,  costly  and 
severe  as  they  were,  the  colonists  were  learning  the 
extent  of  their  physical  resources,  acting  as  one 
people,  gaining  the  experience  and  nerving  the 
sinews,  that  were  at  a  future  day  to  serve  them  in 
a  mightier  contest.  Much  blood  was  shed,  but  it 
was  the  price  of  future  glory  to  their  country , 
many  a  fair  flower  was  cut  off  in  the  freshness  of 
its  bloom,  many  a  sturdy  oak  was  felled  in  the  ma 
jesty  of  its  strength,  yet  posterity  will  not  forget 
the  maxim  of  the  Roman  law,  that  they,  who  fall  for 
their  country,  live  in  the  immortality  of  their  fame. 

Next  come  the  Indian  wars,  which  commenced 
with  the  first  landing  of  the  pilgrim  wanderers,  and 
ceased  not  till  the  proud  sons  of  the  forest  had 
melted  away  like  an  evening  cloud,  or  disappeared 
in  the  remote  solitudes  of  th<jir  own  wildernesses. 
The  wars  of  the  Indians,  their  character  and  man 
ners,  their  social  and  political  condition,  are  origi 
nal,  having  no  prototype  in  any  former  time  or 
race  of  men.  They  mingle  in  all  the  incidents  of 
our  colonial  history,  and  stamp  upon  it  an  impres 
sion  novel  and  peculiar. 


310 


JARED    SPARKS. 


With  a  strength  of  character  and  a  reach  of  in 
tellect,  unknown  in  any  other  race  of  absolute  sa 
vages,  the  Indian  united  many  traits,  some  of  them 
honourable  and  some  degrading  to  humanity,  which 
made  him  formidable  in  his  enmity,  faithless  in  his 
friendship,  and  at  all  times  a  dangerous  neighbour : 
cruel,  implacable,  treacherous,  yet  not  without  a 
few  of  the  better  qualities  of  the  heart  and  the 
head  ;  a  being  of  contrasts,  violent  in  his  passions, 
hasty  in  his  anger,  fixed  in  his  revenge,  yet  cool  in 
counsel,  seldom  betraying  his  plighted  honour,  hos 
pitable,  sometimes  generous.  A  few  names  have 
stood  out  among  them,  which,  with  the  culture  of 
civilization,  might  have  been  shining  stars  on  the 
lists  of  recorded  fame.  Philip,  Pondiac,  Sassacus, 
if  the  genius  of  another  Homer  were  to  embalm 
their  memory,  might  rival  the  Hectors  and  Aga- 
memnons  of  heroic  renown,  scarcely  less  savage, 
not  less  sagacious  or  brave. 

Indian  eloquence,  if  it  did  not  flow  with  the  rich 
ness  of  Nestor's  wisdom,  or  burn  with  Achilles' 
fire,  spoke  in  the  deep  strong  tones  of  nature,  and 
resounded  from  the  chords  of  truth.  The  answer 
of  the  Iroquois  chief  to  the  French,  who  wished  to 
purchase  his  lands,  and  push  him  farther  into  the 
wilderness,  Voltaire  has  pronounced  superior  to 
any  sayings  of  the  great  men  commemorated  by 
Plutarch.  «  We  were  born  on  this  spot ;  our  fathers 
were  buried  here.  Shall  we  say  to  the  bones  of  our 
fathers,  arise,  and  go  with  us  into  a  strange  land  7" 

But  more  has  been  said  of  their  figurative  la.n- 
guage,  than  seems  to  be  justified  by  modern  expe 
rience.  Writers  of  fiction  have  distorted  the  In 
dian  character,  and  given  us  anything  but  originals. 
Their  fancy  has  produced  sentimental  Indians,  a 
kind  of  beings  that  never  existed  in  reality ;  and 
Indians  clothing  their  ideas  in  the  gorgeous  image 
ry  of  external  nature,  which  they  had  neither  the 
refinement  to  conceive,  nor  words  to  express.  In 
truth,  when  we  have  lighted  the  pipe  of  concord, 
kindled  or  extinguished  a  council  fire,  buried  the 
bloody  hatchet,  sat  down  under  the  tree  of  peace 
with  its  spreading  branches,  and  brightened  the 
chain  of  friendship,  we  have  nearly  exhausted  their 
flowers  of  rhetoric.  But  the  imagery  prompted  by 
internal  emotion,  and  not  by  the  visible  world,  the 
eloquence  of  condensed  thought  and  pointed  expres 
sion,  the  eloquence  of  a  diction  extremely  limited  in 
its  forms,  but  nervous  and  direct,  the  eloquence  of 
truth  unadorned  and  of  justice  undisguised,  these 
are  often  found  in  Indian  speeches,  and  constitute 
their  chief  characteristic. 

It  should,  moreover,  be  said  for  the  Indians,  that, 
like  the  Carthaginians,  their  history  has  been  writ 
ten  by  their  enemies.  The  tales  of  their  wrongs 
and  their  achievements  may  have  been  told  by  the 
warrior-chiefs  to  stimulate  the  courage,  and  perpe 
tuate  the  revenge  of  their  children,  but  they  were 
traces  in  the  sand ;  they  perished  in  a  day,  and 
their  memory  is  gone. 

Such  are  the  outlines  of  our  colonial  history, 
which  constitute  its  unity,  and  make  it  a  topic 
worthy  to  be  illustrated  by  the  labours  of  industry 
and  talent.  The  details,  if  less  imposing,  are  co 
pious  arid  varied.  The  progress  of  society  deve 


loping  itself  in  new  modes,  at  first  in  isolated  com 
munities  scattered  along  the  sea-coast,  and  then 
gradually  approximating  each  other,  extending  to 
the  interior,  subduing  the  forests  with  a  magic  al 
most  rivalling  the  lyre  of  Orpheus,  and  encounter 
ing  everywhere  the  ferocity  of  uncivilized  man ; 
the  plans  of  social  government  necessarily  sug 
gested  by  such  a  state  of  things,  and  their  opera 
tions  in  the  advancing  stages  of  improvement  and 
change;  the  fantastic  codes  of  laws,  and  corre 
sponding  habitudes,  that  sprang  from  the  reveries 
of  our  Puritan  fathers;  the  admirable  systems 
which  followed  them,  conceived  by  men  tutored 
only  in  the  school  of  freedom  and  necessity,  ex 
ceeding  in  political  wisdom  and  security  of  rights 
the  boasted  schemes  of  ancient  lawgivers ;  the  wild 
and  disorganizing  frenzies  of  religious  fanaticism  ; 
the  misguided  severities  of  religious  intolerance ; 
the  strange  aberrations  of  the  human  mind,  and 
abuses  of  power,  in  abetting  the  criminal  folly  of 
witchcraft ;  the  struggles,  that  were  ever  going  on, 
between  the  Governors  and  the  Assemblies,  the  for 
mer  urging  the  demands  of  prerogative,  the  latter 
maintaining  the  claims  of  liberty ;  the  sources  of 
growing  wealth  ;  the  influence  of  knowledge  wide 
ly  diffused,  of  religion  unshackled  by  the  trammels 
of  power ;  the  manners  and  habits  of  the  people 
at  different  times  and  in  different  places,  taking 
their  hue  from  such  a  combination  of  causes ;  these, 
and  a  thousand  other  features  deeply  interesting 
and  full  of  variety,  belong  to  the  portraiture  of  co 
lonial  history,  giving  symmetry  to  its  parts,  and 
completeness  to  the  whole. 

The  Revolutionary  period,  like  the  Colonial,  has 
hitherto  been  but  imperfectly  elucidated,  and  per 
haps  for  the  same  reason.  The  voluminous  mate 
rials,  printed  and  unprinted,  widely  scattered  in 
this  country  and  in  Europe,  some  obvious  and  well 
known,  many  unexplored,  have  been  formidable  ob 
stacles  to  the  execution  of  such  an  undertaking. 
No  Ryniers  have  yet  appeared  among  us,  who  were 
willing* to  spend  a  life  in  gathering  up  and  embo 
dying  these  memorials ;  and,  till  public  encourage 
ment  shall  prompt  and  aid  such  a  design,  till  the 
national  representatives  shall  have  leisure  to  pause 
for  a  moment  from  their  weighty  cares  in  adjusting 
the  wheels  of  state,  and  emulate  the  munificent 
patriotism  of  other  governments,  by  adopting  mea 
sures  to  collect  and  preserve  the  perishing  records 
of  the  wisdom  and  valour  of  their  fathers ;  till  this 
shall  be  done,  the  historian  of  the  Revolution  must 
labour  under  disadvantages,  which  his  zeal  will 
hardly  stimulate  him  to  encounter,  nor  his  genius 
enable  him  to  surmount. 

The  subject  itself  is  one  of  the  best  that  ever 
employed  the  pen  of  the  writer,  whether  considered 
in  the  object  at  stake,  the  series  of  acts  by  which 
it  was  accomplished,  or  its  consequences.  It 
properly  includes  a  compass  of  twenty  years,  ex 
tending  from  the  close  of  the  French  war  in  Ame 
rica  to  the  general  peace  at  Paris.  The  best  his 
tory  in  existence,  though  left  unfinished,  that  of 
the  Peloponnesian  war,  by  Thucydides,  embraces 
exactly  the  same  space  of  time,  and  is  not  dissimi 
lar  in  the  details  of  its  events.  The  revolutionary 


JARED    SPARKS. 


311 


period,  thus  defined,  is  rounded  with  epic  exactness, 
having  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end ;  a  time 
for  causes  to  operate,  for  the  stir  of  action,  and  for 
the  final  results. 

The  machinery  in  motion  is  on  the  broadest 
scale  of  grandeur.  We  see  the  new  world,  young 
in  age,  but  resolute  in  youth,  lifting  up  the  arm  of 
defiance  against  the  haughtiest  power  of  the  old ; 
fleets  and  armies,  on  one  side,  crossing  .the  ocean 
in  daring  attitude  and  confiding  strength ;  on  the 
other,  men  rallying  round  the  banner  of  union, 
and  fighting  on  their  natal  soil  for  freedom,  rights, 
existence  ;  the  long  struggle  and  successful  issue  ; 
hope  confirmed,  justice  triumphant.  The  passions 
are  likewise  here  at  work,  in  all  the  changing  scenes 
of  politics  and  war,  in  the  deliberations  of  the  se 
nate,  the  popular  mind,  and  the  martial  excitements 
of  the  field.  We  have  eloquence  and  deep  thought 
in  counsel,  alertness  and  bravery  in  action,  self-sa 
crifice,  fortitude,  and  patient  suffering  of  hardships 
through  toil  and  danger  to  the  last.  If  we  search 
for  the  habiliments  of  dignity  with  which  to  clothe 
a  historical  subject,  or  the  looser  drapery  of  orna 
ment  with  which  to  embellish  a  narrative,  where 
shall  we  find  them  thronging  more  thickly,  or  in 
happier  contrasts,  than  during  this  period  1 

The  causes  of  the  revolution,  so  fertile  a  theme  of 
speculation,  are  less  definite  than  have  been  ima 
gined.  The  whole  series  of  colonial  events  was  a 
continued,  and  accumulating  cause.  The  spirit 
was  kindled  in  England ;  it  went  with  Robinson's 
congregation  to  Holland ;  it  landed  with  them  at 
Plymouth ;  it  was  the  basis  of  the  first  constitution 
of  these  sage  and  self-taught  legislators ;  it  never  left 
them  nor  their  descendants.  It  extended  to  the 
other  colonies,  where  it  met  with  a  kindred  impulse, 
was  nourished  in  every  breast,  and  became  rooted 
in  the  feelings  of  the  whole*people. 

The  revolution  was  a  change  of  forms,  but  not 
of  substance  ;  the  breaking  of  a  tie,  but  not  the 
creation  of  a  principle ;  the  establishment  of  an  in 
dependent  nation,  but  not  the  origin  of  its  intrinsic 
political  capacities.  The  foundations  of  society, 
although  unsettled  for  the  moment,  were  not  essen 
tially  disturbed  ;  its  pillars  were  shaken,  but  never 
overthrown.  The  convulsions  of  war  subsided,  and 
the  people  found  themselves,  in  their  local  relations 
and  customs,  their  immediate  privileges  and  enjoy 
ments,  just  where  they  had  been  at  the  beginning. 
The  new  forms  transferred  the  supreme  authority 
from  the  King  and  Parliament  of  Great  Britain  to 
the  hands  of  the  people.  This  was  a  gain,  but  not 
a  renovation  ;  a  security  against  future  encroach 
ments,  but  not  an  exemption  from  any  old  duty, 
nor  an  imposition  of  any  new  one,  farther  than  that 
of  being  at  the  trouble  to  govern  themselves. 

Hence  the  latent  cause  of  what  has  been  called 
a  revolution  was  the  fact,  that  the  political  spirit 
and  habits  in  America  had  waxed  into  a  shape  so 
different  from,  those  in  England,  that  it  was  no 
longer  convenient  to  regulate  them  by  the  same 
forms.  In  other  words,  the  people  had  grown  to 
be  kings,  and  chose  to  exercise  their  sovereign  pre 
rogatives  in  their  own  way.  Time  alone  would 
have  effected  the  end,  probably  without  so  violent 


an  explosion,  had  it  not  been  hastened  by  particular 
events,  which  may  be  denominated  the  proximate 
causes. 

These  took  their  rise  at  the  close  of  the  Trench 
war,  twelve  years  before  the  actual  contest  began. 
Relieved  from  future  apprehensions  of  the  French 
power  on  the  frontiers,  the  colonists  now  had  lei 
sure  to  think  of  themselves,  of  their  political  affairs, 
their  numbers,  their  united  strength.  At  this  junc 
ture,  the  most  inauspicious  possible  for  the  object  in 
view,  the  precious  device  of  taxing  the  colonies  was 
resorted  to  by  the  British  ministry,  which,  indeed, 
had  been  for  some  time  a  secret  scheme  in  the  ca 
binet,  and  had  been  recommended  by  the  same  sa 
gacious  governor  of  Virginia,  who  found  the  peo 
ple  in  such  a  republican  way  of  acting,  that  he 
could  not  manage  them  to  his  purpose. 

The  fruit  of  this  policy  was  the  Stamp  Act,  which 
has  been  considered  a  primary  cause  ;  and  it  was 
so,  in  the  same  sense  that  a  torch  is  the  cause  of  a 
conflagration,  kindling  the  flame,  but  not  creating 
the  combustible  materials.  Effects  then  became 
causes,  and  the  triumphant  opposition  to  this  tax 
was  the  case  of  its  being  renewed  on  tea  and  other 
articles,  not  so  much,  it  was  avowed,  for  the  amount 
of  revenue  it  would  yield,  as  to  vindicate  the  prin 
ciple,  that  Parliament  had  a  right  to  tax  the  colo 
nies.  The  people  resisted  the  act,  and  destroyed 
the  tea,  to  show  that  they  likewise  had  a  principle, 
for  which  they  felt  an  equal  concern. 

By  these  experiments  on  their  patience,  and 
these  struggles  to  oppose  them,  their  confidence 
was  increased,  as  the  tree  gains  strength  at  its  root, 
by  the  repeated  blasts  of  the  tempests  against  its 
branches.  From  this  time  a  mixture  of  causes 
was  at  work ;  the  pride  of  power,  the  disgrace  of 
defeat,  the  arrogance  of  office,  on  the  one  hand ; 
a  sense  of  wrong,  indignant  feeling,  an  enthusiasm 
for  liberty  on  the  other.  These  were  secondary, 
having  slight  connection  with  the  first  springs  of 
the  Revolution,  or  the  pervading  force  by  which  it 
was  kept  up,  although  important  filaments  in  the 
network  of  history. 

The  acts  of  the  Revolution  derive  dignity  and 
interest  from  the  character  of  the  actors,  and  the 
nature  and  magnitude  of  the  events.  It  has  been 
remarked,  that  in  all  great  political  revolutions, 
men  have  arisen,  possessed  of  extraordinary  en 
dowments,  adequate  to  the  exigency  of  the  time. 
It  is  true  enough,  that  such  revolutions,  or  any  re 
markable  and  continued  exertions  of  human  power, 
must  be  brought  to  pass  by  corresponding  qualities 
in  the  agents ;  but  whether  the  occasion  makes 
the  men,  or  men  the  occasion,  may  not  always  be  ' 
ascertained  with  exactness.  In  either  case,  how 
ever,  no  period  has  been  adorned  with  examples 
more  illustrious,  or  more  perfectly  adapted  to-  the 
high  destiny  awaiting  them,  than  that  of  the  Ame 
rican  Revolution. 

Statesmen  were  at  hand,  who,  if  not  skilled  in 
the  art  of  governing  empires,  were  thoroughly  im 
bued  with  the  principles  of  just  government,  inti- 
timately  acquainted  with  the  history  of  former  ages, 
and,  above  all,  with  the  condition,  sentiments,  feel 
ings  of  their  countrymen.  If  there  were  no  Riche- 


312 


JARED    SPARKS. 


lieus  nor  Mazarines,  no  Cecils  nor  Chathams,  in 
America,  there  were  men,  who,  like  Themistocles, 
knew  how  to  raise  a  small  state  to  glory  and  great 
ness. 

The  eloquence  and  the  internal  counsels  of  the 
Old  Congress  were  never  recorded  ;  we  know  them 
only  in  their  results ;  but  that  assembly,  with  no 
other  power  than  that  conferred  by  the  suffrage  of 
the  people,  with  no  other  influence  than  that  of 
their  public  virtue  and  talents,  and  without  prece 
dent  to  guide  their  deliberations,  unsupported  even 
by  the  arm  of  law  or  of  ancient  usages — that  assem 
bly  levied  troops,  imposed  taxes,  and  for  years  not 
only  retained  the  confidence  and  upheld  the  civil 
existence  of  a  distracted  country,  but  carried  through 
a  perilous  war  under  its  most  aggravating  burdens 
of  sacrifice  and  suffering.  Can  we  imagine  a  situa 
tion,  in  which  were  required  higher  moral  courage, 
more  intelligence  and  talent,  a  deeper  insight  into 
human  nature  and  the  principles  of  social  and  po 
litical  organizations,  or,  indeed,  any  of  those  quali 
ties  which  constitute  greatness  of  character  in  a 
statesman  1  See,  likewise,  that  work  of  wonder, 
the  Confederation,  a  union  of  independent  states, 
constructed  in  the  very  heart  of  a  desolating  war, 
but  with  a  beauty  and  strength,  imperfect  as  it  was, 
of  which  the  ancient  leagues  of  the  Amphictyons, 
the  Achseans,  the  Lycians,  and  the  modern  confe 
deracies  of  Germany,  Holland,  Switzerland,  afford 
neither  exemplar  nor  parallel. 

In  their  foreign  affairs  these  same  statesmen 
showed  no  less  sagacity  and  skill,  taking  their  stand 
boldly  in  the  rank  of  nations,  maintaining  it  there, 
competing  with  the  tactics  of  practised  diplomacy, 
and  extorting  from  the  powers  of  the  old  world  not 
only  the  homage  of  respect,  but  the  proffers  of 
friendship. 

The  military  events  of  the  Revolution,  which  ne 
cessarily  occupy  so  much  of  its  history,  are  riot  less 
honourable  to  the  actors,  nor  less  fruitful  in  the  evi 
dences  they  afford  of  large  design  and  ability  of  cha 
racter.  But  these  we  need  not  recount.  They 
live  in  the  memory  of  all ;  we  have  heard  them 
from  the  lips  of  those  who  saw  and  suffered ;  they 
are  inscribed  on  imperishable  monuments ;  the  very 
hills  and  plains  around  us  tell  of  achievements 
which  can  never  die ;  and  the  day  will  come,  when 
the  traveller,  who  has  gazed  and  pondered  at  Ma 
rathon  and  Waterloo,  will  linger  on  the  mount 
whure  Prescott  fought  and  Warren  fell,  and  say — 
Here  is  the  field  where  man  has  struggled  in  his 
most  daring  conflict ;  here  is  the  field  where  liberty 
poured  out  her  noblest  blood,  and  won  her  bright 
est  and  most  enduring  laurels. 

Happy  was  it  for  America,  happy  for  the  world, 
that  a  great  name,  a  guardian  genius,  presided 
over  her  destinies  in  war,  combining  more  than  the 
virtues  of  the  Roman  Fabius  and  the  Theban  Epa- 
minondas,  and  compared  with  whom,  the  conque 
rors  of  the  world,  the  Alexanders  and  Caesars,  are 
but  pageants  crimsoned  with  blood  and  decked 
with  the  trophies  of  slaughter,  objects  equally  of 
the  wonder  and  the  execration  of  mankind.  The 


hero  of  America  was  the  conqueror  only  of  his 
country's  foes,  and  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen. 
To  the  one  he  was  a  terror,  and  in  the  other  he 
gained  an  ascendency,  supreme,  unrivalled,  the  tri 
bute  of  admiring  gratitude,  the  reward  of  a  nation's 
love. 

The  American  armies,  compared  with  the  em 
battled  legions  of  the  old  world,  were  small  in 
numbers,  but  the  soul  of  a  whole  people  centred  in 
the  bosom  of  these  more  than  Spartan  bands,  and 
vibrated  quickly  and  keenly  with  every  incident 
that  befell  them,  whether  in  their  feats  of  valour,  or 
the  acuteness  of  their  sufferings.  The  country  it 
self  was  one  wide  battle-field,  in  which  not  merely 
the  life-blood,  but  the  dearest  interests,  the  sustain 
ing  hopes,  of  every  individual,  were  at  stake.  It 
was  not  a  war  of  pride  and  ambition  between  mo- 
narchs,  in  which  an  island  or  a  province  might  be 
the  award  of  success ;  it  was  a  contest  for  personal 
liberty  and  civil  rights,  coming  down  in  its  princi 
ples  to  the  very  sanctuary  of  home  and  the  fireside, 
and  determining  for  every  man  the  measure  of  re 
sponsibility  he  should  hold  over  his  own  condition, 
possessions,  and  happiness.  The  spectacle  was 
grand  and  new,  and  may  well  be  cited  as  the  most 
glowing  page  in  the  annals  of  progressive  man. 

The  instructive  lesson  of  history,  teaching  by 
example,  can  nowhere  be  studied  with  more  profit, 
or  with  a  better  promise,  than  in  this  revolutionary 
period  of  America ;  and  especially  by  us,  who  sit 
under  the  tree  our  fathers  have  planted,  enjoy  its 
shade,  and  are  nourished  by  its  fruits.  But  little  is 
our  merit,  or  gain,  that  we  applaud  their  deeds,  un 
less  we  emulate  their  virtues.  Love  of  country 
was  in  them  an  absorbing  principle,  an  undivided 
feeling ;  not  of  a  fragment,  a  section,  but  of  the 
whole  country.  Union  was  the  arch  on  which 
they  raised  the  strong  tower  of  a  nation's  indepen 
dence.  Let  the  arm  be  palsied,  that  would  loosen 
one  stone  in  the  basis  of  this  fair  structure,  or  mar 
its  beauty ;  the  tongue  mute,  that  would  dishonour 
their  names,  by  calculating  the  value  of  that  which 
they  deemed  without  price. 

They  have  left  us  an  example  already  inscribed 
in  the  world's  memory  ;  an  example  portentous 
to  the  aims  of  tyranny  in  every  land ;  an  example 
that  will  console  in  all  ages  the  drooping  aspirations 
of  oppressed  humanity.  They  have  left  us  a  writ 
ten  charter  as  a  legacy,  and  as  a  guide  to  our  course. 
But  every  day  convinces  us,  that  a  written  charter 
may  become  powerless.  Ignorance  may  misinter 
pret  it ;  ambition  may  assail  and  faction  destroy  its 
vital  parts ;  and  aspiring  knavery  may  at  last  sing 
its  requiem  on  the  tomb  of  departed  liberty.  It  is 
the  spirit  which  lives ;  in  this  are  our  safety  and 
our  hope;  the  spirit  of  our  fathers;  and  while  this 
dwells  deeply  in  our  remembrance,  and  its  flame  is 
cherished,  ever  burning,  ever  pure,  on  the  altar  of 
our  hearts  ;  while  it  incites  us  to  think  as  they  have 
thought,  and  do  as  they  have  done,  the  honour  and 
the  praise  will  be  ours,  to  have  preserved  unim 
paired  the  rich  inheritance,  which  they  so  nobly 
achieved. 


JOHN  NEAL. 


[Born  17'j  s.] 


JOHN  NEAL  was  born  in  Portland,  October 
25th,  1793.  His  parents  were  Quakers,  but 
his  father  died  while  he  was  an  infant,  and 
his  mother,  though  she  put  him  in  drab,  could 
by  no  means  instil  into  him  the  peaceable 
notions  of  which  that  colour  is  the  sign,  as 
appeared  when  he  disturbed  the  silence  of  a 
meeting  in  which  there  had  been  no  moving 
of  a  better  spirit,  by  knocking  down  a  young 
broad-rim  who  had  insulted  him.  This  was 
when  he  was  about  ten  years  of  age.  It  was 
a  bad  beginning  for  a  disciple  of  George  Fox ; 
and  he  was  probably  "  turned  out  of  meeting" 
at  once,  for  he  has  been  combating  something 
or  other  ever  since.  At  school  he  is  said  to 
have  been  most  remarkable  for  his  ingenious 
and  daring  evasions  of  the  master's  authority ; 
he  did  not  "  take  much  to  the  learning  of 
books ;"  but  in  a  dry  goods  shop,  in  which 
he  was  placed  at  twelve,  he  did  better,  and 
soon  became  master  of  the  eloquence,  arts, 
and  mysteries  of  bargaining.  He  continued 
to  be  a  salesman  or  accountant  five  or  six 
years,  in  Portland  and  Portsmouth,  and  was 
then  a  teacher  of  penmanship  and  drawing  in 
the  principal  eastern  villages,  and  at  twenty 
went  to  Boston,  and  soon  after  to  New  York, 
in  which  cities  he  was  a  clerk,  shopkeeper, 
and  speculator  in  general,  until,  having  ac 
quired  considerable  money,  he  proceeded  to 
Baltimore,  where  he  commenced  more  exten 
sive  operations,  with  John  Pierpont,  who  had 
been  educated  for  the  bar,  and  in  consequence 
of  ill-health  had  given  up  his  profession  for 
the  more  active  one  of  a  merchant.  They  esta 
blished  a  wholesale  store  in  Charleston,  and 
two  of  the  same  kind  in  Baltimore,  where 
they  also  had  a  shop  for  retailing.  They  did 
a  great  business,  until  their  failure,  which  oc 
curred  in  a  reasonable  time ;  and  then  Pier 
pont  studied  divinity  and  wrote  the  Airs  of 
Palestine,  and  Neal  studied  law,  and  wrote 
such  hooks  and  did  such  other  things  as  will 
be  hereinafter  mentioned. 

At  the  time  of  the  bursting  of  his  commer 
cial  bubbles,  Mr.  Neal  was  but  twenty-three 
years  of  age.  He  had  not  saved  a  cent,  and 

40 


was  out  of  business.  He  had  energy  and  a 
genius  for  any  thing  or  every  thing,  and  he 
must  do  something,  or  starve.  After  a  short 
deliberation  he  determined,  as  has  been  inti 
mated,  to  be  a  lawyer,  but  the  rules  of  court, 
whatever  might  be  his  knowledge,  required 
the  devotion  of  years  to  the  study  of  the  books; 
and  how  was  he  to  live  meanwhile]  He 
would  turn  author!  he  had  scarcely  any  edu 
cation,  was  ignorant  even  of  the  first  prin 
ciples  of  English  grammar,  and  had  never 
written  a  line  for  the  press  except  his  adver 
tisements  ;  but  nevertheless  he  determined  to 
be  a  scholar  and  critic,  and  do  what  no  other 
person  was  then  able  to  do  in  this  country, 
gain  a  living  by  literature. 

He  made  his  first  appearance  as  an  author 
in  a  review  of  the  works  of  Byron,  in  The 
Portico.  It  gained  him  much  reputation,  and 
he  was  immediately  engaged  as  a  regular 
contributor  to  that  then  popular  magazine. 
Within  a  month  or  two  he  became  editor  of 
the  Baltimore  Telegraph,  for  which  he  wrote 
largely  every  day  upon  whatever  was  attract 
ing  attention.  In  1817  he  published  his  first 
book,  Keep  Cool,  a  Novel,  written  in  Hot 
Weather,  which  he  himself  has  described 
characteristically  as  "a  foolish,  fiery  thing, 
with  a  good  deal  of  nature  and  originality, 
and  much  more  nonsense  and  flummery  in  it." 
About  the  same  time  he  prepared  an  index  to 
Niles'  Weekly  Register,  which  made  over 
two  hundred  and  fifty  very  closely  printed 
imperial  octavo  pages,  and  is  spoken  of  by 
Mr.  Niles  as  "  probably  the  most  laborious 
work  of  the  kind  that  ever  appeared  in  any 
country."  In  1818  he  published  The  Battle 
of  Niagara,  Goldau  the  Maniac  Harper,  and 
Other  Poems,  by  "Jehu  O'Cataract,"*  and 
Otho,  a  Tragedy,  and  in  the  following  year  he 
assisted  Dr.  Watkins  in  writing  the  History 
of  the  American  Revolution,  which  is  com- 

*This  name  was  given  to  him  by  the  members  of  a 
club  of  which  he  was  then  a  member,  and  was  charac 
teristic  of  his  impetuous  and  stormful  temperament.  In 
the  second  edition  of  his  poems,  in  which  they  were 
much  improved,  he  substituted  John  Neal  for  it,  on  the 
title-page. 


2D 


313 


314 


JOHN   NEAL. 


monly  ascribed  to  Paul  Allen.  He  had  suc 
ceeded  in  supporting  himself  very  handsomely 
by  these  literary  labours,  and  was  now  admit 
ted  to  the  bar,  and  with  flattering  prospects 
entered  upon  the  practice  of  his  profession. 

In  1822  appeared  his  second  novel,  Logan, 
a  sort  of  rhapsody,  in  two  thick  volumes, 
which  was  followed  in  the  spring  of  1823  by 
Seventy-Six,  a  work  which  showed  more  dra 
matic  method,  and  was  more  popular  than 
either  of  its  predecessors.  Within  two  or 
three  months  after,  he  published  Randolph, 
which  he  informs  us  was  written  in  thirty-six 
days,  with  an  interval  of  about  a  week  be 
tween  the  two  volumes,  in  which  he  wrote 
nothing.  A  sensation  was  made  by  the  no 
tices  which  it  contained  of  the  most  prominent 
statesmen,  orators,  authors,  artists,  and  other 
public  characters  of  the  time,  who  were  criti 
cised  in  it  with  unhesitating  freedom,  in  a  style 
peculiarly  his  own,  and  often  with  great  keen 
ness  and  discrimination.  A  sketch  of  William 
Pinkney,  in  which  that  eminent  lawyer  had 
full  justice  done  to  his  abilities  and  acquisi 
tions,  gave  offence  to  his  son,  Edward  Coate 
Pinkney,  then  a  midshipman  in  the  navy,  and 
afterward  distinguished  as  a  very  graceful  and 
elegant  poet.  Young  Pinkney  was  a  sort  of 
sentimental  Quixote,  so  sudden  in  quarrel  as 
to  be  avoided  as  much  as  possible  by  his  peace 
loving  acquaintances,  but  so  skilful  in  finding 
causes  of  feud,  that  the  most  careful  of  them 
would  not  at  any  time  have  been  surprised  by 
his  challenge.  Mr.  Neal  denied  that  he  could 
be  held  accountable  for  the  contents  of  an  anon 
ymous  and  unacknowledged  publication,  and  as 
he  had  been  for  several  months  writing  against 
the  custom  of  duelling,  would  probably  for  the 
sake  of  consistency  have  refused  under  any 
circumstances  to  fight.  On  receiving  his  an 
swer  Pinkney  posted  him  as  a  "  craven,"  and 
for  a  week  afterward  walked  two  hours  every 
day  before  his  office,  that  he  might  have  ample 
opportunities  of  taking  satisfaction  on  his  per 
son.  But  our  author,  whose  courage,  or  rash 
ness  even,  appears  not  to  have  been  doubted, 
was  preparing  a  different  revenge,  and  soon 
printed  the  correspondence,  gave  a  fac  simile 
of  the  "  posting,"  and  turned  the  whole  affair 
into  ridicule,  in  a  postscript  to  his  next  new 
novel.  This  was  Errata  or  the  Works  of  Will 
Adams,  completing  eight  stout  volumes  in  a 
single  year,  in  addition  to  his  essays  in  the 
periodicals,  and  his  labours  in  the  courts, 


which  are  said  to  have  been  quite  sufficient 
to  have  kept  on  the  rack  the  mind  of  a  com 
mon  lawyer. 

Logan  and  Seventy-Six  had  been  much 
praised,  though  less  than  his  later  novels, 
and  had  been  republished,  and  favourably  no 
ticed  by  some  of  the  reviewers  in  London. 
He  began  to  think  of  a  wider  field  of  action, 
and  had  dreams  of  a  European  reputation. 
"  I  talked  the  matter  over  with  a  friend,"  he 
says  in  a  letter  printed  in  the  London  Maga 
zine,  "  and  we  agreed  that  if  I  could  only  get 
to  London,  I  should  cut  a  figure  in  the  lite 
rary  world.  He  went  so  far,  indeed,  as  to 
say  that  I  never  should  return  to  America,  for 
my  value  would  be  known  here,  and  after  it 
was  known  would  the  people  of  this  country 
ever  think  of  parting  with  such  a  prize  ?  I 
got  up  from  the  table — I  went  to  the  fire — I 
stood  leaning  my  forehead  on  the  mantel-piece. 
'  By  the  Lord,  Harry,  then,'  said  I, '  I  will  go/ 
'Go — go  where1?'  said  he,  starting  up;  for 
he  had  hardly  thought  me  serious  before,  and 
my  eagerness  terrified  him — *  go  where  ?'  *  To 
England,'  said  I.  It  was  done.  I  made  all 
my  arrangements  before  the  sunset  on  that 
very  day ;  and  before  three  weeks  were  over, 
I  had  closed  my  affairs,  got  my  letters  ready, 
transferred  my  clients  to  a  successor  and  a 
friend,  put  a  young  lawyer  into  my  office, 
borrowed  cash  enough,  added  to  the  little  I 
had,  to  pay  my  passage  and  support  me  for  a 
few  months  here,  and  set  sail  for  England, 
satisfied  that,  happen  what  would,  if  people 
gave  any  thing  for  books  here,  they  would 
not  be  able  to  starve  me,  since  I  could  live 
upon  air,  and  write  faster  than  any  man  that 
ever  yet  lived." 

Mr.  Neal  arrived  in  Liverpool  in  January, 
1824.  He  soon  became  a  contributor  to  va 
rious  periodicals,  for  which  he  wrote,  chiefly 
under  the  guise  of  an  Englishman,  numerous 
articles  to  correct  erroneous  opinions  which 
prevailed  in  regard  to  the  social  and  political 
condition  of  the  United  States.  He  made  his 
first  appearance  in  Blackwood's  Magazine,  in 
Sketches  of  the  Five  American  Presidents 
and  the  Five  Candidates  for  the  Presidency, 
which  was  followed  by  numerous  other  pa 
pers  in  the  various  gazettes,  magazines,  and 
reviews,  and  by  a  novel  in  three  volumes  en 
titled  Brother  Jonathan. 

Jeremy  Bentham  heard  of  him  through 
some  of  his  disciples,  who  had  met  him  at  a 


JOHN   NEAL. 


315 


club,  and  invited  him  to  dinner.  The  philoso 
pher  was  pleased  with  his  original  character, 
and  soon  after  at  his  request  Mr.  Neal  removed 
to  his  house,  in  Queen's  Square,  which  was  his 
home  until  the  conclusion  of  his  residence  in 
London.  "  There,"  he  says  in  the  biography 
prefixed  to  the  translation  of  the  Principles  of 
Legislation  from  the  French  of  Dumont,  "  I 
had  a  glorious  library  at  my  elbow,  a  fine 
large  comfortable  study,  warmed  by  a  steam- 
engine,  exercise  under  ground,  society,  and 
retirement,  all  within  my  reach.  In  fact  there 
I  spent  the  happiest,  and  I  believe  the  most 
useful  days  that  I  passed  at  that  period  of  my 
life."  He  left  London  early  in  1827  for  Paris, 
and,  after  travelling  a  short  time  in  France,  re 
turned  to  the  United  States. 

He  now  established  a  weekly  miscellany 
under  the  title  of  The  Yankee,  at  Portland,  and 
soon  after  removed  to  Boston,  for  the  purpose 
of  continuing  it  in  that  city.  At  the  end  of  a 
year,  I  believe,  it  was  united  with  the  New  Eng 
land  Galaxy,  and  Mr.  Neal  then  went  back  to 
Portland. 

In  1828  he  published  Rachel  Dyer,  a  story 
of  the  days  of  Cotton  Mather ;  in  1830  Au 
thorship,  a  Tale,  by  a  New  Englander  over 
the  Sea ;  in  1831  The  Down  Eastern;  and  more 
recently  Ruth  Elder,  the  last  and  in  some  re 
spects  the  best  of  his  novels.  His  tales,  es 
says,  and  other  writings  for  periodicals  would 
fill  many  volumes. 

Of  Mr.  Neal's  poems,  I  may  repeat  what  I 
have  remarked  elsewhere.*  They  have  the 
unquestionable  stamp  of  genius.  He  pos 
sesses  imagination  in  a  degree  of  sensibility 
and  energy  hardly  surpassed  in  this  age. 
The  elements  of  poetry  are  poured  forth  in 
his  verses  with  a  prodigality  and  power  alto 
gether  astonishing.  But  he  is  deficient  in  the 
constructive  faculty.  He  has  no  just  sense 
of  proportion.  No  one  with  so  rich  and  abun 
dant  materials  had  ever  less  skill  in  using 
them.  Instead  of  bringing  the  fancy  to  adorn 
the  structures  of  the  imagination,  he  reverses 
the  poetical  law,  giving  to  the  imagination 
the  secondary  office,  so  that  the  points  illus 
trated  are  quite  forgotten  in  the  accumulation 
and  splendour  of  the  imagery.  The  "  Battle 
of  Niagara,"  with  its  rapid  and  slow,  gay  and 
solemn  movement,  falls  on  the  ear  as  if  it 
were  composed  to  martial  music.  It  is  marred, 

*  See  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America,  eighth  edition, 
page  169. 


however,  by  his  customary  faults.  The  isth 
mus  which  bounds  the  beautiful  is  as  narrow 
as  that  upon  the  borders  of  the  sublime,  and 
he  crosses  both  without  hesitation.  Passages 
in  it  would  be  magnificent  but  for  lines  or 
single  words  which,  if  the  reader  were  not 
confident  that  he  had  before  him  the  author's 
own  edition,  he  would  think  had  been  thrown 
in  by  some  burlesquing  enemy. 

Of  his  novels  it  may  be  said  that  they  con 
tain  many  interesting  and  some  striking  and 
brilliant  passages — filling  enough,  for  books 
of  their  sort,  but  rarely  any  plot  to  serve  for 
warp.  They  are  original,  written  from  the 
impulses  of  the  author's  heart,  and  pervaded 
by  the  peculiarities  of  his  character ;  but  most 
of  them  were  produced  rapidly  and  carelessly, 
and  are  without  unity,  aim,  or  continuous  in 
terest.  The  best  of  them  would  be  much  im 
proved  by  a  judicious  distribution  of  points, 
and  the  erasure  of  tasteless  extravagancies. 

Dean  Swift,  in  the  preface  to  the  Tale  of  a 
Tub,  assures  us  that  where  sentences  are  unfin 
ished,  "  there  is  some  design  in  it ;"  but  all 
Mr.  Neal's  letter-writers,  whatever  their  cha 
racter,  condition,  or  sex,  and  most  of  his  col- 
loquists,  fall  into  this  habit,  whenever  they 
get  upon  stilts,  and  are  unable  to  reach  a 
period. 

He  finds  fault,  with  good  reason,  with  those 
who  have  attempted  to  delineate  New  Eng 
land  character;  but  though  he  has  avoided 
some  common  defects  he  can  scarcely  be  said 
to  have  succeeded  better  than  his  contempora 
ries.  His  sketches  are  caricatures,  but  have 
so  much  of  nature  as  to  be  easily  enough  re 
cognised. 

It  is  common  to  speak  of  Mr.  Neal  as  an 
American  author  par  excellence ;  buthis  claims 
to  such  distinction,  like' those  of  many  others, 
are  chiefly  of  a  negative  character. 

We  rise  from  the  perusal  of  his  works  with  a 
feeling  of  regret  at  the  waste  of  talents,  which 
might,  under  a  just  direction  and  steady  appli 
cation,  have  gained  enduring  honour  for  their 
possessor  and  his  country. 

Mr.  Neal  continues  to  reside  in  Portland. 
His  youth  was  passed  in  tumult  and  adven 
ture,  and  he  waits  the  approach  of  age  in  in 
dependence  and  ease,  a  model  in  his  relations 
as  a  man  and  as  a  citizen. 

He  published,  in  1869,  Wandering  Recollec 
tions  of  a  Somewhat  Busy  Life.  A  rambling 
autobiography,  detailing  his  many  experiences, 
literary  and  otherwise. 


316 


JOHN   NEAL. 


A  SURPRISE. 

FROM    LOGAN. 

ONE  day,  while  the  middle  colonies  were  agitated 
to  distraction  by  the  increasing  inroads  and  mas 
sacres  of  the  warlike  and  exasperated  Indians; 
when  every  thing  had  been  attempted  that  human 
wisdom  could  suggest  to  conciliate  them ;  and  just 
at  the  time  when  the  existence  of  a  formidable 
and  threatening  confederacy  between  all  the  most 
powerful  tribes  in  America  was  becoming  every 
day  more  and  more  probable;  when  every  hour 
was  bringing  to  light  and  concentrating  the  scat 
tered  proof  that  something  tremendous  was  in  con 
templation — inscrutable  and  inevitable ;  some  un 
imaginable  but  overwhelming  evil  maturing  in  the 
portentous  tranquillity  of  many  nations  who  from 
being  hereditary  and  mortal  foes  were  now  hold 
ing  their  midnight  councils  in  the  deepest  and 
most  unfathomable  recesses  of  the  country — in  the 
lone  cavern,  on  the  high  mountain  top,  by  the 
shores  of  the  cold  lake;  while  all  was  consterna 
tion  and  dismay  from  uncertainty  concerning  the 
manner  and  time  of  the  mysterious  calamity  that 
seemed  thickening  about  them ;  when  council  after 
council  had  been  summoned  and  dismissed  by  the 
white  settlers  without  coming  to  any  satisfactory 
determination ;  while  the  uninterrupted  and  use 
less  expenditure  of  warlike  stores,  at  all  times  dan 
gerous  to  the  whites,  had  been  unwisely  augmented 
in  the  hope  of  buying  the  forbearance  of  the  In 
dians,  till  the  blindest  and  weakest  were  shuddering 
at  the  consequences  of  their  pusillanimity  and 
shortsightedness;  while  the  savages  grew  every 
day  more  familiar  with  the  timidity  and  disorder  of 
the  whites;  carefully  evading  all  interrogations 
and  baffling  all  conjecture  by  their  sullen,  shrewd, 
and  obstinate  silence ;  and  nothing  seemed  left  to 
the  scattered  and  trembling  colonists  but  to  muster 
themselves,  every  man  of  them  capable  of  wield 
ing  a  tomahawk,  for  a  war  of  extermination — to 
concentrate  their  power,  leave  their  firesides  unde 
fended  for  a  time,  and  hunt  their  wily  and  terrible 

enemy  back  to  his  most  secret  hiding-places 

just  at  this  time — it  was  midnight — another  coun 
cil  board  had  just  been  dismissed — there  stood, 
without  being  announced,  without  preparation,  be 
fore  the  governor  of  the  colony,  in  his  very  pre 
sence  chamber  too,  a  man  of  gigantic  stature,  in 
the  garb  of  an  Indian. 

The  governor  was  leaning  his  face  upon  his 
hands.  His  thin  gray  locks  were  blowing  about 
his  fingers,  in  the  strong  night  wind,  from  an  open 
window  that  looked  toward  the  town.  That  he 
was  in  some  profound  and  agitating  inquiry  with 
himself,  could  be  seen  by  the  movement  of  the 
swollen  veins  upon  his  forehead,  distended  and 
throbbing  visibly  under  the  pressure  of  his  aged 
fingers.  ...  It  would  have  made  the  heart  of  such 
a  being  as  Michael  Angelo  himself  swell  to  study 
the  head  of  the  old  man :  the  capacity  and  ampli 
tude  of  the  brow ;  the  scattered  and  beautiful  white, 
thin  locks  of  threaded  silver;  the  trembling  hands; 
the  occasional  movement  of  a  troubled  expression, 
almost  articulate,  over  the  established  serenity  of 


the  forehead :  all  so  venerable,  placid,  and  awful, 
as  in  the  confirmed  discipline  and  habit  of  many 
years,  and  all  yielding  now  to  the  convulsive  en 
croachment  of  emotion.  .  .  . 

The  stranger  contemplated  the  picture  in  silence. 
He  was  greatly  wrought  upon  by  the  aged  pre 
sence,  and  felt  perhaps  somewhat  as  the  profaning 
Gaul  did  when  he  saw  what  he  took  to  be  the 
GODS  of  ROME — her  old  men  sitting  immovably  in 
their  chairs. 

The  governor  at  length,  like  one  who  is  deter 
mined,  resolved,  and  impatient  for  action,  lifted 
his  head,  smote  the  table  heavily  with  his  arm,  and 

was  rising  from  his  seat why  that  pause  ? — he 

gasps  for  breath — can  it  be — can  the  proportions, 
the  mere  outline  of  humanity  so  disturb  a  man,  an 
aged  man,  familiar  for  half  a  century  with  danger 
and  death  ] 

He  fell  back  upon  his  .chair  and  locked  his 
hands  upon  his  heart, as  if— for  it  grew  audible  in 
its  hollow  palpitations — as  if  to  stifle  its  irregu 
larity  for  ever,  if  he  could,  even  though  he  were 
suffocated  in  the  effort,  rather  than  betray  the  un 
manly  infirmity — a  disobedient  pulse.  He  gazed 
steadily  upon  the  being  before  him,  but  with  an 
expression  of  doubt  and  horror,  like  that  with 
which  the  prophet  dwelt  upon  the  sheeted  Samuel, 
as  doubting  the  evidence  of  his  own  eyes,  yet  dar 
ing  not  to  withdraw  them,  though  the  cold  icy 
sweat  started  from  the  very  ends  of  his  fingers  lest 
something  yet  more  terrible  might  appear. 

The  Indian  stood  before  him  like  an  apparition. 
His  attitude  was  not  entirely  natural,  nor  perhaps 
entirely  unstudied.  He  stood  motionless  and  ap 
palling  ;  the  bleak,  barren,  and  iron  aspect  of  a 
man,  from  head  to  foot  strong  and  sinewed  with 
desperation,  and  hardened  in  the  blood  and  sweat 
of  calamity  and  trial.  He  stood,  with  somewhat 
of  high  and  princely  carriage,  like  the  fighting 
gladiator,  but  more  erect  and  less  threatening, 
more  prepared  and  collected.  Indeed  it  was  the 
gladiator  still — but  the  gladiator  in  defence  rather 
than  attack. 

The  governor  was  brave,  but  who  would  not 
have  quaked  at  such  a  moment  ?  To  awake,  no 
matter  how,  when  the  faculties,  or  the  body  and 
limbs  are  asleep,  in  a  dim  light,  alone,  helpless, 
and  to  find  a  man  at  your  side,  an  Indian  ! — it 
would  shake  the  nerves,  ay,  and  the  constitution 
too,  of  the  bravest  man  that  ever  buckled  a  sword 
upon  his  thigh. 

"  Great  God  !"  articulated  he  at  last,  in  the  voice 
of  one  suffocating  and  gasping — "  Great  God ! 
what  art  thou  1  speak  !" 

No  answer  was  returned — no  motion  of  head 
or  hand. 

The  governor's  terror  increased,  but  it  was  evi 
dently  of  a  different  kind  now,  the  first  shock  of 
surprise  having  passed — «  Speak  !"  he  added  in  a 
tone  of  command — "  speak !  how  were  you  ad 
mitted  ?  and  for  what  T' 

A  scornful  writhing  of  the  lip;  a  sullen,  deadly 
smile,  as  in  derision,  when  the  bitterness  of  the 
heart  rises  and  is  tasted,  was  the  prelude  to  his 
answer.  The  Indian  was  agitated — but  the  agita- 


JOHN    NEAL. 


317 


tion  passed  off  like  the  vibration  of  molten  iron 
when  it  trembles  for  the  last  time  before  it  be 
comes  solid  for  ever.  Then  he  smiled.  .  .  . 

"  Hell  and  furies  !  who  are  you  1  what  are  you  1 
whence  are  you  ]  what  your  purpose  ?"  .  .  . 

The  Indian  slowly  unwrapped  his  blanket,  and 
then  as  slowly,  in  barbarous  dalliance  with  the 
terrors  of  the  palsied  old  man,  extended  a  bayonet 
toward  him  reeking  with  blood. 

The  governor  was  silent.  It  was  a  fearful  mo 
ment.  His  paroxysm  appeared  to  abate  at  his 
will  now — and  by  his  manner  it  would  appear 
that  some  master-thought  had  suddenly  risen  in 
its  dominion,  and  bound  hand  and  foot  all  the  re 
bellious  and  warring  passions  of  his  nature.  Did 
he  hope  for  succour  1  or  did  he  look,  by  gaining 
time,  to  some  indefinite  advantage  by  negotiation  1 
It  would  be  difficult  to  tell.  But  however  it  might 
be,  his  deportment  became  more  worthy  of  him, 
more  lofty,  collected,  imposing,  and  determined. . . . 
In  desperate  emergencies  our  souls  grow  calm, 
and  a  power  is  given  to  them  to  gaze,  as  dying 
men  will  sometimes,  upon  the  shoreless  void  be 
fore  them  with  preternatural  composure.  Here 
was  an  enemy,  and  one,  of  all  enemies  the  most 
terrible,  dripping  with  recent  slaughter,  and  so 
situated  that  he  could  not  escape  but  by  dipping 
his  hands  anew  in  blood. 

The  governor  dared  not  to  call  out,  and  dreaded, 
as  the  signal  of  his  own  death,  the  sound  of  any 
approaching  footstep.  To  get  there,  where  he  was, 
the  Indian  must  have  come,  willing  and  prepared 
for,  and  expecting  certain  death;  of  what  avail  then 
the  whole  force  of  the  government  household  1 . . . 

There  was  a  sword  near  the  governor ;  he  re 
collected  having  unbuckled  it,  and  thrown  it  aside 
as  he  came  in  from  exercising  a  troop  of  horse 
but  a  few  hours  before  the  council  had  assembled. 
"  It  was  in  a  chair  behind  me,"  thought  he,  and 
"  perhaps  is  there  yet" — But  how  should  he  dis 
cover  whether  it  was  or  not  ]  He  dares  not  shift 
his  eye  for  a  single  instant  from  the  Indian.  But 
might  he  not  amuse  him  for  a  moment,  and  grope 
for  it  without  being  perceived  ]  How  bravely  the 
old  man's  spirit  mounted  in  the  endeavour ! 

He  made  the  search;  but  his  implacable  foe, 
like  one  that  delights  in  toying  and  trifling  with, 
and  mocking  his  victim,  permitted  the  eager  and 
trembling  hand  but  to  touch  the  hilt,  not  to  grasp 
it — that  were  not  so  prudent.  .  .  .  The  moment, 
therefore,  that  the  searching  fingers  approached 
the  hilt,  the  blanket  fell  from  the  shoulders  of  the 
Indian,  and  the  bloody  bayonet  gleamed  suddenly 
athwart  the  ceiling  and  flashed  in  the  governor's 
eyes.  The  hand  was  withdrawn,  as  if  smitten 
with  electricity,  from  the  distant  sword;  all  de 
fence  and  hope  forgotten,  and  he  locked  his  thin 
hands  upon  his  bosom,  bowed  his  head  to  the  ex 
pected  sacrifice,  and  fell  upon  his  knees. 

The  countenance  of  the  Indian  could  not  be 
seen,  but  his  solid  proportions,  like  a  block  of  sha 
dow,  could  be  distinguished  in  the  uncertain  light 
of  the  distant  and  dying  lamps  suspended  from  the 
ceiling — a  bold,  great  outline,  and  sublime  bearing, 
the  more  awful  for  their  indistinctness ;  the  more 


appalling  as  they  resembled  those  of  a  colossal 
shadow  only.  .  .  . 

At  this  instant,  a  red  light  flashed  across  the 
court-yard,  and  streaming  through  the  open  win 
dow,  touched  the  countenance  of  the  Indian,  and 
passed  off  like  the  reflection  of  crimson  drapery, 
suddenly  illuminated  by  lightning;  voices  were 
heard  in  a  distant  building,  and  iron  hoofs  rattled 
over  the  broad  flag-stones  of  the  far  gateway.  A 
few  brief  words  were  interchanged,  and  a  shot  was 
fired ;  the  Indian's  hand  was  upon  the  bayonet 
again,  but  the  sounds  passed  away  ;  .  .  .  and  the 
prostrate  governor,  who  had  kept  an  anxious  eye 
upon  the  heavy  doors  of  the  hall,  expecting,  yet 
scarcely  daring  to  pray  for  an  approaching  step, 
was  beginning  to  yield  anew  to  his  terrible  fate — 
when  another  step  was  heard,  and  a  hand  was 
laid  upon  the  lock.  The  rattling  of  military  ac 
coutrements  was  heard,  as  the  guard  stepped  aside 
and  gave  a  countersign  to  some  one  approaching; 
and  then  a  brief  and  stern  echo,  in  the  tone  of  un 
qualified  authority,  rang  along  the  vaulted  stair 
case,  and  the  word  pass  !  was  heard.  i 

Yes,  yes !  a  hand  was  now  upon  the  lock !  The 
light  in  the  apartment  streamed  fitfully  up  for  a 
moment,  and  flared  in  the  breeze  from  the  win 
dow,  so  as  to  fill  the  whole  room  with  shifting 
shadows. 

The  Indian  motioned  impatiently  with  his  hand 
toward  the  door,  and  the  governor,  while  his  heart 
sank  within  him,  arose  on  his  feet  and  prepared 
to  repel  the  intruder,  whoever  he  might  be — bu* 
he  could  not  speak — his  voice  had  gone — 

The  door  was  yielding  to  the  hurried  attempts 
of  some  one  fumbling  about  for  the  lock ; — and 
voices,  in  clamorous  dispute,  were  heard  ap 
proaching. 

The  governor  tried  again — "  Begone !  begone  ! 
for  God's  sake  !"  he  cried,  mingling  the  tone  of 
habitual  command  with  that  of  entreaty,  and  then 
recovering  himself,  with  a  feeling  of  shame  added, 
in  his  most  natural  and  assured  manner,  "  Begone, 
whoever  you  are,  begone  !" 

The  noise  ceased.  The  hand  was  withdrawn  ; 
and  step  by  step,  with  the  solid  and  prompt  tread 
of  a  strong  man,  a  soldier,  in  his  youth,  and  accus 
tomed  to  obedience,  the  intruder  was  heard  de 
scending. 

There  was  another  long  silence,  which  each 
seemed  unwilling  to  interrupt,  while  each  num 
bered  the  departing  footfalls.  The  chamber  grew 
dark.  It  was  impossible  longer  to  distinguish  ob 
jects.  A  low  conference  was  held  between  the 
two.  Tones  of  angry  remonstrance,  horror — 
threats — defiance — suppressed  anguish — and  then 
all  was  silent  again  as  the  house  of  death. 

The  governor  spoke  again — in  a  whisper  at  first, 
and  then  louder — a  slight  motion  was  heard  near 
him — and  he  raised  his  voice.  In  vain,  and  the 
mysterious  and  death-like  silence,  he  found  mo:e 
insupportable  than  all  that  he  had  yet  endured. 
Where  was  his  foe  at  that  instant] — how  err- 
ployed  1 — ready  perhaps  to  strike  the  bayonet 
through  and  through  his  heart  at  the  very  next 
breath!  He  could  not  endure  it — no  mortal 
2D2 


318 


JOHN    NEAL. 


could — he  uttered  a  loud  cry,  and  fell  upon  his 
face  in  convulsions.  .  .  . 

In  the  morning,  just  as  the  dappled  east  began 
to  redden  with  the  new  daylight,  after  a  night  of 
feverish  and  wild  dreaming,  the  good  old  governor 
awoke  exceedingly  refreshed,  and  lay  with  his 
eyes  shut,  revolving  the  mysterious  adventure  of 
the  preceding  night  in  his  mind.  It  was  all  in 
vain.  He  could  remember  nothing  distinctly. 
That  an  apparition  had  been  before  him;  that, 
somehow  or  other  he  had  been  engaged  in  mortal 
strife,  he  had  a  kind  of  dim  and  wavering,  sha 
dowy  and  uncertain  recollection,  but  all  else,  with 
whom,  and  where,  had  been  held  the  battle — all ! 
— was  gone,  in  the  terror  of  the  interview,  and  the 
long  insensibility  and  agitation  that  succeeded. 
What  he  had  dreamed  appeared  reality ;  and  the 
real,  as  he  strove  in  vain  to  recall  the  particular 
features,  took  the  fantastic  and  shifting  proportions 
of  a  dream. 

The  effort  grew  painful  to  him.  He  became 
weary  with  the  intensity  of  his  own  reminiscence, 
and|Was  fast  relapsing  again  into  a  disturbed  and 
broken  slumber,  half-conscious  that  it  was  better 
for  him  to  sleep,  and  half-yielding  to  the  delicious 
influence  of  such  consciousness,  and  yet  occasion 
ally  starting  and  grasping  with  a  sudden  and  con 
vulsive  hand  whatever  happened  to  be  nearest 
him,  like  one  that,  overcome  by  drowsiness  upon 
a  precipice,  partially  yields  to  it,  grappling  at  the 
weeds  and  grass,  and  starts  and  shrieks  as  he  feels 
his  hold  relaxing,  and  dreams  that  he  is  falling. 


POETRY. 

FROM  RANDOLPH. 

POETRY  is  the  naked  expression  of  power  and 
eloquence.  But  for  many  hundred  years  poetry 
has  been  confounded  with  false  music,  measure, 
and  cadence;  the  soul  with  the  body,  the  thought 
with  the  language,  the  manner  of  speaking  with 
the  mode  of  thinking.  The  secondary  qualities  of 
poetry  have  been  mistaken  for  the  primary  ones. 

What  I  call  poetry  has  nothing  to  do  with  art 
or  learning.  It  is  a  natural  music — the  music  of 
woods  and  waters ;  not  that  of  the^prchestra.  It 
is  a  fine  volatile  essence,  which  cannot  be  extin 
guished  or  confined  while  there  is  one  drop  of 
blood  in  the  human  heart,  or  any  sense  of  Al 
mighty  God  among  the  children  of  men.  I  do 
not  mean  this  irreverently — I  mean  precisely  what 
I  say — that  poetry  is  a  religion  as  well  as  a  music. 
Nay,  it  is  eloquence.  It  is  whatever  affects,  touches, 
or  disturbs  the  animal  or  moral  sense  of  man.  I 
care  not  how  poetry  may  be  expressed,  nor  in  what 
language,  it  is  still  poetry ;  as  the  melody  of  the 
waters,  wherever  they  may  run,  in  the  desert  or 
the  wilderness,  among  the  rocks  or  the  grass,  will 
always  be  melody.  It  is  not  artificial  music,  the 
music  of  the  head,  of  learning,  or  of  science,  but  it 
is  one  continual  voluntary  of  the  heart ;  to  be 
heard  everywhere,  at  all  times,  by  day  and  by 
night,  whenever  men  will  stay  their  hands,  for  a 


moment,  or  lift  up  their  heads  and  listen.  It  is 
not  the  composition  of  a  master ;  the  language  of 
art,  painfully  and  entirely  exact ;  but  is  the  wild, 
capricious  melody  of  nature,  pathetic  or  brilliant, 
like  the  roundelay  of  innumerable  birds  whistling 
all  about  you,  in  the  wind  and  water,  sky  and  air; 
or  the  coquetting  of  a  river  breeze  over  the  fine 
strings  of  an  Eolian  harp,  concealed  among  green 
leaves  and  apple  blossoms. 

All  men  talk  poetry  at  some  time  or  other  in 
their  lives ;  even  the  most  reasonable,  cold-hearted, 
mathematical,  and  phlegmatic ;  but  most  of  them 
without  knowing  it;  and  women  yet  more  fre 
quently  than  men :  and  young  children  too  talk  it 
perpetually,  when  alarmed  or  delighted.  Yet 
they  never  talk  in  rhyme ;  nay,  nor  in  blank  verse. 
Even  the  writers  of  tragedy — the  most  perverse  of 
God's  creatures — do  now  and  then  stumble  upon 
this  truth — for  in  all  their  passionate  and  deepest 
passages  they  do  all  that  they  can  to  get  rid  of 
the  foolish  restraint  of  rhythm.  And  when  they 
do  not,  they  are,  to  the  full,  as  absurd  as  the  opera- 
singer,  who  murders  and  makes  love  by  the  gamut. 

Poetry,  too,  is  the  natural  language  of  the  hu 
man  heart — its  mother-tongue ;  and  is  just  as  natu 
rally  resorted  to,  on  any  emergency  or  distress,  by 
the  devout,  the  terrified,  the  affectionate,  the  ten 
der-hearted,  and  the  loving ;  the  widowed  and  the 
afflicted,  as  a  man's  native  tongue  is,  when,  after 
having  been  a  great  while  among  strangers,  where 
he  has  learned  a  strange  language,  g'ood  enough 
for  all  the  common  purposes  of  life,  he  is  called 
upon  by  some  signal  and  unexpected  calamity  to 
pray  aloud,  or  to  cry  out  with  a  broken  and  bowed 
spirit  or  a  crushed  heart.  Instantly  that  a  man 
overleaps  all  time  and  space,  and  falls  down  be 
fore  the  woman  he>  loves,  or  his  Maker,  with  the 
very  language  that  his  mother  taught  him,  when 
he  fell  upon  his  little  knees  and  lisped  the  dictated 
prayer  after  her,  syllable  by  syllable.  Just  so  it  is 
with  poetry.  Prose  will  do  for  common  people, 
or  for  all  the  common  occasions  of  life  even  with 
uncommon  people.  We  cannot  drive  a  better  bar 
gain  or  make  a  better  argument  in  poetry  than 
in  prose.  .  .  . 

I  speak  of  this  matter  freely  and  boldly,  because 
I  know  that  I  am  competent  to  speak  of  it — and 
fully  authorized  to  bear  witness  against  the  mis 
chievous  and  perverted  tendencies  of  poetical 
thought,  when  it  is  put,  like  a  beautiful  child  or  a 
strong  giant,  into  shackles  and  gyves,  hand-cuffs 
and  pinions.  Some  men  affect  to  talk  about  it 
and  to  give  rule  for  it  who  never  had  a  poetical 
idea  in  their  heads.  Fools !  they  might  as  well 
learn  eloquence  from  an  automaton,  or  swimming 
by  seeing  other  people  swim,  as  how  to  make  po 
etry  by  reading  and  studying  the  great  masters, 
and  listening  to  the  jackasses  who  are  called  critics, 
not  one  in  a  million  of  whom  ever  was  or  ever  will 
be  a  poet.  Why  1  because  if  a  man  be  a  poet,  he 
will  lack,  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  times  out  of 
a  thousand,  either  the  judgment  or  the  moral  cou 
rage  or  the  honesty  to  criticise  boldly,  and  to  speak 
of  poetry  as  it  deserves ;  and  more  than  that,  if  he 
be  a  poet  he  will  be  above  the  practice  of  criticism. 


JOHN   NEAL. 


319 


My  notion,  in  one  word,  is  that  poetry  is  the  na 
tural  language  of  every  human  heart  when  it  is 
roused,  or  inflamed,  or  agitated,  or  affected :  and 
that  prose,  on  the  contrary,  is  the  natural  language 
of  every  human  heart  on  all  other  occasions ;  and 
that  rhyme,  or  blank  verse,  or  regular  rhythm,  is 
altogether  as  artificial,  unnatural,  and  preposterous 
a  mode  of  expression  for  the  true  poet  as  the  use 
of  a  foreign  idiom  or  foreign  phrase  is  to  the  true 
home-bred  man.  The  Romans  affected  to  talk 
Greek,  the  Germans  do  talk  French,  as  if  they  were 
ashamed  of  their  mother  languages;  and  so  do 
poets  talk  in  rhyme  or  blank  verse ;  but  let  them 
all  talk  ever  so  beautifully,  one  can  always  disco 
ver  that  it  is  not  natural  to  either  of  them.  .  .  . 

To  put  this  in  another  light,  one  example  will 
do  more  than  a  volume  of  abstract  reasoning. 
Could  you  possibly  hold  out  to  read  any  poem  by 
the  greatest  poet  that  ever  lived  which  should  con 
tain  as  many  words  as  one  of  the  Waverly  novels'? 
It  would  be  about  five  or  six  times  as  long  as  Pa 
radise  Lost.  If  it  were  the  best  of  poetry  would 
you  not  get  the  sooner  tired  of  it]  Assuredly. 
In  the  confusion  of  such  a  beautiful  and  confound 
ing  exhibition  of  power  and  brightness  your  senses 
would  lose  all  their  activity ;  they  would  reel  un 
der  it,  and  retain  no  distinct  impression  at  all.  It 
would  be  like  seeing  a  multitude  of  beautiful  wo 
men  at  the  same  moment,  in  a  place  crowded  with 
august  personages,  innumerable  pictures,  statuary, 
delicious  music,  and  fire-works.  What  would  you 
remember  of  the  whole  ] nothing. 


THE  DUEL. 

FROM    ERRATA. 

« I  PROMISED  to  tell  you,"  said  Hammond,  slowly, 
after  a  silence  of  half  an  hour,  during  which  we 
had  set  together  in  his  chamber  till  it  had  grown 
so  dark  that  we  could  not  see  each  other's  faces : 
and  just  then  the  door  suddenly  opened.  A  man 
entered  and  began  stirring  the  fire.  "  Leave  it," 
said  Hammond,  "  begone  and  leave  it." 

"  Shall  I  bring  a  light,  sir  ]"  said  the  servant. . . . 
"  No — begone." 

"  No  light !"  said  I,  involuntarily.  "  No  light !" 
echoed  Hammond.  «  Are  you  afraid  of  the  dark  1 " 

I  know  not  what  I  was  afraid  of;  but  I  confess 
that  I  did  not  much  like  the  opening  of  the  story. 
Was  he  afraid  to  let  me  see  his  face  while  he  told 
it  1  '  I  was  very  silent,  and  he  began. 

"  I  promised  to  tell  you,"  said  he  in  a  voice  so 
deep  and  sepulchral  that  I  should  not  have  known 
it  had  I  heard  it  in  another  place ;  and  then  he 
stopped.  I  waited  some  minutes,  oppressed  with 
an  unaccountable  sensation,  to  hear  it  again ;  and 
at  last  his  breathing  had  become  so  loud  as  to 
alarm  me.  "  Hammond,"  said  I,  going  to  him 
and  4aying  my  hand  upon  his  head,  "  dear  Ham 
mond,  speak  to  me.  What  ails  you  1  what  has 
happened  ]" 

He  tore  away  his  locked  fingers  from  his  fore 
head,  sprung  upon  his  feet  with  a  cry  of  horror, 


and  pressed  my  hands  to  his  heart,  as  if  he  would 
crush  them  bone  and  joint.  I  could  hardly  sup 
press  a  shriek — and  I  observed  that  his  palms  were 
wet,  as  if  he  liad  been  weeping.  What !  the  dwarf 
weeping!  Hammond,  the  dwarf,  said  I  to  myself; 
O,  no — it  is  only  sweat,  or  blood !  it  cannot  be 
tears. 

«  Hammond  !"  I  said  again  to  him,  as  I  really 
felt,  affectionately. 

He  attempted  to  rise,  staggered  and  fell  back 
into  his  seat.  "  What !  what !  was  it  only  you, 
William'?"  said  he,  "only  you.  Give  me  your 
hand — here  !  here  !  (placing  it  upon  his  temples 
among  the  damp  hair,)  do  you  feel  any  moisture 
there]" 

"  Yes — the  flesh  is  wet,  and  the  hair  saturated." 

"  Locks  of  the  raven,  hoy,  locks  of  the  raven  ! 
black  and  glossy  as  her  wing ;  yet,  William  Adams, 
they  have  been  touched — there  are  gray  spots  upon 
them — ha!  ha!"  He  was  choking.  "Gray  spots, 
my  boy  ;  in  the  form  too  of  a  human  hand  !" 

I  shuddered  at  his  voice ;  and  I  remembered  a 
strange  appearance  upon  one  side  of  his  head, 
where  there  were  several  gray  locks  lying  amid 
the  jet  black  hair.  "  How  happened  it]"  said  I, 
with  a  feeling  of  mysterious  gloom  that  I  cannot 
describe. 

"Happened  it!  He  came  to  my  bedside  at 
night  and  stood  there;  and  put  his  cold  hand  de 
liberately  upon  my  head ;  and  all  the  moisture  of 
my  brain  fled  from  the  pressure.  I  awoke,  and 
the  feeling  of  the  hand,  as  of  cold  iron,  was  there 
yet — and — damn  it,  how  your  teeth  chatter — what 
'are  you  afraid  of]  Have  you  blood  upon  your 
hands  ]  For  shame — for  shame.  Look  at  me — 
you  see  how  I  bear  it.  I  went  to  bed  with  locks 
black,  .  .  .  black  as  death.  I  arose  the  next  day 
with  gray  hair  upon  my  temples — I " 

I  remembered  now  that  Elizabeth  had  told  me 
never  to  speak  of  that  appearance :  and,  dark  as 
it  was,  I  fancied  that  I  could  see  the  livid  hand  of 
the  spectre  there  yet,  like  an  impression  upon  wax. 

"  It  was  not  grief,  nor  sorrow,  nor  old  age  that 
did  it,"  said  the  dwarf,  almost  inarticulate,  and 
sobbing  while  he  spoke  ;  "  no,  no !  but  he  came 
to  me  in  my  sleep  and  hooped  my  heart  round, 
and  my  temples,  with  rough  iron,  till  I  feared  to 
breathe,  lest  I  should  be  lacerated.  I  knew  it  all 
— saw  it  all — the  whole  process,  through  my  shut 
eyelids ;  and  on  the  morning,  when  I  awoke,  I 
was  an  old  man.".  .  . 

His  voice — it  was  like  something  martial  and 
alarming  when  he  began,  but  when  he  ended  it 
was  the  mournful,  sweet,  melancholy  wailing  of 
a  fond  heart  broken.  ...  I  was  willing  to  turn  off 
his  thought  from  the  affliction.  .  .  . 

"  Presently,"  said  he,  "  presently.  Let  us  talk 
of  something  else  awhile.  Only  one  thing  upon 
this  earth  can  disturb  me — talk  to  me — say  some 
thing — any  thing — talk !  will  you  7" 

"  You  are  disordered,  Hammond,"  said  I.  "  You 
have  studied  till  your  nerves  are  all  vibrating  with 
over  tension." 

"  Oh,  no — no,  you  are  mistaken.  My  time  of 
hard  study  has  gone  by.". .  . 


320 


JOHN    NEAL. 


"  I  am  sure,  my  dear  Hammond,"  said  I,  deeply 
affected  at  his  manner — it  was  so  like  one  trying 
to  drive  away  sorrow  and  madness  by  an  affected 
hilarity — "  that  you  are  nervous  from  excessive 
application." 

"  No,  no,  I  am  not.  Nervous  !  Albert  Ham 
mond  nervous !  No,  no,  it  is  something  worse  than 
that ;  but  talk — talk — as  fast  as  you  can — my  blood 
is  curdling — come  nearer — yes,  yes — hush !  do 
you  hear  nothing  1  Ah  !  what  is  that  1  There  ! 
there  !  Hush !  I  told  you  so — now  you  will  be 
lieve  me  !  Hush  !  hush !" 

As  h«  said  this,  he  leaped  upright,  and  I — I 
knew  not  where  I  was — I  felt  all  the  childish  ter 
ror  of  a  nursery.  "  Hammond !"  said  I,  feigning 
to  be  indignant,  while  in  truth  I  was  frightened, 
"  Come  back !  come  back,  and  let  us  reason  toge 
ther  like  men.  What  is  this  ?" 

"  What !  did  he  not  touch  you  1  didn't  you  feel 
the  hand?" 

Some  minutes  passed  before  I  could  prevail  upon 
him  to  sit  down.  I  stirred  the  fire  then,  and  his 
countenance,  in  the  red  flashing  of  the  embers, 
when  the  disturbed  sparks  rushed  like  a  torrent  of 
fire  up  the  chimney,  was  frightful  and  appalling. 
Had  the  devil  himself  been  there,  he  could  not 
have  set  more  naturally  upon  his  haunches,  or 
looked  through  his  huge  knotted  fingers  with  more 
fiery  and  troubled  eyes.  .  .  . 

"  They  had  all  toasted  their  women,"  said  Ham 
mond,  abruptly  ..."  all ! — and  then  he — he — he 
uttered  the  name  of  Elizabeth.  The  name  thrilled 
through  me.  They  all  drank  it  standing.  'Eli 
zabeth  !'  echoed  through  the  whole  room.  I  covered 
my  ears,  with  a  feeling  of  profanation.  But  that 
was  nothing — nothing!  <  Elizabeth  who  ?'  cried 
one ;  '  Aye,'  cried  another ;  <  let  us  have  it.' 

"«  Elizabeth  .Mums,''  answered  the  madman,  in 
a  loud  voice,  throwing  off  another  bumper,  which 
was  followed  by  the  whole  company.  Your  blood 
boils,  I  see,  William  Adams,  to  hear  me  tell  it; 
judge  then  what  I  felt  to  hear  her  blessed  name 
uttered  by  such  a  man,  in  such  a  company,  asso 
ciated  with  the  lewd  and  blaspheming.  I  stood 
thunderstruck  for  a  moment,  and  then  tried  two 
or  three  times  to  get  my  breath ;  to  gasp ;  to  cry 
out ;  to  speak  to  him  ;  but  I  could  not.  I  could 
not  see  plainly ;  I  could  not  utter  a  sound.  The 
company  began  to  take  notice  of  it ;  and  all  the 
noise,  and  laugh,  and  song,  and  riot,  instantly  died 
away  into  a  stillness  more  awful  than  death,  while 
every  eye  was  turned  upon  me.  I  was  leaning 
toward  him,  and  I  whispered  very  faintly,  so  faintly 
that  I  did  not  hear  my  own  voice ;  but  it  came 
from  the  deepest  place  of  all  my  heart,  and  he  un 
derstood  the  motion  of  my  lips — he  heard  me. 

«  Elizabeth  Adams,  of  D V  said  I.  <  Yes,'  he 

haughtily  replied, <  Elizabeth  Ad .'  <  You  are 

a  scoundrel !'  said  I,  jumping  up — I  would  not  let 
him  finish  it — dwelling  on  every  syllable — -you 
are  a  scoundrel  and  a  villain !'  A  glass  decanter 
whizzed  by  my  head  as  I  spoke,  and  narrowly 
missed  dashing  my  brains  out.  We  rushed  at 
each  other,  and  he  grasped  a  carving-knife,  but  it 
was  wrenched  from  him,  and  we  were  separated  till 


the  room  was  cleared,  a  circle  formed,  and  swords 
put  into  our  hands ;  but  mine  was  a  miserable  cut 
and  thrust,  and  in  receiving  one  of  his  blows,  be 
fore  I  could  make  a  pass,  it  was  shattered  to  the 
hilt.  We  closed,  and  I  was  very  severely  cut  in 
the  hand.  No  other  sword  could  be  obtained,  and 
we  stood,  leaning  against  the  wall,  panting  like 
spent  tigers,  till  the  company  had  agreed  to  escort 
us  to  a  wood,  just  out  of  the  town,  and  leave  us 
to  our  fate  with  pistols.  Some  objected  to  this ; 
but  at  last  the  business  was  arranged ;  how  I  know 
not ;  and  the  next  thing  that  I  recollect  is,  that 
we  were  together — his  friend  with  us — that  it  was 
just  daylight,  and  that  I  had  just  levelled  and  fired 
at  his  heart,  and  that  I  saw  the  ball  strike  him — 
but  he  stood  still. 

"  <  You  are  wounded/  said  his  second,  approach 
ing  me.  '  No,'  said  1,  <  I  am  not,  but  your  friend 
is — look  to  him.'  When  I  said  this  he  fell.  It 
was  wonderful  how  I  escaped.  He  was  a  great 
shot.  But  when  we  levelled  there  was  a  strange 
darkness  about  me  for  a  moment,  and  I  felt  as  if 
already  a  ball  had  passed  through  me — coldness 
and  numbness — but  I  caught  his  eye  just  then,  and 
observed  that  as  I  dropped  my  pistol  his  eye  fol 
lowed  it,  till  it  was  just  opposite  his  breast.  I  fired 
before  he  had  recovered  himself,  and  the  result 
was  what  I  have  told  you.".  .  . 

"Look  here,  William  Adams,"  said  he,  lifting 
his  black-matted  locks,  "  look  here  ! — it  wasn't 
grief  that  did  it — no,  nor  old  age — but  his  hand  ! 
Three  thousand  miles  were  we  apart.  Yet  at  the 
moment,  the  very  moment  when  he  died,  fhe  very 
moment !  these  locks  turned  white !  r  felt  his 
hot  hand  there  in  my  sleep.  I  awoke  with  a 
scream  that  startled  the  household  broad  awake. 
It  was  midnight — but  not  a  soul  could  sleep  again 
that  night.  You  may  smile,  William,  but  no — 
you  do  not — you  look  serious.  Are  you  really 
sol  Speak  to  me.  Can  you  believe  me?" 

«  /  do." 

"  It  is  impossible.  You  cannot.  You  believe 
that  I  am  disordered.  What !  that  at  the  moment 
of  his  death — the  very  moment !  he  should  appear 
to  me,  and  put  his  hand  upon  my  temples  and 
awake  me !" 

TALENT  AND  GENIUS. 

FROM   THE  SAME. 

His  ambition  was  rather  a  diseased  appetite  for 
present  notoriety  than  the  gallant  longing  of  a  great 
heart  for  an  imperishable  and  distant  reputation.  To 
his  view  the  present  was  immortality  ;  and  he  was 
foolish  enough  to  believe  that  the  future  must  echo 
to  the  voice  of  the  present.  He  was,  emphatically, 
a  man  of  genius,  though  not  a  man  of  talent ;  but  of 
such  a  genius  as  I  would  not  that  a  brother  or  a 
son  of  mine  should  have  for  all  the  world.  It  was  a 
kingly  shadow,  with  the  shadow  of  regal  habiliments 
about  it,  which,  when  you  approached  them,  frll  of, 
and  faded  into  brilliant  exhalation,  like  coloured  ice 
in  the  sunshine.  Talent  is  substance :  genius  is 
show.  Talent  is  a  primary  quality  of  things,  like 
weight :  genius  the  secondary  quality,  like  colour. 


JOHN   NEAL. 


321 


A  BOY'S  REVERIES 

FROM   THK  SAME. 

LOOK  where  I  would,  these  brilliant  creatures 
were  incessantly  in  play  among  the  stars,  which 
were  reflected  in  the  depth  below  me,  as  if  heaven 
had  been  showering  them  down  like  blossoms  into 
the  habitations  of  the  waters. 

Ah,  I  cannot  describe  the  stillness  that  was 
about  me.  It  was  awful.  It  was  like  that  of 
death.  The  sky  was  bluer  than  I  had  ever  seen 
it,  and  much  further  off,  it  appeared  to  me,  and 
the  solemn  stars  were  multiplied  in  the  water  till 
my  head  ached  with  the  temptation  of  their  influ 
ence  ;  and  I  was  on  the  point,  child  that  I  was, 
of  plunging  after  them.  Do  not  smile.  Many 
drowned  women  and  children  have  felt,  the  same 
fascination,  I  have  no  doubt,  drawing  them  as  it 
were  by  a  song  and  a  spell  into  the  bosom  of  the 
deep ;  and  I  have  felt  it  more  than  once,  neither 
as  a  woman  nor  as  a  child ;  but  on  this  night  it 
was  more  like  an  attraction,  an  irresistible,  secret 
allurement,  a  delightful  influence,  winning  and 
persuading  me  into  a  voluntary  self-destruction. 
It  was  more  like  some  unknown  affinity  operating 
upon  my  blood,  upon  the  spiritual  part  of  me,  like 
a  charm,  than  like  what  I  have  felt,  as  a  strong 
hand,  pressing  me  into  the  water  by  main  force. 
At  one  time — the  time  that  I  allude  to — we  were 
upon  the  high  seas,  a  few  starved  and  desperate 
men,  .  .  .  and  were  drifting,  with  our  helm  lashed 
down  and  topsail  flying  in  the  wind  far  and  wide, 
like — 0,  unlike  any  thing  ever  seen  upon  the  wa 
ters  ! — more  like  a  floating  hospital  of  lunatics  and 
murderers,  than  a  gallant  ship,  well-manned  and 
obedient  to  the  helm,  and  out  upon  the  ocean,  in 
stinct  with  spirit,  as  if  it  had  a  soul  and  a  will  of 
its  own.  ...  I  was  lying,  I  remember,  in  the  hot 
sunshine  upon  the  half-burnt  deck,  with  my  head 
over  the  side  of  the  ship,  gasping,  giddy,  and  sick, 
and  deadly  faint,  looking  blindly  down  into  the 
sea,  and  ready  to  give  up  the  ghost  with  every 
sick,  impatient  sob,  when,  all  at  once  there  was  a 
terrific  explosion  below  me — a  strong  light  flashed 
into  my  brain — my  veins  tingled — my  blood  was 
all  in  confusion — and  the  great  deep  heaved  and 
roared,  and  broke  up  and  vanished  !  vanished  like 
a  dream  from  my  sight.  And  where  it  had  been 
there  came  up  a  dizzy  wilderness  of  beauty,  and 
flowers,  and  greenness.  The  winds  blew  and  the 
trees  rustled  all  over,  and  waved  their  rich  branches, 
and  the  birds  flew  about  and  the  flowers  fell,  and 
everywhere,  through  the  short  thick  grass  and  out 
of  the  old  rocks,  which  were  spotted  with  shining 
moss — the  greenest  in  the  world — the  waters  gushed 
and  bounced,  and  sparkled  and  rattled,  and  then 
wandered  away  singing  the  self-same  tune  that 
the  birds  were  all  singing,  in  a  labyrinth  of  bright 
ness,  with  a  reality  so  unspeakably  tempting  that 
I  had  well-nigh  leaped  down  into  the  bosom  of  the 
apparition.  ...  I  attempted  to  stand  upon  my  feet, 
they  said,  and  threw  up  my  arms  with  a  cry  of 
transport,  just  as  the  vessel  heeled — and  I  should 
have  been  overboard  but  for  the  dwarf,  who  plucked 
me  back  and  held  me  like  a  giant. 
41 


CHILDREN— WHAT  ARE  THEY? 

FROM  THK  TOKEX. 

WHAT  are  children  ?  Step  to  the  window  with 
me.  The  street  is  full  of  them.  Yonder  a  school 
is  let  loose,  and  here  just  within  reach  of  our  ob 
servation  are  two  or  three  noisy  little  fellows,  and 
there  another  party  mustering  for  play.  Soroe  are 
whispering  together,  and  plotting  so  loudly  and  so 
earnestly  as  to  attract  everybody's  attention,  while 
others  are  holding  themselves  aloof,  with  their 
satchels  gaping  so  as  to  betray  a  part  of  their  plans 
for  to-morrow  afternoon,  or  laying  their  heads  to 
gether  in  pairs  for  a  trip  to  the  islands.  Look  at 
them,  weigh  the  question  I  have  put  to  you,  and 
then  answer  it  as  it  deserves  to  be  answered : 
What  are  children  ? 

To  which  you  reply  at  once,  without  any  sort 
of  hesitation,  perhaps, — "  Just  as  the  twig  is  bent, 
the  tree's  inclined  ;"  or  "  Men  are  but  children  of 
a  larger  growth,"  or,  peradventure,  "  The  child  ia 
father  of  the  man."  And  then  perhaps  you  leave 
me,  perfectly  satisfied  with  yourself  and  with  your 
answer,  having  "  plucked  out  the  heart  of  the  mys 
tery,"  and  uttered  without  knowing  it  a  string  of 
glorious  truths.  .  .  . 

Among  the  children  who  are  now  playing 
together,  like  birds  among  the  blossoms  of  earth, 
haunting  all  the  green  shadowy  places  thereof, 
and  rejoicing  in  the  bright  air,  happy  and  beautiful 
creatures,  and  as  changeable  as  happy,  with  eyes 
brimful  of  joy  and  with  hearts  playing  upon 
their  little  faces  like  sunshine  upon  clear  waters. 
Among  those  who  are  now  idling  together  on  that 
slope,  or  pursuing  butterflies  together  on  the  edge  of 
that  wood,  a  wilderness  of  roses,  you  would  see  not 
only  the  gifted  and  the  powerful,  the  wise  and  the 
eloquent,  the  ambitious  and  the  renowned,  the 
long-lived  and  the  long-to-be-lamented  of  another 
age ;  but  the  wicked  and  the  treacherous,  the  liar 
and  the  thief,  the  abandoned  profligate  and  the 
faithless  husband,  the  gambler  and  the  drunkard, 
the  robber,  the  burglar,  the  ravisher,  the  murderer 
and  the  betrayer  of  his  country.  The  child  is  father 
of  the  man. 

Among  them  and  that  other  little  troop  just  ap 
pearing,  children  with  yet  happier  faces  and  plea- 
santer  eyes,  the  blossoms  of  the  future — the  mo 
thers -of  nations — you  would  see  the  founders  of 
states  and  the  destroyers  of  their  country,  the 
steadfast  and  the  weak,  the  judge  and  the  criminal, 
the  murderer  and  the  executioner,  the  exalted  and 
the  lowly,  the  unfaithful  wife  and  the  broken 
hearted  husband,  the  proud  betrayer  and  his  pale 
victim,  the  living  and  breathing  portents  and  pro 
digies,  the  imbodied  virtues  and  vices  of  another 
age  and  of  another  world,  and  all  playing  togei/ier! 
Men  are  but  children  of  a  larger  growth. 

Pursuing  the  search,  you  would  go  forth  among 
the  little  creatures  as  among  the  types  of  another 
and  a  loftier  language,  the  mystery  whereof  had 
been  just  revealed  to  you,  a  language  to  become 
universal  hereafter,  types  in  which  the  autobio 
graphy  of  the  Future  was  written  ages  and  ages 
ago.  Among  the  innocent  and  helpless  creatures 


322 


JOHN   NEAL. 


that  are  called  children,  you  would  see  warriors 
with  their  garments  rolled  in  blood,  the  spectres 
of  kings  and  princes,  poets  with  golden  harps  and 
illuminated  eyes,  historians  and  painters,  architects 
and  sculptors,  mechanics  and  merchants,  preachers 
and  lawyers;  here  a  grave-digger  flying  a  kite 
with  his  future  customers ;  there  a  physician  play 
ing  at  marbles  with  his;  here  the  predestined  to 
an  early  and  violent  death  for  cowardice,  fighting 
the  battles  of  a  whole  neighbourhood;  there  a 
Cromwell,  or  a  Caesar,  a  Napoleon,  or  a  Wash 
ington,  hiding  themselves  for  fear,  enduring  re 
proach  or  insult  with  patience;  a  Benjamin  Frank 
lin  higgling  for  nuts  or  gingerbread,  or  the  "  old 
Parr"  of  another  generation,  sitting  apart  in  the 
sunshine  and  shivering  at  every  breath  of  wind 
that  reaches  him.  Yet  we  are  told  that  "just  as 
the  twig  is  bent  the  tree's  inclined.".  .  .  . 

Even  fathers  and  mothers  look  upon  children 
with  a  strange  misapprehension  of  their  dignity. 
Even  with  the  poets,  they  are  only  the  flowers 
and  blossoms,  the  dew-drops  or  the  playthings  of 
earth.  Yet  "  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven." 
The  Kingdom  of  Heaven !  with  all  its  principalities 
and  powers,  its  hierarchies,  dominations,  thrones ! 
The  Saviour  understood  them  better ;  to  him  their 
true  dignity  was  revealed.  Flowers !  They  are 
the  flowers  of  the  invisible  world ;  indestructible, 
self-perpetuating  flowers,  with  each  a  multitude  of 
angels  and  evil  spirits  underneath  its  leaves,  toiling 
and  wrestling  for  dominion  over  it !  Blossoms  ! 
They  are  the  blossoms  of  another  world,  whose 
fruitage  is  angels  and  archangels.  Or  dew-drops! 
They  are  dew-drops  that  have  their  source,  not  in 
the  chambers  of  the  earth,  nor  among  the  vapours  of 
the  sky,  which  the  next  breath  of  wind,  or  the  next 
flash  of  sunshine  may  dry  up  for  ever,  but  among 
the  everlasting  fountains  and  inexhaustible  reser 
voirs  of  mercy  and  love.  Playthings !  God  !  If 
the  little  creatures  would  but  appear  to  us  in  their 
true  shape  for  a  moment !  We  should  fall  upon 
our  faces  before  them,  or  grow  pale  with  conster- 
jution,  or  fling  them  off  with  horror  and  loathing. 

What  would  be  our  feelings  to  see  a  fair  child 
start  up  before  us  a  maniac  or  a  murderer,  armed 
to  the  teeth  ]  to  find  a  nest  of  serpents  on  our  pil 
low  ]  a  destroyer,  or  a  traitor,  a  Harry  the  Eighth, 
or  a  Benedict  Arnold  asleep  in  our  bosom]  A 
Catharine  or  a  Peter,  a  Bacon,  a  Galileo,  or  a 
Bentham,  a  Napoleon,  or  a  Voltaire,  clambering 
up  our  knees  after  sugar-plums  1  Cuvier  labour 
ing  to  distinguish  a  horse-fly  from  a  blue  bottle,  or 
dissecting  a  spider  with  a  rusty  nail  1  La  Place 
t'yirig  to  multiply  his  own  apples,  or  to  subtract 
his  playfellow's  gingerbread  1  What  should  we 
say  to  find  ourselves  romping  with  Messalina, 
Swedenbourg,  and  Madame  de  Stael  1  or  playing 
bo-peep  with  Murat,  Robespierre,  and  Charlotte 
Corday!  or  puss  puss  in  the  corner  with  George 
Washington,  Jonathan  Wild,  Shakspeare,  Sappho, 
Jeremy  Taylor,  Alfieri,  and  Harriet  Wilson  1  Yet 
.stranger  things  have  happened.  These  were  all 
children  but  the  other  day,  and  clambered  about 
the  knees,  and  rummaged  in  the  pockets,  and 
nestled  in  the  laps  of  people  no  better  than  we  are. 


But  if  they  could  have  appeared  in  their  true 
shape  for  a  single  moment,  while  they  were  play 
ing  together !  what  a  scampering  there  would 
have  been  among  the  grown  folks!  How  their 
fingers  would  have  tingled  ! 

Now  to  me  there  is  no  study  half  so  delightful 
as  that  of  these  little  creatures,  with  hearts  fresh 
from  the  gardens  of  the  sky,  in  their  first  and  fair 
est  and  most  unintentional  disclosures,  while  they 
are  indeed  a  mystery,  a  fragrant,  luminous  and 
beautiful  mystery.  And  I  have  an  idea  that  if  we 
only  had  a  name  for  the  study,  it  might  be  found 
as  attracti  ve  and  as  popular;  and  perhaps — though 
I  would  not  go  too  far — perhaps  about  as  advan 
tageous  in  the  long  run  to  the  future  fathers  and 
mothers  of  mankind,  as  the  study  of  shrubs  and 
flowers,  or  that  of  birds  and  fishes.  And  why  not  1 
They  are  the  cryptogamia  of  another  world,  the 
infusoria  of  the  skies. 

Then  why  not  pursue  the  study  for  yourself? 
The  subjects  are  always  before  you.  No  books 
are  needed,  no  costly  drawings,  no  lectures,  neither 
transparencies  nor  illustrations.  Your  specimens 
are  all  about  you.  They  come  and  go  at  your  bid 
ding.  They  are  not  to  be  hunted  for,  along  the 
edge  of  a  precipice,  on  the  borders  of  the  wilder 
ness,  in  the  desert,  nor  by  the  sea-shore.  They 
abound  not  in  the  uninhabited  or  unvisited  place, 
but  in  your  very  dwelling-houses,  about  the  steps 
of  your  doors,  in  every  street  of  every  village,  in 
every  green  field,  and  every  crowded  thoroughfare. 
They  flourish  bravely  in  snow-storms,  in  the  dust 
of  the  trampled  highway,  where  drums  are  beating 
and  colours  flying,  in  the  roar  of  cities.  They 
love  the  sounding  sea-breeze  and  the  open  air,  and 
may  always  be  found  about  the  wharves  and  re 
joicing  before  the  windows  of  toy-shops.  They 
love  the  blaze  of  fireworks  and  the  smell  of  gun 
powder,  and  where  that  is  they  are,  to  a  dead 
certainty. 

You  have  but  to  go  abroad  for  half  an  hour  in 
pleasant  weather,  or  to  throw  open  your  doors  or 
windows  on  a  Saturday  afternoon,  if  you  live  any 
where  in  the  neighbourhood  of  a  school-house,  or 
a  vacant  lot  with  here  and  there  a  patch  of  green 
or  a  dry  place  in  it ;  and  steal  behind  the  curtains, 
or  draw  the  blinds  and  let  the  fresh  wind  blow 
through  and  through  the  chambers  of  your  heart 
for  a  few  minutes,  winnowing  the  dust  and  scat 
tering  the  cobwebs  that  have  gathered  there  while 
you  were  asleep,  and  lo !  you  will  find  it  ringing 
with  the  voices  of  children  at  play,  and  all  alive 
with  the  glimmering  phantasmagoria  of  leap-frog, 
prison-base,  or  knock-up-and-catch. 

Let  us  try  the  experiment.  There !  I  have 
opened  the  windows,  I  have  drawn  the  blinds,  and 
hark !  already  there  is  the  sound  of  little  voices 
afar  off,  like  «  sweet  bells  jangling."  Nearer  and 
nearer  come  they,  and  now  we  catch  a  glimpse  of 
bright  faces  peeping  round  the  corners,  and  there, 
by  that  empty  enclosure,  a  general  mustering  and 
swarming,  as  of  bees  about  a  newly-discovered 
flower-garden.  But  the  voices  we  now  hear  pro 
ceed  from  two  little  fellows  who  have  withdrawn 
from  the  rest.  One  carries  a  large  basket,  and  his 


JOHN   NEAL. 


323 


eyes  are  directed  to  my  window;  he  doesn't  half 
like  the  blinds  being  drawn.  The  other  follows 
him  with  a  tattered  book  under  his  arm,  rapping 
the  posts,  one  after  the  other,  as  he  goes  along. 
He  is  clearly  on  bad  terms  with  himself.  And 
now  we  can  see  thei*  faces.  Both  are  grave,  and 
one  rather  pale,  and  trying  to  look  ferocious.  And 
hark  !  now  we  are  able  to  distinguish  their  words. 
"  Well,  I  ain't  skeered  o'  you,"  says  the  foremost 
and  the  larger  boy.  "  Nor  I  ain't  skeered  o'  you," 
retorts  the  other ;  «  but  you  needn't  say  you  meant 
to  lick  me."  And  so  I  thought.  Another,  less 
acquainted  with  children,  might  not  be  able  to  see 
the  connection ;  but  I  could — it  was  worthy  of 
Aristotle  himself  or  John  Locke.  "I  didn't  say 
I  meant  to  lick  ye,"  rejoined  the  first;  "I  said  I 
could  lick  ye,  and  so  I  can."  To  which  the  other 
replies,  glancing  first  at  my  window  and  then  all 
up  and  down  street,  "  I  should  like  to  see  you  try 
it."  Whereupon  the  larger  boy  begins  to  move 
away,  half-backwards,  half-sideways,  muttering 
just  loud  enough  to  be  heard,  "  Ah,  you  want  to 
fight  now,  jest  'cause  you're  close  by  your  own 
house."  And  here  the  dialogue  finished,  and  the 
babies  moved  on,  shaking  their  little  heads  at  each 
other  and  muttering  all  the  way  up  street.  Men 
are  but  children  of  a  larger  growth !  Children 
but  empires  in  miniature. . . . 

"  Ah,  ah,  hourra !  hourra !  here's  a  fellow's  birth 
day  !"  cried  a  boy  in  my  hearing  once.  A  num 
ber  had  got  together  to  play  ball,  but  one  of  them 
having  found  a  birth-day,  and  not  only  the  birth 
day,  but  the  very  boy  to  whom  it  belonged,  they 
all  gathered  about  him  as  if  they  had  never  wit 
nessed  a  conjunction  of  the  sort  before.  The  very 
fellows  for  a  committee  of  inquiry  ! — into  the  affairs 
of  a  national  bank  if  you  please. 

Never  shall  I  forget  another  incident  which  oc 
curred  in  my  presence  between  two  other  boys. 
One  was  trying  to  jump  over  a  wheel-barrow. 
Another  was  going  by  ;  he  stopped,  and  after  con 
sidering  a  moment,  spoke.  "  I'll  tell  you  what 
you  can't  do/'  said  he.  "  Well,  what  is  it]"  "You 
can't  jump  down  your  own  throat."  «  Well,  you 
can't."  "  Can't  I  though  /"  The  simplicity  of 
"  Well,  you  can't,"  and  the  roguishness  of  «  Can't 
I  though!"  tickled  me  prodigiously.  They  re 
minded  me  of  a  sparring  I  had  seen  elsewhere — I 
should  not  like  to  say  where — having  a  great  re 
spect  for  the  temples  of  justice  and  the  halls  of 
legislation. . . . 

I  saw  three  children  throwing  sticks  at  a  cow. 
She  grew  tired  of  her  share  in  the  game  at  last,  and 
holding  down  her  head  and  shaking  it,  demanded 
a  new  deal.  They  cut  and  run.  After  getting  to 
a  place  of  comparative  security,  they  stopped,  and 
holding  by  the  top  of  a  board  fence  began  to  recon 
noitre.  Meanwhile,  another  troop  of  children  hove 
in  sight,  and  arming  themselves  with  brickbats, 
began  to  approach  the  same  cow.  Whereupon 
two  of  the  others  called  out  from  the  fence.  "  You, 
Joe  !  you  better  mind  !  that's  our  cow !"  The 
plea  was  admitted  without  a  demurrer;  and  the 


cow  was  left  to  be  tormented  by  the  legal  owners. 
Hadn't  these  boys  the  law  on  their  side  ?  . . . 

But  children  have  other  characters.  At  times 
they  are  creatures  to  be  afraid  of.  Every  case  I 
give  is  a  fact  within  my  own  observation.  There 
are  children,  and  I  have  had  to  do  with  them,  whose 
very  eyes  were  terrible ;  children  who,  after  years 
of  watchful  and  anxious  discipline,  were  as  indo 
mitable  as  the  young  of  the  wild  beast,  dropped  in 
the  wilderness,  crafty  and  treacherous  and  cruel. 
And  others  I  have  known  who,  if  they  live,  must 
have  dominion  over  the  multitude,  being  evidently 
of  them  that  from  the  foundations  of  the  world  have 
been  always  thundering  at  the  gates  of  power. 

WORDSWORTH. 

FROM   RANDOLPH. 


WORDSWORTH  is  a  great,  plain-hearted,  august 
simpleton :  a  gifted  creature,  of  prodigious  power :  a 
devout  dreamer,  whp  cannot,  for  the  soul  of  him, 
tell  when  he  is  awake ;  a  strong  man  with  the  organs 
of  a  child  ;  whose  ample  and  profound  thought  can 
find  no  correspondent  diction.  He  thinks  like  an 
angel,  and  talks  like  something  less  than  a  man. 
He  is  a  giant,  blind  of  both  eyes,  and  deaf  as  a 
post,  who  has  blundered,  somehow  or  other,  into 
Nature's  laboratory,  and  there  goes  groping  and 
rummaging  about,  most  unprofitably  for  himself, 
among  all  the  beautiful  elixirs  of  immortality  and 
crucibles  for  transmutation — wading  into  oceans 
of  uncongealed  precious  stones — ploughing  through 
heaps  of  rough  gold,  hardly  cool  from  the  furnace 
— waking  strange,  subterranean  music,  at  every 
step,  as  he  tumbles  along,  first  one  way  and  then 
another,  among  the  sources  of  sound  and  harmony, 
totally  insensible  to  all,  one  would  think;  while 
the  very  dust  that  he  brings  away  upon  his  gar 
ments  never  fails  to  enrich  those  who  have  the 
first  scouring  of  them,  and  picking  of  him — a  mat 
ter  that  keeps  a  mob  of  retail  dealers  in  poetry 
watching  after  him,  as  they  watch,  in  China,  after 
people  who  are  seen  to  make  wry  faces;  and 
when  they  get  him  in  a  corner,  they  never  fail  to 
beguile  him  of  his  old  clothes,  heavy  with  un 
known  spoil,  and  wash  him  clean  even  to  the  hair 
of  his  head,  all  the  time  talking  baby-talk  to  him, 
and  profaning  his  simple  majesty  with  all  sorts  of 
idle  and  wicked  mockery.  In  short,  Wordsworth- 
is  not  a  little  like  the  lump  of  fresh  meat  that 
Sinbad  found — rolling  about  among  diamonds — 
wounding  and  tearing  itself  continually — without 
any  profit  to  anybody  but  the  creatures  that  grew 
dizzy  in  waiting  for  him.  Wordsworth  is  altoge 
ther  a  natural  poet.  Education  has  done  nothing 
for  him,  except  to  make  him  tedious,  childish,  ob 
scure,  and  metaphysical.  His  talent  is  more  sub 
limated,  simple,  and  clear-sighted  than  that  of  any 
other  man — sentiment  angelic — imagination  alto 
gether  subordinate,  quite  common-place — tas'e  too 
pure,  periodical,  subject  to  accident,  time,  place, 
and  the  moon — industry  none  at  all — misunder 
stood  and  misapplied. 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

[Born  1794.] 


FOR  a  more  particular  account  of  Mr.  Bryant 
than  will  here  be  given  the  reader  is  referred 
to  the  eighth  edition  of  the  Poets  and  Poe 
try  of  America.  He  was  born  in  Cumming- 
ton,  Hampshire  county,  Massachusetts,  on  the 
third  of  November,  1794.  His  ancestors,  for 
three  generations,  were  physicians.  His  fa 
ther,  one  of  the  most  eminent  members  of  the 
profession  in  his  day,  who  added  to  thorough 
scientific  and  classical  scholarship  refined  taste 

and  pleasing  manners, 

"  taught  his  youth 

The  art  of  verse,  and  in  the  bud  of  life 
Offered  him  lo  the  muses." 

The  Embargo  is  quite  equal  in  vigour  and 
harmony  to  any  thing  accredited  to  the  most 
precocious  of  the  old  poets  at  thirteen;  and 
Thanatopsis  was  never  surpassed  in  grandeur 
and  solemnity,  or  in  felicity  of  language,  by  an 
author  so  young  as  he  when  it  was  written. 

From  1815  to  1825  Mr.  Bryant  was  an  at 
torney  and  counsellor  at  Great  Barrington. 
It  may  be  supposed  that  he  had  little  relish  for 
the  abstruse  doctrines  and  subtle  reasonings 
of  the  jurists,  and  that  the  conflicts  of  the  bar 
clashed  often  with  his  poetical  and  moral  sen 
sibilities,  but  it  is  known  that  his  legal  know 
ledge  was  extensive  and  accurate,  and  that  he 
was  a  successful  and  highly  respected  lawyer. 
The  occasional  poems  and  prose  writings  he 
had  published  in  the  North  American  Review, 
and  his  longer  poem,  The  Ages,  delivered  be 
fore  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  of  Harvard 
College,  in  1821,  had  however  won  for  him  a 
high  reputation  through  all  the  country  as  a 
man  of  letters,  and  after  ten  years  of  experi 
ence  in  the  courts  he  determined  to  abandon 
his  profession  for  the  more  congenial  one  of 
an  author,  and  with  this  view  removed  to  New 
York,  then,  as  now,  the  centre  of  intelligence 
nd  enterprise  in  America. 

There  was  in  New  York  at  this  time  an 
unusual  number  of  men  of  literary  taste  and  ta 
lent.  Mr.  Sands,  Mr.  Verplanck,  and  one  or 
two  others,  had  formed  an  association  several 
years  before  under  the  name  of  the  Literary 
Confederacy,  which  had  issued  at  one  time  a 
miscellany  of  humour  and  playful  satire,  but 

324 


more  recently  had  contributed  articles  to  the 
Atlantic  Magazine,  of  which  Sands  was  editor. 
Soon  after  Mr.  Bryant's  arrival  in  the  city 
this  periodical  was  changed  somewhat  in  its 
character,  was  named  The  New  York  Re 
view,  and  he  was  engaged  as  an  editor.  He 
assisted  in  conducting  it  until  it  was  merged 
in  the  United  States  Literary  Gazette,  at  Bos 
ton,  and  wrote  for  it,  besides  his  Hymn  to 
Death,  and  other  poems,  many  elaborate  papers 
in  prose,  among  which  are  A  Pennsylvania 
Legend,  and  reviewals  of  Hadad  by  Hillhouse, 
Lives  of  the  Provensal  Poets  by  Nostrodamus, 
Moore's  Life  of  Sheridan,  and  Percival's  Poem 
before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society.  He  con 
tinued  to  write  for  the  United  States  Review 
and  Literary  Gazette,  as  the  new  magazine  was 
styled,  and  among  his  contributions  in  1827 
we  find  two  tales,  one  entitled  A  Narrative  of 
Some  Extraordinary  Circumstances  that  Hap 
pened  more  than  Twenty  Years  Since,  and  the 
other,  A  Border  Tradition. 

About  this  time  he  became  one  of  the  edi 
tors  of  the  Evening  Post.  He  however  found 
time  for  the  cultivation  of  elegant  literature, 
and  joined  Verplanck  and  Sands  in  writing  the 
Talisman,  which  was  published  under  the 
name  of  an  imaginary  author,  Francis  Her 
bert,  Esquire,  for  the  years  1827,  1828  and 
1829.  The  share  which  Sands  had  in  this 
work,  the  cleverest  of  the  illustrated  literary 
annuals  ever  published  in  the  country,  is  in 
dicated  by  the  contents  of  the  collection  of 
his  writings  since  published,*  and  Mr.  Ver- 
planck's  papers  have  been  pointed  out  in  the 
notice  of  that  author  contained  in  the  present 
volume.  The  principal  contributions  of  Mr. 
Bryant,  besides  his  poems,  which  he  has  in 
corporated  into  his  Poetical  Works,  are  An 
Adventure  in  the  East  Indies,  The  Cascade 
of  Melsingah,  Recollections  of  the  South  of 
Spain,  A  Story  of  the  Island  of  Cuba,  The 
Indian  Spring,  The  Whirlwind,  Early  Spa 
nish  Poetry,  Phanette  des  Gantelmes,  and 
The  Marriage  Blunder. 

*The  Writings  of  Robert  C.  Sands,  in  two  volumes, 
octavo.  New  York,  1835. 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT. 


325 


In  1832  Mr.  Bryant  engaged  in  another 
scheme  of  joint  stock  authorship,  with  Miss 
Sedgwick,  Mr.  Sands,  Mr.  Paulding,  and  Mr. 
Leggett,*  who  had  now  become  his  associate 
in  the  editorship  of  the  Evening  Post.  Sands, 
who  was  very  fond  of  this  sort  of  partnerships, 
probably  suggested  the  work  and  brought  its 
parts  together.  It  was  called  Tales  of  Glau 
ber  Spa,  and  Mr.  Bryant's  contributions  were 
The  Skeleton  Cave,  and  Medfield,  stories  not 
superior  to  some  of  his  earlier  publications  in 
this  line,  but  exhibiting  in  a  somewhat  strik 
ing  manner  the  characteristics  of  his  mind,  his 
minute  observation,  and  his  tendency  to  trace 
effects  to  their  causes. 

In  1834  and  1835  he  travelled  with  his  fami 
ly  in  Europe ;  the  spring  of  1843  was  passed 
in  the  valley  of  the  Mississippi,  the  Floridas, 
and  the  southern  Atlantic  states;  and  in  1844 
he  made  a  second  visit  to  Great  Britain,  France, 
Germany,  and  Italy.  He  wrote  letters  descrip 
tive  of  these  various  tours,  which  were  pub 
lished  during  his  absence  in  the  Evening  Post, 
arid  are  among  the  most  interesting  accounts 
of  travel  that  have  appeared  in  this  country ; 
graphic,  original,  judicious,  and  marked  by 
the  independence  of  feeling  and  taste  in  ex 
pression  which  might  be  expected  to  distin 
guish  his  compositions. 

But  by  far  the  most  important  of  Mr.  Bry 
ant's  prose  writings  are  those  which  have  ap 
peared  in  the  columns  of  the  Evening  Post,  in 
the  ordinary  course  of  his  editorial  labours. 
It  is  now  twenty  years  since  he  became  one  of 
the  conductors  of  that  journal,  and  during  all 
this  period  he  has  taken  a;i  active  part  in  po 
litical  controversies,  and  exerted  a  powerful 
influence  over  public  opinion.  A  strict  inter 
preter  of  the  powers  granted  by  the  constitution 
to  the  federal  government,  he  has  opposed 
internal  improvements,  and  been  a  sleepless 
and  an  active  enemy  of  a  national  bank ;  in 
favour  of  perfect  freedom  of  trade,  both  at 
home  and  in  our  intercourse  with  foreign  na 
tions,  he  has  assailed  constantly  and  earnestly 
all  special  charters  for  business  purposes,  and 
the  policy  of  protecting  our  industry  by  dis 
criminating  tariffs;  and  an  advocate  of  unre- 

*  William  Leggett  was  author  of  Leisure  Hours  at  Sea; 
Tales  by  a  Country  Schoolmaster  ;  Sketches  of  the  Sea ; 
The  Block  House,  in  Tales  of  Glauber  Spa,  etc.  He 
was  also  editor  of  The  Critic,  and  The  Plaindealer,  two 
weekly  gazettes  which  were  nearly  all  written  by  him 
self;  and  was  for  several  years  associated  with  Mr.  Bry 
ant  in  the  Evening  Post.  A  collection  of  his  Political 
Writings,  in  two  volumes,  has  been  published  since  his 
death. — See  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America. 


stricted  liberty  in  discussion,  he  has  denounced 
with  fervid  eloquence  the  blind  servility  to 
sections  or  to  parties  which  has  prevented  at 
any  time  the  proper  canvassing  of  political, 
social,  or  religious  principles,  and  the  coward 
ly  apathy  of  the  magistracy  which  has  so  of 
ten  permitted  public  meetings  to  be  disturbed, 
and  the  lives  of  the  asserters  of  unpopular  doc 
trines  to  be  endangered,  by  that  portion  of  the 
community  which  by  mob  power  enacts  its 
treasons  against  humanity. 

Mr.  Bryant  is  the  leading  journalist  of  his 
party,  which  is  honoured  in  having  so  illustri 
ous  a  person  among  its  champions.  The  force 
and  honesty  of  his  mind  enable  him  to  tri 
umph  over  custom  and  prejudice.  He  is  near 
ly  always  in  advance  of  his  colleagues  in  the 
avowal  of  doctrines  and  the  advocacy  of  mea 
sures,  and  his  unquestioned  ability  and  un 
bending  independence  check  continually  the 
schemes  of  the  less  able  and  more  unscrupu 
lous  whose  rules  are  plunder  and  expediency 
instead  of  principle. 

His  style  is  clear  and  pointed,  his  sentences 
smooth  and  compact,  his  illustrations  frequent 
and  happily  conceived,  and  his  articles  have 
a  manifest  sincerity  and  integrity  of  purpose 
which  secure  attention  and  respect  from  read 
ers  of  all  opinions. 

So  much  is  now  said  of  nationality  in  lite 
rature,  and  by  a  certain  sort  of  critics  it  is  so 
constantly  and  with  such  offensive  arrogance 
denied  that  there  is  any  thing  national  in  the 
productions  of  the  American  mind,  that  lean- 
not  forbear  an  allusion  to  this  quality  in  Mr. 
Bryant's  writings.  It  may  be  truly  said  that, 
whatever  is  in  them  of  intrinsic  truth,  the 
views  of  Mr.  Bryant  on  every  subject  respect 
ing  which  the  intelligent  in  all  countries  do  not 
agree,  are  essentially  American,  born  of  and 
nurtured  by  our  institutions,  experience  and 
condition,  and  held  only  by  ourselves  and  by 
those  who  look  to  us  for  instruction  and  ex 
ample.  This  is  the  true  Americanism.  There 
is  nothing  forced  or  obtrusive  in  his  nation 
ality,  but  it  is  a  spontaneous  and  ever  present 
element  in  his  works. 

Mr.  Bryant's  published  works  are  two  com 
plete  editions  of  his  Poems,  illustrated,  each  in 
1vol.,  8vo.,  also  a  library  edition  in  3  vols., 
i 2rao. ;  2  vols.  of  Letters  of  a  Traveller  ;  An 
Address  on  Irving;  Life  of  Fitz  Greene  Hal- 
leek  ;  Life  of  Gulian  C.  Verplanck  ;  and  a  new 
translation  of  Homer's  Iliad,  2  vols.,  8vo.,  1870. 
SE 


326 


WILLIAM    CULLEN   BRYANT. 


THREE  NIGHTS  IN  A  CAVERN. 

FROM  TALES   OF    GLAUBER-SPA. 

[THE  characters  of  The  Skeleton's  Cave  one  of  the 
contributions  of  Mr.  Bryant  to  the  Tales  of  Glauber-Spa, 
are  Father  Ambrose,  an  aged  Catholic  priest;  Le  Maire, 
a.  gay  sportsman,  of  French  origin ;  and  his  niece,  a  young 
Anglo-American.  The  following  extracts  will  convey 
some  impression  of  the  style  and  spirit  of  the  story.] 

INTRODUCTION. 

WE  hold  our  existence  at  the  mercy  of  the  ele 
ments  ;  the  life  of  man  is  a  state  of  continual  vigi 
lance  against  their  warfare.  The  heats  of  noon 
would  wither  him  like  the  severed  herb ;  the  chilis 
and  dews  of  night  would  fill  his  bones  with  pain  ; 
the  winter  frost  would  extinguish  life  in  an  hour ; 
the  hail  would  smite  him  to  death,  did  he  not  seek 
shelter  and  protection  against  them.  His  clothing 
is  the  perpetual  armour  he  wears  for  his  defence, 
and  his  dwelling  the  fortress  to  which  he  retreats 
for  safety.  Yet,  even  there  the  elements  attack 
him ;  the  winds  overthrow  his  habitation ;  the 
waters  sweep  it  away.  The  fire,  that  warmed  and 
brightened  it  within,  seizes  upon  its  walls  and  con 
sumes  it,  with  his  wretched  family.  The  earth, 
where  she  seems  to  spread  a  paradise  for  his  abode, 
sends  up  death  in  exhalations  from  her  bosom ;  and 
the  heavens  dart  down  lightnings  to  destroy  him. 
The  drought  consumes  the  harvests  on  which  he 
relied  for  sustenance,  or  the  rains  cause  the  green 
corn  to  "  rot  ere  its  youth  attains  a  beard."  A 
sudden  blast  ingulfs  him  in  the  waters  of  the  lake 
or  bay  from  which  he  seeks  his  food  ;  a  false  step, 
or  a  broken  twig,  precipitates  him  from  the  tree 
which  he  had  climbed  for  its  fruit ;  oaks  falling  in 
the  storm,  rocks  toppling  down  from  the  precipices 
are  so  many  dangers  which  beset  his  life.  Even 
his  erect  attitude  is  a  continual  affront  to  the  great 
law  of  gravitation,  which  is  sometimes  fatally 
avenged  when  he  loses  the  balance  preserved  by 
constant  care,  and  falls  on  a  hard  surface.  The 
very  arts  on  which  he  relies  for  protection  from  the 
unkindness  of  the  elements  betray  him  to  the  fate 
he  would  avoid,  in  some  moment  of  negligence,,  or 
by  some  misdirection  of  skill,  and  he  perishes  mise 
rably  by  his  own  inventions.  Amid  these  various 
causes  of  accidental  death,  which  thus  surround 
us  at  every  moment,  it  is  only  wonderful  that  their 
proper  effect  is  not  oftener  produced — so  admirably 
has  the  Framer  of  the  universe  adapted  the  facul 
ties  by  which  man  provides  for  his  safety,  to  the 
perils  of  the  condition  in  which  he  is  placed.  Yet 
there  are  situations  in  which  all  his  skill  and  strength 
are  vain  to  protect  him  from  a  violent  death,  by 
some  unexpected  chance  which  executes  upon  him 
a  sentence  as  severe  and  inflexible  as  the  most  piti 
less  tyranny  of  human  despotism. 

THK    PARTY. 

The  ecclesiastic  had  taken  the  hat  from  his  brow 
that  he  might  enjoy  the  breeze  which  played  light- 
<y  <ibout  the  cliffs  ;  and  the  coolness  of  which  was 
doubly  grateful  after  the  toil  of  the  ascent.  In  do- 
in  *  this  he  uncovered  a  high  and  ample  forehead, 
such  as  artists  love  to  couple  with  the  features  of 
old  a'je,  w'.ien  they  would  represent  a  countenance 
at  once  nohlc  and  venerable.  This  is  the  only  fea 
ture  of  the  human  face  which  Time  spares:  he 


dims  the  lustre  of  the  eye ;  he  shrivels  the  cheek, 
he  destroys  the  firm  or  sweet  expression  of  the 
mouth ;  he  thins  and  whitens  the  hairs ;  but  the 
forehead,  that  temple  of  thought,  is  beyond  his 
reach,  or  rather,  it  shows  more  grand  and  lofty  for 
the  ravages  which  surround  it. 

The  two  persons  whom  he  addressed  were  much 
younger.  One  of  them  was  in  the  prime  of  man 
hood  and  personal  strength,  rather  tall,  and  of  a 
vigorous  make.  He  wore  a  hunting-cap,  from  the 
lower  edge  of  which  curled  a  profusion  of  strong 
dark  hair,  rather  too  long  for  the  usual  mode  in 
the  Atlantic  states,  shading  a  fresh-coloured  coun 
tenance,  lighted  by  a  pair  of  full  black  eyes,  the 
expression  of  which  was  compounded  of  boldness 
and  good-humour.  His  dress  was  a  blue  frock-coat 
trimmed  with  yellow  fringe,  and  bound  by  a  sash  at 
the  waist,  deer-skin  pantaloons,  and  deer-skin  moc 
casins.  He  carried  a  short  rifle  on  his  left  shoul 
der  ;  and  wore  on  his  left  side  a  leathern  bag  of 
rather  ample  dimensions,  and  on  his  right  a  powder- 
flask.  It  was  evident  that  he  was  either  a  hunter 
by  occupation,  or  at  least  one  who  made  hunting 
his  principal  amusement;  and  there  was  something 
in  his  air  and  the  neatness  of  his  garb  and  equip 
ments  that  bespoke  the  latter. 

On  the  arm  of  this  person  leaned  the  third  indi 
vidual  of  the  party,  a  young  woman  apparently 
about  nineteen  or  twenty  years  of  age,  slender 
and  graceful  as  a  youthful  student  of  the  classic 
poets  might  imagine  a  wood-nymph.  She  was  plain 
ly  attired  in  a  straw  hat  and  a  dress  of  russet-colour, 
fitted  for  a  ramble  through  that  wild  forest.  The 
faces  of  her  two  companions  were  decidedly  French 
in  their  physiognomy  ;  hers  was  as  decidedly  An 
glo-American.  Her  brown  hair  was  parted  away 
from  a  forehead  of  exceeding  fairness,  more  com 
pressed  on  the  sides  than  is  usual  with  the  natives 
of  England  ;  and  showing  in  the  profile  that  ap 
proach  to  the  Grecian  outline  which  is  remarked 
among  their  descendants  in  America,  To  com 
plete  the  picture,  imagine  a  quiet  blue  eye,  features 
delicately  moulded,  and  just  colour  enough  on  her 
cheek  to  make  it  interesting  to  watch  its  changes, 
as  it  deepened  or  grew  paler  with  the  varying  and 
flitting  emotions  which  slight  cause  will  call  up  in 
a  youthful  maiden's  bosom. 

THE    APPROACH    TO    THE    CAVE. 

The  spot  on  which  they  now  stood  commanded 
a  view  of  a  wide  extent  of  uncultivated  and  unin 
habited  country.  An  eminence  interposed  to  hide 
from  sight  the  village  they  had  left ;  and  on  every 
side  were  the  summits  of  the  boundless  forest,  here 
and  there  diversified  with  a  hollow  of  softer  and 
richer  verdure,  where  the  hurricane,  a  short  time  be 
fore,  had  descended  to  lay  prostrate  the  gigantic 
trees,  and  a  young  growth  had  shot  up  in  their 
stead.  Solitary  savannas  opened  in  the  depth  of 
the  woods,  and  far  off  a  lonely  stream  was  flow 
ing  away  in  silence,  sometimes  among  venerable 
trees,  and  sometimes  through  natural  meadows, 
crimson  with  blossoms.  All  around  them  was  the 
might,  the  majesty  of  vegetable  life,  untamed  by 
the  hand  of  man,  and  pampered  by  the  genial  ele 
ments  into  boundless  luxuriance.  The  ecclesiastic 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT. 


327 


pointed  out  to  his  companions  the  peculiarities  ol 
the  scenery  ;  he  expatiated  on  the  flowery  beauty 
of  those  unshorn  lawns;  and  on  the  lofty  growth, 
and  the  magnificence  and  variety  of  foliage  which 
distinguish  the  American  forests,  so  much  the  ad 
miration  of  those  who  have  seen  only  the  groves 
of  Europe. . . . 

THE    ENTRANCE,    AND    INTERIOR. 

The  circumstance  which  first  struck  the  atten 
tion  of  the  party  was  the  profound  and  solemn 
stillness  of  the  place.  The  most  quiet  day  has  un 
der  the  open  sky  its  multitude  of  sounds — the 
lapse  of  waters,  the  subtle  motions  of  the  apparent 
ly  slumbering  air  among  forests,  grasses,  and  rocks, 
the  flight  and  note  of  insects,  the  voices  of  animals, 
the  rising  of  exhalations,  the  mighty  process  of 
change,  of  perpetual  growth  and  decay,  going  on 
all  over  the  earth,  produce  a  chorus  of  noises  which 
the  hearing  cannot  analyze — which,  though  it  may 
seem  to  you  silence,  is  not  so ;  and  when  from  such 
a  scene  you  pass  directly  into  one  of  the  rocky 
chambers  of  the  earth,  you  perceive  your  error  by 
the  contrast.  As  the  three  went  forward  they 
passed  through  a  heap  of  dry  leaves  lightly  piled, 
which  the  winds  of  the  last  autumn  had  blown  into 
the  cave  from  the  summit  of  the  surrounding  fo 
rest,  and  the  rustling  made  by  their  steps  sounded 
strangely  loud  amid  that  death-like  silence.  A  spa 
cious  cavern  presented  itself  to  their  sight,  the  roof  of 
which  near  the  entrance  was  low,  but  several  paces 
beyond  it  rose  to  a  great  height,  where  the  smoke  of 
the  torch,  ascending,  mingled  with  the  darkness, 
but  the  flame  did  not  reveal  the  face  of  the  vault. 

THE   RETURN THE   STORM THE   IMPRISONMENT. 

On  reaching  again  the  mouth  of  the  cave,  they 
were  struck  with  the  change  in  the  aspect  of  the 
heavens.  Dark  heavy  clouds,  the  round  summits 
of  which  were  seen  one  beyond  the  other,  were  ra 
pidly  rising  in  the  west ;  and  through  the  grayish  blue 
haze  which  suffused  the  sky  before  them,  the  sun 
appeared  already  shorn  of  his  beams.  A  sound 
was  heard  afar  of  mighty  winds  contending  with 
the  forest,  and  the  thunder  rolled  at  a  distance. 

"  We  may  stay  at  least  until  the  storm  is  over," 
said  Father  Ambrose ;  «  it  would  be  upon  us  before 
we  could  descend  these  cliffs.  Let  us  watch  it  from 
where  we  stand  above  the  tops  of  these  old  woods  :  I 
can  promise  you  it  will  be  a  magnificent  spectacle." 

Emily,  though  she  would  gladly  have  left  the 
cave,  could  say  nothing  against  the  propriety  of 
this  advice ;  and  even  Le  Maire,  notwithstanding 
that  he  declared  he  had  rather  see  a  well-loaded 
table  at  that  moment  than  all  the  storms  that  ever 
blew,  preferred  remaining  to  the  manifest  inconve 
nience  of  attempting  a  descent.  In  a  few  mo 
ments  the  dark  array  of  clouds  swept  over  the  face 
of  the  sun,  and  a  tumult  in  the  woods  announced 
the  coming  of  the  blast.  The  summits  of  the  fo 
rest  waved  and  stooped  before  it,  like  a  field  of 
young  flax  in  the  summer  breeze, — another  and 
fiercer  gust  descended, — another  and  stronger  con 
vulsion  of  the  forest  ensued.  The  trees  rocked  back 
ward  and  forward,  leaned  and  rose,  and  tossed  and 
swung  their  branches  in  every  direction,  and  the 
whirling  air  above  them  was  filled  with  their  leafy 


spoils.  The  roar  was  tremendous, — the  noise  of  the 
ocean  in  a  tempest  is  not  louder, — it  seemed  as  if  that 
innumerable  multitude  of  giants  of  the  wood  raised 
a  universal  voice  of  wailing  under  the  fury  that 
smote  and  tormented  them.  At  length  the  rain  be 
gan  to  fall,  first  in  large  and  rare  drops,  and  then 
thunder  burst  over  head,  and  the  waters  of  the  fir 
mament  poured  down  in  torrents,  and  the  blast  that 
howled  in  the  woods  fled  before  them  as  if  from  an 
element  that  it  feared.  The  trees  again  stood  erect, 
and  nothing  was  heard  but  the  rain  beating  hea 
vily  on  the  immense  canopy  of  leaves  around,  and 
the  occasional  crashings  of  the  thunder,  accom 
panied  by  flashes  of  lightning,  that  threw  a  vivid 
light  upon  the  walls  of  the  cavern.  The  priest 
and  his  companions  stood  contemplating  this  scene 
in  silence,  when  a  rushing  of  water  close  at  hand 
was  heard.  Father  Ambrose  showed  the  others 
where  a  stream,  formed  from  the  rains  collected  on 
the  highlands  above,  descended  on  the  crag  that  over 
hung  the  mouth  of  the  cavern,  and  shooting  clear 
of  the  rocks  on  which  they  stood,  fell  in  spray  to  the 
broken  fragments  at  the  base  of  the  precipice. 

A  gust  of  wind  drove  the  rain  into  the  opening 
where  they  stood,  and  obliged  them  to  retire  far 
ther  within.  The  priest  suggested  that  they  should 
take  this  opportunity  to  examine  that  part  of  the 
cave  which,  in  going  to  the  skeleton's  chamber,  they 
had  passed  on  their  left,  observing,  however,  that 
he  believed  it  was  no  otherwise  remarkable  than  for 
its  narrowness  and  its  length.  Le  Maire  arid  Emi 
ly  assented,  and  the  former  taking  up  the  torch 
which  he  had  stuck  in  the  ground,  they  went  back 
into  the  interior.  They  had  just  reached  the  spot 
where  the  two  passages  diverged  from  each  other, 
when  a  hideous  and  intense  glare  of  light  filled  the 
cavern,  showing  for  an  instant  the  walls,  the  roof, 
the  floor,  and  every  crag  and  recess,  with  the  dis 
tinctness  of  the  broadest  sunshine.  A  frightful  crash 
accompanied  it,  consisting  of  several  sharp  and 
deafening  explosions,  as  if  the  very  heart  of  the 
mountain  was  rent  asunder  by  the  lightning,  and 
immediately  after  a  body  of  immense  weight  seemed 
to  fall  at  their  very  feet  with  a  heavy  sound,  and  a 
shock  that  caused  the  place  where  they  stood  to 
tremble  as  if  shaken  by  an  earthquake.  A  strong 
blast  of  air  rushed  by  them,  and  a  suffocating  odour 
filled  the  cavern. 

Father  Ambrose  had  fallen  upon  his  knees  in 
mental  prayer,  at  the  explosion ;  but  the  blast  from 
the  mouth  of  the  cavern  threw  him  to  the  earth. 
He  raised  himself,  however,  immediately,  and  found 
himself  in  utter  silence  and  darkness,  save  that  a 
livid  image  of  that  insufferable  glare  floated  yet  be 
fore  his  eyeballs.  He  called  first  upon  Emily,  who 
did  not  answer,  then  upon  Le  Maire,  who  replied 
from  the  ground  a  few  paces  nearer  the  entrance  of 
the  cave.  He  also  had  been  thrown  prostrate,  and 
the  torch  he  carried  was  extinguished.  It  was  but 
the  work  of  an  instant  to  kindle  it  again,  and  they  then 
discovered  Emily  extended  near  them  in  a  swoon. 

<  Let  us  bear  her  to  the  mouth  of  the  cavern," 
said  Le  Maire;  "the  fresh  air  from  without  will 
revive  her."  He  took  her  in  his  arms,  but  on  ar 
riving  at  the  spot  he  placed  her  suddenly  on  the 


328 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT. 


ground,  and  raising  both  hands,  exclaimed,  with  an 
accent  of  despair,  "  The  rock  is  fallen  ! — the  en 
trance  is  closed  !"  It  was  but  too  evident, — Father 
Ambrose  needed  but  a  single  look  to  convince  him 
of  its  truth, — the  huge  rock  which  impended  over 
the  entrance  had  been  loosened  by  the  thunder 
bolt,  and  had  fallen  upon  the  floor  of  the  cave, 
closing  all  return  to  the  outer  world. 

THE    THIRD    DAY. 

On  the  third  day  the  cavern  presented  a  more 
gloomy  spectacle  than  it  had  done  at  any  time  since 
the  fall  of  the  rock  took  place.  It  was  now  about 
eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  the  shrill  sing 
ing  of  the  wind  about  the  cliffs,  and  through  the 
crevice,  which  now  admitted  a  dimmer  light  than 
on  the  day  previous,  announced  the  approach  of  a 
storm  from  the  south.  The  hope  of  relief  from 
without  was  growing  fainter  and  fainter  as  the  time 
passed  on ;  and  the  sufferings  of  the  prisoners  be 
came  more  poignant.  Th6  approach  of  the  storm, 
too,  could  only  be  regarded  as  an  additional  misfor 
tune,  since  it  would  probably  prevent  or  obstruct  for 
that  day  the  search  which  was  making  for  them. 
They  were  all  three  in  the  outer  and  larger  apart 
ment  of  the  cave.  Emily  was  at  a  considerable 
distance  from  the  entrance  reclining  on  a  kind  of  seat 
formed  of  large  loose  stones,  and  overspread  with 
a  covering  of  withered  leaves.  There  was  enough 
of  light  to  show  that  she  was  exceedingly  pale ; 
that  her  eyes  were  closed,  and  that  the  breath  came 
thick\  and  pantingly  through  her  parted  lips,  which 
alone  of  all  her  features  retained  the  colour  of  life. 
Faint  with  watching,  with  want  of  sustenance,  and 
with  anxiety,  she  had  lain  herself  down  on  this  rude 
couch,  which  the  care  of  her  companions  had  pro 
vided  for  her,  and  had  sunk  into  a  temporary  slum 
ber.  The  priest  stood  close  to  the  mouth  of  the 
cjive  leaning  against  the  wall,  with  his  arms  folded, 
himself  scarcely  changed  in  appearance,  except  that 
his  cheek  seemed  somewhat  more  emaciated,  and 
his  eyes  were  lighted  up  with  a  kind  of  solemn  and 
preternatural  brightness.  Le  Maire,  with  a  spot  of 
fiery  red  on  each  cheek, — his  hair  staring  wildly  in 
every  direction,  and  his  eyes  bloodshot,  was  pacing 
the  cavern  floor  to  and  fro,  carrying  his  rifle,  occa 
sionally  stopping  to  examine  the  priming,  or  to  peck 
the  flint;  and  sometimes  standing  still  for  a  mo 
ment,  as  if  lost  in  thought 

"  My  good  friend,"  said  the  priest,  approaching 
him,  "  you  forget  what  grounds  of  hope  yet  remain 
to  us ;  indeed,  the  probability  of  our  escape  is 
scarcely  less  to-day  than  it  was  yesterday.  The 
fall  of  the  rock  may  be  discovered  by  some  one  pass 
ing  this  way,  and  he  may  understand  that  it  is  pos 
sible  we  are  confined  here.  While  our  existence 
is  prolonged  there  is  no  occasion  for  despair.  You 
should  endeavour,  my  son,  to  compose  yourself,  and 
to  rely  on  the  goodness  of  that  Power  who  has  ne 
ver  forsaken  you." 

•«  Compose  myself!"  answered  Le  Maire,  who 
had  listened  impatiently  to  this  exhortation  ;  "  com 
pose  myself!  Do  you  not  know  that  there  are 
those  here  who  will  not  suffer  me  to  be  tranquil  for 
a  moment  ?  Last  night  I  was  twice  awakened, 
just  as  I  had  fallen  asleep,  by  a  voice  pronouncing 


my  name,  as  audibly  as  I  heard  yours  just  now; 
and  the  second  time,  I  looked  to  where  the  skeleton 
lies,  and  the  foul  thing  had  half-raised  itself  from 
the  rock,  and  was  beckoning  me  to  come  and  place 
myself  by  its  side.  Can  you  wonder  if  I  slept  no 
more  after  that  1" 

"  My  son,  these  are  but  the  dreams  of  a  fever." 

"And  then,  whenever  I  go  by  myself,  I  hear  low 
voices  and  titterings  of  laughter  from  the  recesses 
of  the  rocks.  They  mock  me,  that  I,  a  free  hun 
ter,  a  denizen  of  the  woods  and  prairies,  a  man 
whose  liberty  was  never  restrained  for  a  moment, 
should  be  entrapped  in  this  manner,  and  made  to 
die  like  a  buffalo  in  a  pit,  or  like  a  criminal  in  the 
dungeons, — that  I  should  consume  with  thirst  in  a 
land  bright  with  innumerable  rivers  and  springs, 
— that  I  should  wither  away  with  famine,  while  the 
woods  are  full  of  game  and  the  prairies  covered 
with  buffaloes.  I  could  face  famine  if  I  had  my 
liberty.  I  could  meet  death  without  shrinking  in 
the  sight  of  the  sun  and  the  earth,  and  in  the  fresh 
open  air.  I  should  strive  to  reach  some  habitation 
of  my  fellow-creatures;  I  should  be  sustained  by 
hope ;  I  should  travel  on  till  I  sank  down  with 
weakness  and  fatigue,  and  died  on  the  spot.  But 
famine  made  more  frightful  by  imprisonment  and 
inactivity,  and  these  dreams,  as  you  call  them,  that 
dog  me  asleep  and  awake,  they  are  more  than  I  can 
bear.  Hark !"  he  exclaimed,  after  a  short  pause, 
and  throwing  quick  and  wild  glances  around  him  ; 
"  do  you  hear  them  yonder — do  you  hear  how  thev 
mock  me ! — give  me  the  rifle." 

"  No,"  said  the  priest,  who  instantly  compre 
hended  his  purpose :  "  I  must  keep  the  piece  till 
you  are  more  composed." 

Le  Maire  seemed  not  to  hear  the  answer,  but 
laying  his  grasp  on  the  rifle,  was  about  to  pluck  it 
from  the  old  man's  hands.  Father  Ambrose  saw 
that  the  attempt  to  retain  possession  of  it  against 
his  superior  strength,  would  be  vain  ;  he  therefoie 
slipped  down  his  right  hand  to  the  lock,  and  cock 
ing  it,  touched  the  trigger,  and  discharged  it  in  an 
instant.  The  report  awoke  Emily,  who  came 
trembling  and  breathless  to  the  spot. 

"  What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked. 

«  There  is  no  harm  done,  my  child,"  answered 
the  priest,  assuming  an  aspect  of  the  most  perfect 
composure.  "  I  discharged  the  rifle,  but  it  was  not 
aimed  at  any  thing,  and  I  beg  pardon  for  interrupt 
ing  your  repose  at  a  time  when  you  so  much  need 
it.  Suffer  me  to  conduct  you  back  to  the  place  you 
have  left.  Le  Maire,  will  you  assist?" 

Supported  by  Le  Maire  on  one  side,  and  by  the 
priest  on  the  other,  Emily,  scarcely  able  to  walk 
from  weakness,  was  led  back  to  her  place  of  repose. 
Returning  with  Le  Maire,  Father  Ambrose  en 
treated  him  to  consider  how  much  his  niece  stood 
in  need  of  his  assistance  and  protection.  He 
bade  him  recollect  that  his  mad  haste  to  quit  the 
world  before  called  by  his  Maker  would  leave  her, 
should  she  ever  be  released  from  the  cavern,  alone 
and  defenceless,  or  at  least  with  only  an  old  man 
for  her  friend,  who  was  himself  hourly  expecting 
the  summons  of  death.  He  exhorted  him  to  re 
flect  how  much,  even  now,  in  her  present  condi- 


WILLIAM   CULLEN    BRYANT. 


329 


tion  of  weakness  and  peril,  she  stood  in  need  of 
his  aid,  and  conjured  him  riot  to  be  guilty  of  a  pu- 
s  llanimous  and  cowardly  desertion  of  one  so  love 
ly,  so  innocent,  and  so  dependent  upon  him. 

Le  Maire  felt  the  force  of  this  appeal.  A  look 
of  human  pity  passed  across  the  wild  expression 
of  his  countenance.  He  put  the  rifle  into  the 
hands  of  Father  Ambrose.  "  You  are  right,"  said 
he ;  «  I  am  a  fool,  and  I  have  been,  I  suspect,  very 
near  becoming  a  madman.  You  will  keep  this  until 
vou  are  entirely  willing  to  trust  me  with  it.  I  will 
endeavour  to  combat  these  fancies  a  little  longer." 

THE    ESCAPE. 

In  the  mean  time  the  light  from  the  aperture 
grew  dimmer  and  dimmer,  and  the  eyes  of  the  pri 
soners,  though  accustomed  to  the  twilight  of  the 
cavern,  became  at  length  unable  to  distinguish  ob 
jects  at  a  few  paces  from  the  entrance.  The  priest 
and  Le  Maire  had  placed  themselves  by  the  couch 
of  Emily,  but  rather,  as  it  seemed,  from  that  in 
stinct  of  our  race  which  leads  us  to  seek  each  other's 
presence,  than  for  any  purpose  of  conversation,  for 
each  of  the  party  preserved  a  gloomy  silence.  The 
topics  of  speculation  on  their  condition  had  been 
discussed  to  weariness,  and  no  others  had  now  any 
interest  for  their  minds.  It  was  no  unwelcome  in 
terruption  to  that  melancholy  silence,  when  they 
heard  the  sound  of  a  mighty  rain  pouring  down 
upon  the  leafy  summits  of  the  woods,  and  beating 
against  the  naked  walls  and  shelves  of  the  preci 
pice.  The  roar  grew  more  and  more  distinct,  and 
at  length  it  seemed  that  they  could  distinguish  a 
sort  of  shuddering  of  the  earth  above  them,  as  if 
a  mighty  host  was  marching  heavily  over  it.  The 
sense  of  suffering  was  for  a  moment  suspended  in 
a  feeling  of  awe  and  curiosity. 

That,  likewise,  is  the  rain,"  said  Father  Am 
brose,  after  listening  for  a  moment.  «  The  clouds 
must  pour  down  a  perfect  cataract,  when  the  weight 
of  its  fall  is  thus  felt  in  the  heart  of  the  rock." 

"Do  you  hear  that  noise  of  running  water  1" 
asked  Emily,  whose  quick  ear  had  distinguished 
the  rush  of  the  stream  formed  by  the  collected  rains 
over  the  rocks  without  at  the  mouth  of  the  cave. 

"  Would  that  its  channel  were  through  this  ca 
vern,"  exclaimed  Le  Maire,  starting  up.  "  Ah  ! 
here  we  have  it — we  have  it! — listen  to  the  droop 
ing  of  water  from  the  roof  near  the  entrance.  And 
here  at  the  aperture!"  He  sprang  thither  in  an 
instant.  A  little  stream  detached  from  the  main 
current,  which  descended  over  rocks  that  closed  the 
mouth  of  the  cave,  fell  in  a  thread  of  silver  amid 
the  faint  light  that  streamed  through  the  opening; 
he  knelt  for  a  moment,  received  it  between  his 
burning  lips,  and  then  hastily  returning,  bore  Emily 
to  the  spot.  She  held  out  her  hallowed  palm, 
white,  thin,  and  semi-transparent,  like  a  pearly 
shell,  used  for  dipping  up  the  waters  from  one  of 
those  sweet  fountains  that  rise  by  the  very  edge 
of  the  sea — and  as  fast  as  it  filled  with  the  cool, 
bright  element,  imbibed  it  with  an  eagerness  and 
delight  inexpressible.  The  priest  followed  her 
example ;  Le  Maire  also  drank  from  the  little 
stream  as  it  fell,  bathed  in  it  his  feverish  brow,  and 
suffered  it  to  fall  upon  his  sinewy  neck. 
42 


"  It  has  given  me  a  new  hold  on  life,"  said  Le 
Maire,  his  chest  distending  with  several  full  and 
long  breathings.  "  It  has  not  only  quenched  that 
hellish  thirst,  but  it  has  made  my  head  less  light, 
and  my  heart  lighter.  I  will  never  speak  ill  of  this 
element  again — the  choicest  grapes  of  France  ne 
ver  distilled  any  thing  so  delicious,  so  grateful,  so 
life-giving.  Take  notice,  Father  Ambrose,  I  re 
tract  all  I  have  ever  said  against  water  and  water- 
drinkers.  I  am  a  sincere  penitent,  and  shall  de 
mand  absolution." 

Father  Ambrose  had  begun  gently  to  reprove 
Le  Maire  for  his  unseasonable  levity,  when  Emily 
cried  out — «  The  rock  moves  ! — the  rock  moves ! 
Come  back — come  further  into  the  cavern  !"  Look 
ing  up  to  the  vast  mass  that,  closed  the  entrance, 
he  saw  plainly  that  it  was  in  motion,  and  he  had 
just  time  to  draw  Le  Maire  from  the  spot  where 
he  had  stooped  down  to  take  another  draught  of 
the  stream,  when  a  large  block,  which  had  been 
wedged  in  overhead,  gave  way,  and  fell  in  the  very 
place  where  he  left  the  prints  of  his  feet.  Had  he 
remained  there  another  instant,  it  must  have  crushed 
him  to  atoms.  The  prisoners,  retreating  within 
the  cavern  far  enough  to  avoid  the  danger,  but  not 
too  far  for  observation,  stood  watching  the  event 
with  mingled  apprehension  and  hope.  The  floor 
of  the  cave,  just  at  the  edge,  on  which  rested  the 
fallen  rock,  yawned  at  the  fissures,  where  the  earth 
with  which  they  were  filled  had  become  saturated 
and  swelled  with  water,  and  unable  any  longer  to 
support  the  immense  weight,  settled  away,  at  first 
slowly,  under  it,  and  finally,  along  with  its  incum 
bent  load,  fell  suddenly  and  with  a  tremendous 
crash,  to  the  base  of  the  precipice,  letting  the  light 
of  day  and  the  air  of  heaven  into  the  cavern.  The 
thunder  of  that  disruption  was  succeeded  by  the 
fall  of  a  few  large  fragments  of  rock  on  the  right 
and  left,  after  which  the  priest  and  his  companions 
heard  only  the  fall  of  the  rain  and  the  heavy  sigh 
ing  of  the  wind  in  the  forest. 

Father  Ambrose  and  Emily  knelt  involuntarily 
in  thanksgiving  at  their  unexpected  deliverance. 
Le  Maire,  although  unused  to  the  devotional  mood, 
observing  their  attitude,  had  bent  his  knee  to  imi 
tate  it,  when  a  glance  at  the  outer  world  now  laid 
open  to  his  sight,  made  him  start  again  to  his  feet 
with  an  exclamation  of  delight.  The  other  two 
arose,  also,  and  turned  to  the  broad  opening  which 
now  looked  out  from  the  cave  over  the  forest.  On 
one  side  of  this  opening  rushed  the  torrent  whose 
friendly  waters  had  undermined  the  rock  at  the 
entrance,  and  now  dashed  themselves  against  its 
shivered  fragments  below.  It  is  not  for  me  to  at 
tempt  to  describe  how  beautiful  appeared  to  their 
eyes  that  world  which  they  feared  never  again  to 
see,  or  how  grateful  to  their  senses  was  that  fresh 
and  fragrant  air  of  the  forests  which  they  thought 
never  to  breathe  again.  The  light,  although  the 
sky  was  thick  with  clouds  and  rain,  was  almost 
too  intense  for  their  vision,  and  they  shaded  their 
brows  with  their  hands  as  they  looked  forth  upon 
that  scene  of  woods  and  meadows  and  waters,  fairer 
to  their  view  than  it  had  ever  appeared  in  the  most 
glorious  sunshine. 

2E2 


EDWARD  EVERETT. 


[Born  1794.    Died  1865.] 


EDWARD  EVERETT,  a  younger  brother  of 
Alexander  H.  Everett,*  and  one  of  the  most 
eminent  of  American  scholars  and  rhetoricians, 
was  born  in  Dorchester,  near  Boston,  in  1794, 
and  at  the  early  age  of  thirteen  entered  Har 
vard  University,  where  he  graduated  in  1811, 
with  an  extraordinary  reputation  for  abilities 
and  acquirements.  He  at  first  turned  his  atten 
tion  to  the  law,  but  yielding  to  the  wishes  of 
his  friends  decided  to  study  theology,  and  had 
been  two  years  in  the  divinity  school  at  Cam 
bridge,  when  Boston  was  thrown  into  mourning 
by  the  death  of  the  youthful  and  eloquent  Buck- 
minster,  and  he  was  chosen  to  succeed  him  as 
minister  of  the  church  in  Brattle  street.  He 
was  now  but  nineteen  years  of  age,  and  his  so 
ciety,  perhaps  the  largest  arid  most  intellectual 
in  the  city,  had  been  accustomed  to  hear  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  orators  of  modern  times ; 
but  his  success  was  still  such  as  to  justify  the 
most  sanguine  anticipations  of  his  friends.  In 
addition  to  his  ordinary  and  arduous  profession 
al  labours,  in  the  first  eight  months  of  his  min 
istry  he  wrote  and  published,  in  a  volume  of 
nearly  five  hundred  pages,  a  very  able  Defence 
of  Christianity,  against  a  work  which  had  then 
just  appeared  under  the  title  of  The  Grounds 
of  Christianity  Examined,  by  Comparing  the 
New  Testament  with  the  Old. 

In  1815,  before  he  was  twenty-one  years  of 
age,  he  was  elected  professor  of  the  Greek  Lan 
guage  and  Literaturef  in  the  University,  with 
permission  to  visit  Europe  for  the  improve 
ment  of  his  health,  which  had  been  impaired 
by  severe  application  to  his  pastoral  duties. 
He  embarked  at  Boston  soon  after  the  peace, 
intending  to  proceed  immediately  to  Germany, 
but  on  arriving  in  Liverpool  ascertained  that 
Napoleon  had  escaped  from  Elba,  and  so  was 
detained  in  England  until  after  the  battle  of 
Waterloo.  He  then  went  to  Gottingen,  where 
he  acquired  the  German  language,  and  after 
ward  visited  the  principal  universities  of  the 

*  See  ame,  page  284. 

t  M.  Cousin,  who  was  with  Mr.  Everett  in  Germany, 
informed  a  friend  of  ours  that  he  was  the  best  Grecian 
he  ever  knew,  and  the  translator  of  Plato  must  have 
known  a  good  many  of  the  very  best.— The  [London] 
Quarterly  Review. 


country  to  inquire  into  the  state  of  learning  and 
the  prevailing  modes  of  instruction.  In  the 
autumn  of  1817  he  reached  Paris,  where  he 
passed  the  following  winter  in  preparation 
for  his  duties  in  the  University,  and  became 
acquainted  with  many  eminent  men,  one  of 
whom  was'Coray,  whose  writings  had  so  pow 
erfully  contributed  to  the  regeneration  of  mo 
dern  Greece.  The  summer  of  1818  he  spent  in 
England,  Scotland  and  Wales,  the  autumn  in 
France,  Switzerland  and  Italy,  and  the  winter 
in  Rome,  where  he  became  acquainted  with 
Canova,  then  engaged  on  his  statue  of  Wash 
ington,  and  studied  ancient  literature  in  the 
library  of  the  Vatican.  In  the  spring  of  1819, 
carrying  letters  from  Lord  Byron  to  AH  Pacha, 
he  went  to  the  Ionian  Islands,  and  Greece,  to 
Troy,Constantinople,  and  Adrianople,  and  pro 
ceed  ing  through  Vienna  and  Paris  to  London, 
returned  to  the  United  States,  having  been  ab 
sent  about  four  years  and  a  half. 

He  immediately  entered  upon  the  duties  of 
his  professorship  at  Cambridge,  where  he  de 
livered  courses  of  lectures  on  the  History  of 
Greek  Literature,  on  Antiquities,  and  on  An 
cient  Art,  and  published  a  Greek  Grammar, 
from  the  German  of  Buttmann,  and  a  Greek 
Reader,  on  the  basis  of  the  one  by  Jacobs. 

The  North  American  Review  had  now 
passed  from  the  possession  of  the  club  under 
whose  auspices  it  was  established,  and  at  the 
request  of  the  new  proprietors  Mr.  Everett  be 
came  its  editor.  The  first  number  issued  un 
der  his  direction  was  that  for  January,  1820, 
and  he  conducted  it  with  an  industry  and  abi 
lity  which  soon  won  for  it  an  unprecedented 
popularity.  In  the  four  years  of  his  editorship 
he  wrote  for  it  about  fifty  articles,  making 
nearly  one-half  of  the  entire  work  for  that 
period,  and  afterward,  while  it  was  under  the 
charge  of  his  brother,  or  his  successors,  con 
tributed  altogether  some  sixty  articles,  among 
which  are  many  of  the  most  elaborate  and  pow 
erful  that  have  ever  appeared  in  its  pages.  All 
of  them,  it  should  be  remembered,  were  the 
product  only  of  leisure  moments,  amidst  other 
occupations  which  had  a  prior  claim  upon  him. 


EDWARD    EVERETT. 


331 


This  was  particularly  the  case  while  he  was 
editor,  as  he  was  then  engaged  in  the  active  du 
ties  of  his  professorship.  About  the  time  his 
editorial  connection  with  the  Review  ceased, 
he  became  a  member  of  Congress,  and  also 
began  to  be  called  upon  frequently  to  deliver 
public  addresses.  Although  as  a  member  of 
Congress  he  spoke  but  rarely,  he  did  a  great 
deal  of  labour  in  the  committee  room,  generally 
drafting  the  reports  on  all  matters  of  business, 
even  when  in  a  political  minority.  After  hav 
ing  been  ten  years  in  the  House  of  Represent 
atives,  Mr.  Everett  was  in  1836  elected  Go 
vernor  of  Massachusetts,  and  was  reflected  in 
1837,  1838  and  1839.  In  this  period  his  spe 
cial  engagements  left  him  very  little  leisure  for 
literary  pursuits,  and  his  contributions  to  the 
Review  are  much  less  frequent  than  before. 
Some  of  his  hundred  articles,  thrown  off  cur- 
rente  calamo,  are  undoubtedly  ill  arranged  and 
superficial,  but  altogether  they  evince  a  variety 
and  depth  of  learning,  and  a  degree  of  feeling, 
fancy,  energy  and  power,  rarely  combined  in  an 
individual.  The  happy  wit  and  good  temper 
shown  in  his  reviewals  of  German  and  Eng 
lish  travellers  in  America;  the  aesthetic  culti 
vation  indicated  in  his  articles  on  Canova  and 
the  Epochs  of  Plastic  Art;  the  fine  enthusi 
asm  which  animates  the  paper  on  Coray's  Aris 
totle  and  the  rest  of  that  brilliant  series  which 
electrified  the  country  in  behalf  of  the  Greeks 
during  their  war  for  independence ;  and  the 
statesmanlike  views  which  mark  the  papers 
on  Reform  in  Europe ;  with  the  familiar  know 
ledge  of  the  great  masters  of  antiquity,  the 
ready  apprehension  of  truth  and  beauty,  the  ex 
uberant  illustration,  and  copious  and  forcible 
diction,  which  characterize  his  essays  gene 
rally,  show  that  literature  suffered  no  common 
loss  when  he  entered  the  arena  of  politics. 

In  1836  Mr.  Everett  published  a  collection 
of  twenty-seven  Orations  and  Speeches  deli 
vered  by  him  on  various  occasions  in  the  pre 
ceding  eleven  years.  It  embraced,  with  others, 
those  on  the  motives  to  intellectual  exertion  in 
America,  the  landing  of  the  Pilgrims,  the  arri 
val  of  Winthrop,  the  battles  of  Concord,  Lex 
ington,  Bunker  Hill,  and  Bloody  Brook,  and 
those  which  he  delivered  at  public  dinners 
given  to  him  at  Nashville  in  Tennessee,  Lex 
ington,  in  Kentucky,  and  other  places,  during 
his  tour  through  the  Valley  of  the  Mississippi 
to  New  Orleans  in  1829.  His  speeches  on  poli 
tical  occasions,  and  historical  and  literary  dis 


courses  delivered  since  1836,  would  fill  another 
volume  equal  in  extent,  variety,  and  interest. 
As  an  orator  he  has  living  very  few  equals. 
He  is  graceful  and  fervid  in  a  remarkable  de 
gree,  and  his  ready  copiousness  and  felicity  of 
illustration  and  quotation  show  how  extensive 
and  thorough  has  been  his  research,  how  reten 
tive  is  his  memory,  and  with  what  rapidity  are 
made  the  decisions  of  his  taste.  He  is  emi 
nently  picturesque  in  grouping  and  narration, 
and  his  classical  allusions  have  the  charm  of 
a  perfect  familiarity  with  the  richest  stores  of 
learning. 

In  1841  Mr.  Everett  was  appointed  Minis 
ter  Plenipotentiary  to  the  court  of  London,  at 
which  he  resided  about  five  years.  While  in 
England  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Laws  was 
conferred  upon  him  by  the  University  of  Cam 
bridge.  On  his  return  to  the  United  States 
he  was  elected  to  the  presidency  of  Harvard 
University,  and  was  inaugurated  on  the  thir 
tieth  of  April,  1846.  The  position  of  head  of 
the  oldest,  wealthiest  and  most  respectable  in 
stitution  of  learning  on  this  continent,  is  one 
of  great  dignity  and  importance;  and  no  per 
son  could  be  found  better  qualified  for  it  than 
the  distinguished  scholar  whose  youth  and 
early  manhood  were  spent  in  her  halls  as  a 
student  and  professor  of  written  learning,  and 
whose  middle  age  has  been  as  fruitful  of  op 
portunities  to  study  mankind. 

Mr.  Everett  has  scarcely  fulfilled  the  expec 
tations  which  were  awakened  by  his  first  bril 
liant  essays.  He  came  completely  armed  and 
thoroughly  trained  into  the  lists,  but  has  never 
attempted  any  achievement  that  would  test  the 
full  capacity  of  his  skill,  the  full  might  of  his 
nature.  He  has  been  industrious ;  no  man  in 
deed  has  been  more  so  ;  his  discourses  and  re 
views  alone  would  have  occupied  the  lifetime 
of  an  author  of  more  than  ordinary  fertility ; 
and  they  have  been  produced  amid  engage 
ments  that  would  have  exhausted  the  energies 
and  resources  of  a  common  mind ;  they  have 
been  the  mere  pastimes  of  a  laborious  student 
and  statesman.  Had  the  same  activity,  faci 
lity  and  strength  been  concentrated  upon  two 
or  three  continuous  works,  his  reputation 
would  be  as  enduring  as  it  has  been  brilliant. 
It  may  be  said  of  him  that  he  has  been  per 
fectly  successful  in  every  thing  that  he  has 
undertaken;  but  he  has  written  and  spoken 
to  the  present  generation.  The  country  still 
looks  for  his  Life  Poem. 


332 


EDWARD    EVERETT. 


He  resigned  the  presidency  of  Harvard  in 
1849,  and  was  succeeded  by  Jared  Sparks. 
On  the  decease  of  Daniel  Webster,  Mr.  Everett 
was  appointed,  Nov.,  1852,  Secretary  of  State 
under  President  Filmore,  and  in  1853  he  suc 
ceeded  Hon.  John  Davis  as  a  national  Senator, 
but  resigned  his  seat  on  account  of  ill  health, 
the  following  year. 

In  1855,  Mr.  Everett  commenced  the  crown 
ing  work  of  his  life,  the  delivery  of  his  great 
oration  on  "Washington.  This  splendid  oration 
was  first  delivered  Feb.  22,  1856,  before  the 
Boston  Mercantile  Library,  and  the  proceeds 
devoted  to  the  purchase  of  a  copy  of  Stuart's 
portrait.  "  The  Ladies'  Mount  Vernon  Asso 
ciation"  for  the  purchase  of  the  estate  at  Mount 
Vernon,  having  accepted  his  offer  to  deliver 
this  oration  for  its  benefit,  invitations  from 
every  quarter  poured  in  upon  him,  and  for  three 
years  much  of  his  time  was  spent  in  delivering 
it,  and  always  to  crowded  audiences.  It  was 
repeated  119  times,  of  which  four  were  in  Phila 
delphia,  and  four  in  New  York,  producing  $57, 
000.  In  the  midst  of  this  engrossing  occupa 
tion  he  also  found  time  to  write  53  essays  for 
the  New  York  Ledger,  which  produced  $10,000 
for  the  same  fund.  His  address  on  "  Charity 
and  Charitable  Institutions,''  fifteen  times 
repeated,  raised  for  beneficial  purposes  $13, 
500.  Another  oration  on  "The  Early  Days 
of  Franklin "  also  produced  a  large  sum. 
Altogether  his  labor  of  about  three  years,  for 
benevolent  purposes,  realized  nearly  $90,000. 

In  1860,  he  wrote  a  Memoir  of  Washington 
for  the  Encyclopedia  Britannica,  which  was 
republished  in  this  country.  His  orations 
and  speeches  were  published  in  3  vols.,  8vo. 

In  1860,  he  was  nominated  for  Vice  Presi 
dent  of  the  U.  S. ,  and  received  about  one-eighth 
of  the  electoral  vote ;  Lincoln'?  election  was 
the  signal  for  the  defection  of  the  Southern 
States.  Mr.  Everett  was  prompt  to  recognize 
the  new  issue,  and  aided  the  cause  by  various 
orations,  and  in  1863,  was  invited  by  nineteen 
Governors  of  the  loyal  States  to  deliver  the 
oration  at  the  consecration  of  the  cemetery 
of  Gettysburg.  His  last  public  appearance  was 
at  a  meeting  held  in  Boston,  shortly  before  his 
death,  for  the  relief  of  the  people  of  Savannah, 
who  were  suffering  privations  caused  by  the 
war.  He  died  Jan.  15th,  1865,  of  apoplexy. 
President  Lincoln  ordered  appropriate  honor*? 
to  his  memorv 


AMERICA  AND  GREECE 

FROM  "THE  AFFAIRS  OF  GREECE."  AN  ABIICLB  IN  TUB 
NORTH  AMERICAN  REVIEW. 

What  a 

monstrous  complication  of  calamity,  to  have  the 
!»est,  the  worthiest,  the  purest  designs  and  actions, 
loaded  with  all  the  consequences  of  vice  arid  crime  ; 
to  be  deprived  not  only  of  all  that  makes  life  joy 
ous,  but  to  be  punished  for  doing  well,  and  to  be 
forced  to  go  privately  about  those  good  deeds,  to 
which  men,  in  other  countries,  are  exhorted  as  to  a 
source  of  praise  and  honour.  These  things  ought 
to  be  considered ;  and  a  reprehensible  apathy  pre 
vails  as  to  their  reality.  If  liberty,  virtue,  and  re 
ligion,  were  not  words  on  our  lips,  without  a  sub 
stance  in  our  hearts,  it  would  be  hardlv  possible  to 
pursue  our  little  local  interests  with  such  jealousy  ;  to 
be  all  on  fire  in  one  state,  for  fear  Congress  should 
claim  the  power  of  internal  improvements,  and  up 
in  arms  in  another  against  a  change  of  the  tariff, 
and  carried  away  in  all,  with  a  controversy  between 
rival  candidates  for  an  office,  which  all  would  ad 
minister  in  much  the  same  way ;  if  a  narrow  self 
ishness  did  not  lie  at  the  bottom  of  our  conduct, 
we  could  not  do  all  this,  while  men,  Christians  as 
good  as  we,  who  have  nerves  to  smart,  minds  to 
think,  hearts  to  feel,  like  ourselves,  are  waging  un 
aided,  single-handed,  at  perilous  odds,  a  war  of  ex 
termination  against  tyrants,  who  deny  them  not 
only  the  blessings  of  liberty,  but  the  mercies  of 
slavery. 

But  we  hope  better  things  of  our  country.  In 
the  great  Lancastrian  school  of  the  nations,  liber 
ty  is  the  lesson,  which  we  are  appointed  to  teach. 
Masters  we  claim  not,  we  wish  not,  to  be,  but  the 
Monitors  we  are  of  this  noble  doctrine.  It  is 
taught  in  our  settlement,  taught  in  our  Revolution, 
taught  in  our  government; -and  the  nations  of  the 
world  are  resolved  to  learn.  It  may  be  written  in 
sand  and  effaced,  but  it  will  be  written  again  and 
again,  till  hands  now  fettered  in  slavery  shall  bold 
ly  and  fairly  trace  it,  and  lips  that  now  stammer  at 
the  noble  word,  shall  sound  it  out  in  the  ears  of 
their  despots,  with  an  emphasis  to  waken  the  dead. 
Some  will  comprehend  it  and  practise  it  at  the  first ; 
others  must  wrestle  long  with  the  old  slavish  doc 
trines;  and  others  may  abuse  it  to  excess,  and 
cause  it  to  be  blasphemed  awhile  in  the  world.  But 
it  will  still  be  taught  and  still  be  repeated,  and  must 
be  learned  by  all ;  by  old  and  degenerate  communi 
ties  to  revive  their  youth  ;  by  springing  colonies  to 
hasten  their  progress.  With  the  example  before 
them  of  a  free  representative  government — of  a 
people  governed  by  themselves, — it  is  no  more  pos 
sible  that  the  nations  will  long  bear  any  other, 
than  that  they  should  voluntarily  dispense  with  the 
art  of  printing  or  the  mariner's  compass.  It  is 
therefore  plainly  no  age  for  Turks  to  be  stirring. 
It  is  as  much  as  men  can  do,  to  put  up  with  Chris 
tian,  with  civilized,  yea,  with  legitimate  masters. 
The  Grand  Seignior  is  a  half-century  too  late  in 
the  world.  It  requires  all  people's  patience  to  be 
oppressed  and  ground  to  the  dust,  by  the  parental 


EDWARD    EVERETT. 


333 


sway  of  most  faithful,  most  cathouc,  most  Christian 
princes.  Fatigued  as  they  are  with  the  Holy  Alli 
ance,  it  were  preposterous  to  suppose  they  can  long 
submit  to  a  horde  of  Tartarian  infidels.  The  idea 
that  the  most  honorable,  the  most  responsible,  the 
most  powerful  orfice  in  the  state,  can,  like  a  vile 
heirloom,  follow  the  chance  of  descent,  is  quite 
enough  to  task  the  forbearance  of  this  bold  and 
busy  time.  What  then  shall  become  of  viziers 
and  sultans,  when  ministers  are  bewildered  in  their 
cabinets,  and  kings  are  shaken  on  their  thrones  ] 
Instead  of  arming  their  misbelieving  host  against 
a  people  who  have  taken  hold  of  liberty,  and  who 
will  be  free,  let  them  rejoice  that  great  and  little 
Bucharia  are  still  vacant,  and  take  up  their  march 
for  the  desert. 


ARISTOCRACY. 

FROM   THE  PROSPECTS  OF   REFORM   IN   EUROPE. 

No  man  in  the  Catholic  Church  can  take  the  first 
degrees  of  saintship,  under  a  century,  nor  be  fully  ca 
nonized  under  two.  It  requires  a  hundred  years  to 
raise  human  weakness  to  beatific  purity  ; — but  the 
hundred  years,  if  circumstances  are  favourable, 
will  do  it.  What  subsists  to-day  by  violerTce,  con 
tinues  to-morrow  by  acquiescence,  and  is  perpetu 
ated  by  tradition  ;  till  at  last  the  hoary  abuse  shakes 
the  gray  hairs  of  antiquity  at  us,  and  gives  itself 
out  as  the  wisdom  of  ages.  Thus  the  clearest 
dictates  of  reason  are  made  to  yield  to  a  long  suc 
cession  of  follies.  And  this  is  the  foundation  of 
the  aristocratic  system  at  the  present  day.  Its 
stronghold,  with  all  those  not  immediately  inte 
rested  in  it,  is  the  reverence  of  antiquity. 

By  this  system  we  mean  the  aggregate  of  all  the  in 
stitutions  which  a  people,  supposing  them  to  be  vir 
tuous  and  well  informed,  and  meeting  together  free 
from  all  prejudices,  to  organize  themselves  into  a  po 
litical  community,  and  capable  of  foreseeing  conse 
quences,  would  reject,  as  not  tending  to  promote  the 
greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest  number.  We  will 
assume  that  a  people  thus  assembling  would  decide, 
that  it  was  best  to  have  an  efficient  civil  government ; 
composed  of  the  legislative,  executive,  and  judicial 
departments ;  that  they  would  provide  for  the  choice 
of  the  man  whom  the  majority  should  think  best 
qualified,  as  chief  magistrate,  and  that  they  would 
furnish  this  executive  officer  with  all  the  requisite 
means  to  enable  him  to  discharge  his  functions.  We 
do  not,  therefore,  think  a  vigorous  and  well  organ 
ized  executive  government  a  part  of  the  abusive 
aristocratic  system.  But  the  people  would  plainly 
see,  that  their  chief  magistrate  was  not  only  con 
stituted  for  their  advantage,  but  derived  his  autho 
rity  from  their  choice ;  consequently  if  any  one 
started  the  idea  that  he  possessed  it  by  birth  or  di 
vine  right,  the  suggestion  would  be  instantly  re 
jected  as  groundless  ;  it  might  even  be  derided  as 
absurd.  We  therefore  regard  hereditary  monarchy 
as  a  part  of  the  system  which  is  founded  in  abuse. 
Sooner  or  later,  we  doubt  not,  the  time  will  come, 
when  the  absurdity  of  such  a  system  will  be  as 
generally  felt,  as  that  of  the  establishment  to  which 


Fletcher  of  Saltoun  compares  it, — an  hereditary 
professorship  of  divinity,  which  he  says  he  heard  of 
in  some  part  of  Germany. 

This  assembly  would  no  doubt  constitute  a  le 
gislative  body,  and  would  probably  (supposing  it, 
as  we  have  stated,  gifted  with  the  foresight  of  what 
experience  has  taught  us)  organize  it  into  two  se 
parate  chambers  of  legislation;  but  of  this  we 
speak  with  less  confidence,  as  the  experiment  of 
one  has  never  been  fairly  tried.  But  whether  one 
or  two,  the  people  would  of  course  arrange  a  plan 
of  election,  by  which  the  members  of  the  legisla 
ture  should  be  designated  by  the  people.  If  mem 
bership  were  viewed  as  a  privilege,  it  ought  not  to  be 
monopolized  ;  if  as  a  burden,  not  to  be  permanent 
ly  borne  by  one :  consequently  provision  would  be 
made  for  a  limited  tenure  of  the  representative 
office,  and  an  exercise,  at  marked  intervals,  of  the 
popular  choke.  If  any  one  should  intimate,  that 
in  both  or  either  of  the  houses,  the  right  and  duty 
of  legislation  ought  to  be  hereditary ;  that  when 
one  legislator  died,  his  place  should  be  taken  by 
his  oldest  son,  or  his  nephew,  or,  in  default  of  near 
er  kin,  by  the  most  distant  assignable  heir,  (who 
may  be,  perhaps,  the  most  stupid,  the  most  vicious, 
the  most  contemptible  person  in  the  community)  ; 
and  should  remain  wholly  vacant  if  he  had  no  heir, 
— as  if  his  family  alone  wiere  endowed  with  special 
grace  to  fill  it, — such  an  intimation  would  be  re 
ceived  with  astonishment  and  disgust,  and  appre 
hensions  for  the  sanity  of  the  man  who  made  it. 
We  therefore  regard  an  hereditary  House  of  Lords 
as  a  part  of  the  aristocratic  system,  founded  on  the 
most  flagrant  abuse.  By  the  same  test  of  princi 
ple,  we  should  arrive  at  the  same  conclusion,  in  re 
spect  to  an  established  Church,  the  law  of  primo 
geniture,  and  all  antiquated,  unequal,  and  abusive 
corporate  monopolies,  in  civil  or  ecclesiastical,  pub 
lic  or  private  affairs. 


DIVINE  RIGHT  AND  TRADITION. 

FROM  THE   SAME. 

WAS  it  all  mere  arrogant  assumption ;  all  gra 
tuitous  fraud  upon  a  credulous  age,  which  taught 
that  the  establishment  of  crown  and  church  was 
jure  divino?  Far  from  it.  It  was  a  calculation 
of  the  deepest  worldly  wisdom,  a  provision  of  the 
most  consummate  selfish  sagacity.  Starting  from 
the  simple  and  undoubted  principle  that  civil  go 
vernment  is  approved  by  Providence,  and  that 
Christianity  is  a  revelation  of  Divine  truth,  men 
were  trained  on  to  the  toleration,  and  at  last  to  the 
reverence  of  an  established  church  and  an  here 
ditary  crown,  subsisting  by  the  grace  of  God.  The 
subtle  spirits  who  reared  this  fabric  knew  well  that 
it  could  rest  on  no  other  foundation.  The  great 
master  principle  of  human  weakness,  man's  dread 
of  the  mysterious  unknown,  his  self-prostration  be 
fore  the  Infinite,  was  resorted  to,  by  the  authors  of 
these  institutions,  because  no  other  principle  was 
strong  enough  to  subdue  him  to  these  institutions. 
They  looked  round  for  shoulders  broad  enough  to 
bear  this  yoke.  Chivalry  rattled  her  sword  at  the 


334 


EDWARD    EVERETT. 


very  suggestion  of  it.  The  great  barons  looked 
over  their  battlements,  and  laughed  at  their  fellow 
baron,  the  king,  who,  claiming  to  be  greater  than 
the  greatest,  was  sometimes  weaker  than  the  weak 
est;  but  Superstition  offered  his  sturdy  back  to  the 
burden,  and  bore  it  like  the  strong  ass  in  the  Bible, 
for  centuries.  But  those  centuries  are  passed. 
The  divine  right  of  the  crown  and  an  established 
church  are  exploded,  and  on  what  foundation  do 
they  now  rest  ]  . . .  They  are  the  traditionary  in 
stitutions  of  England ;  the  pillars  of  the  British 
monarchy.  They  are  now,  if  you  will,  erect,  but 
their  basis  is  insecure.  It  is  not  two  centuries  since 
the  great  usurper  heaved  them  from  their  foundation, 
and  showed  that  their  substructions,  as  the  histo 
rian  says  of  those  of  the  Roman  capitol,  were  in 
sane.  The  era  of  the  elder  political  fanaticism  has 
gone  by.  A  milder  delusion  succeeded,  and  the 
revolting  features  of  the  ancient  toryism  are  now 
hidden  under  the  mask  of  tradition.  The  sanctity 
of  that  tradition  is  in  its  turn  assailed,  and  in  it 
the  only  conservative  principle  of  the  British  Consti 
tution.  We  do  not  say,  that  the  British  Constitu 
tion  is  doomed  to  irremediable  abuse, — to  the  forced 
toleration  of  any  and  every  existing  evil.  But  we 
humbly  apprehend,  that  the  only  principle  of  re 
form,  which  is  consistent  with  its  preservation,  is 
the  temperate  correction  of  practical  evils,  by  spe 
cific  remedies  applied  to  the  individual  case.  Ge 
neral  and  theoretic  remedies  are  inadmissible  ;  for 
theoretically  the  whole  monarchy  is  an  abuse. 


THE  LANDING  OF  THE  MAYFLOWER. 

FROM   A   CENTENNIAL   ADDRESS  AT   BARNSTABLE. 

Do  you  think,  sir,  as  we  repose  beneath  this 
splendid  pavilion,  adorned  by  the  hand  of  taste, 
blooming  with  festive  garlands,  wreathed  with  the 
stars  and  stripes  of  this  great  republic,  resounding 
with  strains  of  heart-stirring  music,  that,  merely  be 
cause  it  stands  upon  the  soil  of  Barnstable,  we 
form  any  idea  of  the  spot  as  it  appeared  to  Cap 
tain  Miles  Standish,  and  his  companions,  on  the 
15th  or  16th  of  November,  1620]  Oh,  no,  sir. 
Let  u.s  go  up  for  a  moment,  in  imagination,  to  yonder 
hill,  which  overlooks  the  village  and  the  bay,  and 
suppose  ourselves  standing  there  on  some  bleak, 
ungenial  morning,  in  the  middle  of  November  of 
that  year.  The  coast  is  fringed  with  ice.  Dreary 
forests,  interspersed  with  sandy  tracts,  fill  the  back 
ground.  Nothing  of  humanity  quickens  on  the 
spot,  save  a  few  roaming  savages,  who,  ill-provided 
with  what  even  they  deem  the  necessaries  of  life, 
arc  digging  with  their  fingers  a  scanty  repast  out 
of  the  frozen  sands.  No  friendly  lighthouses  had 
as  yet  hung  up  their  cressets  upon  your  headlands ; 
no  brave  pilot-boat  was  hovering  like  a  sea-bird  on 
the  tops  of  the  waves,  beyond  the  Cape,  to  guide 
the  shattered  bark  to  its  harbour ;  no  charts  and 
soundings  made  the  secret  pathways  of  the  deep  as 
plain  as  a  gravelled  road  through  a  lawn  ;  no  com 
fortable  dwellings  along  the  line  of  the  shore,  and 
where  are  now  your  well-inhabited  streets,  spoke  a 


welcome  J;o  the  Pilgrim ;  no  steeple  poured  the 
music  of  Sabbath  morn  into  the  ear  of  the  fugitive 
for  conscience'  sake.  Primeval  wildness  and  na 
tive  desolation  brood  over  sea  and  land  ;  and  from 
the  9th  of  November,  when,  after  a  most  calami 
tous  voyage,  the  Mayflower  first  came  to  anchor 
in  Provincetown  harbour,  to  the  end  of  December, 
the  entire  male  portion  of  the  company  was  occu 
pied,  for  the  greater  part  of  every  dav,  and  often 
by  night  as  well  as  by  day,  in  exploring  the  coast 
and  seeking  a  place  of  rest,  amidst  perils  from  the 
savages,  from  the  unknown  shore,  and  the  elements, 
which  it  makes  one's  heart  bleed  to  think  upon. 

But  this  dreary  waste,  which  we  thus  contem 
plate  in  imagination,  and  which  they  traversed  in 
sad  reality,  is  a  chosen  land.  It  is  a  theatre  upon 
which  an  all-glorious  drama  is  to  be  enacted.  On 
this  frozen  soil, — driven  from  the  ivy-clad  churches 
of  their  mother  land, — escaped,  at  last,  from  loath 
some  prisons, — the  meek  fathers  of  a  pure  church 
will  lay  the  spiritual  basement  of  their  temple. 
Here,  on  the  everlasting  rock  of  liberty,  they  will 
establish  the  foundation  of  a  free  State.  Beneath 
its  ungenial  wintry  sky,  principles  of  social  right, 
institutions  of  civil  government,  shall  germinate, 
in  which,  what  seemed  the  Utopian  dreams  of  vi 
sionary  sages,  are  to  be  more  than  realized. 

But  let  us  contemplate,  for  a  moment,  the  in 
struments  selected  by  Providence,  for  this  political 
and  moral  creation.  However  unpromising  the 
field  of  action,  the  agents  must  correspond  with 
the  excellence  of  the  work.  The  time  is  truly 
auspicious.  England  is  well  supplied  with  all  the 
materials  of  a  generous  enterprise.  She  is  in  the 
full  affluence  of  her  wealth  of  intellect  and  charac 
ter.  The  age  of  Elizabeth  has  passed  and  garnered 
up  its  treasures.  The  age  of  the  commonwealth, 
silent  and  unsuspected,  is  ripening  towards  its  har 
vest  of  great  men.  The  Burleighs  and  Cecils 
have  sounded  the  depths  of  statesmanship ;  the 
Drakes  and  Raleighs  have  run  the  whole  round  of 
chivalry  and  adventure ;  the  Cokes  and  Bacons 
are  spreading  the  light  of  their  master-minds  through 
the  entire  universe  of  philosophy  and  law.  Out 
of  a  generation  of  which  men  like  these  are  the 
guides  and  lights,  it  cannot  be  difficult  to  select 
the  leaders  of  any  lofty  undertaking ;  and,  through 
their  influence,  to  secure  to  it  the  protection  of  roy 
alty.  But,  alas,  for  New  England  !  No,  sir,  hap 
pily  for  New  England,  Providence  works  not  with 
human  instruments.  Not  many  wise  men  after 
the  flesh,  not  many  mighty,  not  many  noble,  are 
called.  The  stars  of  human  greatness,  that  glitter 
in  a  court,  are  not  destined  to  rise  on  the  lowering 
horizon  of  the  despised  Colony.  The  feeble  com 
pany  of  Pilgrims  is  not  to  be  marshalled  by  gar 
tered  statesmen,  or  mitred  prelates.  Fleets  will 
not  be  despatched  to  convoy  the  little  band,  nor  ar 
mies  to  protect  it.  Had  there  been  honours  to  be 
won,  or  pleasures  to  be  enjoyed,  or  plunder  to  be 
grasped,  hungry  courtiers,  mid-summer  friends, 
godless  adventurers,  would  have  eaten  out  the 
heart  of  the  enterprise.  Silken  Buckinghams  and 
Somersets  would  have  blasted  it  with  their  patron 
age.  But,  safe  amidst  their  unenvied  perils,  strong 


EDWARD    EVERETT. 


335 


in  their  inoffensive  weakness,  rich  in  their  untempt- 
ing  poverty,  the  patient  fugitives  are  permitted  to 
pursue  unmolested  the  thorny  paths  of  tribulation; 
and,  landed  at  last  on  the  unfriendly  shore,  the 
hosts  of  God,  in  the  frozen  mail  of  December,  en 
camp  around  the  dwellings  of  the  just ; 

"Stern  famine  guards  the  solitary  coast, 
<  And  winter  barricades  the  realms  of  frost." 

While  Bacon  is  attuning  the  sweetest  strains  of 
his  honeyed  eloquence  to  soothe  the  dull  ear  of  a 
crowned  pedant,  and  his  great  rival,  only  less  ob 
sequious,  is  on  his  knees  to  deprecate  the  royal 
displeasure,  the  future  founders  of  the  new  repub 
lic  beyond  the  sea  are  training  up  for  their  illustri 
ous  mission,  in  obscurity,  hardship,  and  weary  ex 
ile  in  a  foreign  land. 

And  now, — for  the  fulness  of  time  is  come, — 
let  us  go  up  once  more,  in  imagination,  to  yonder 
hill,  and  look  out  upon  the  November  scene.  That 
single  dark  speck,  just  discernible  through  the  per 
spective  glass,  on  the  waste  of  waters,  is  the  fated 
vessel.  The  storm  moans  through  her  tattered 
canvas,  as  she  creeps,  almost  sinking,  to  her  an 
chorage  in  Proviricetown  harbour ;  and  there  she 
lies,  with  all  her  treasures,  not  of  silver  and  gold, 
(for  of  these  she  has  none,)  but  of  courage,  of  pa 
tience,  of  zeal,  of  high  spiritual  daring.  So  often 
as  I  dwell  in  imagination  on  this  scene;  when  I 
consider  the  condition  of  the  Mayflower,  utterly  in 
capable,  as  she  was,  of  living  through  another  gale ; 
when  I  survey  the  terrible  front  presented  by  our 
coast  to  the  navigator  who,  unacquainted  with  its 
channels  and  roadsteads,  should  approach  it  in  the 
stormy  season,  I  dare  not  call  it  a  mere  piece  of 
good  fortune,  that  the  general  north  and  south 
wall  of  the  shore  of  New  England  should  be 
broken  by  this  extraordinary  projection  of  the 
Cape,  running  out  into  the  ocean  a  hundred  miles, 
as  if  on  purpose  to  receive  and  encircle  the  pre 
cious  vessel.  As  I  now  see  her,  freighted  with  the 
destinies  of  a  continent,  barely  escaped  from  the 
perils  of  the  deep,  approaching  the  shore  precisely 
where  the  broad  sweep  of  this  most  remarkable 
headland  presents  almost  the  only  point,  at  which, 
for  hundreds  of  miles,  she  could,  with  any  ease, 
have  made  a  harbour,  and  this,  perhaps,  the  very 
best  on  the  seaboard,  I  feel  my  spirit  raised  above 
the  sphere  of  mere  natural  agencies.  I  see  the 
mountains  of  New  England  rising  from  their 
rocky  thrones.  They  rush  forward  into  the  ocean, 
settling  down  as  they  advance;  and  there  they 
range  themselves,  as  a  mighty  bulwark  around  the 
Heaven-directed  vessel.  Yes,  the  everlasting  God 
himself  stretches  out  the  arm  of  his  mercy  and  his 
power,  in  substantial  manifestation,  and  gathers  the 
meek  company  of  his  worshippers  as  in  the  hollow 
of  his  hand. 

THE  PROGRESS  OF  DISCOVERY. 

FROM   AN   ADDRESS   AT   AMHERST   COLLEGE. 

WE  are  confirmed  in  the  conclusion  that  the  po 
pular  diffusion  of  knowledge  is  favourable  to  the 
growth  of  science,  when  we  reflect  that,  vast  as 
the  domain  of  learning  is,  and  extraordinary  as  is 


the  progress  which  has  been  made  in  almost  every 
branch,  we  may  assume  as  certain,  I  will  not  say  that 
we  are  in  its  infancy,  but  that  the  discoveries  which 
have  been  already  made,  wonderful  as  they  are,  bear 
but  a  small  proportion  to  those  that  will  hereafter 
be  effected ;  and  that  in  every  thing  that  belongs 
to  the  improvement  of  man,  there  is  yet  a  field  of 
investigation  broad  enough  to  satisfy  the  most  eager 
thirst  for  knowledge,  and  diversified  enough  to  suit 
every  variety  of  taste,  order  of  intellect,  or  degree 
of  qualification.  For  the  peaceful  victories  of  the 
mind,  that  unknown  and  unconqucred  world,  for 
which  Alexander  wept,  is  for  ever  near  at  hand; 
hidden  indeed,  as  yet,  behind  the  veil  with  which 
nature  shrouds  her  undiscovered  mysteries,  but 
stretching  all  along  the  confines  of  the  domain  of 
knowledge,  sometimes  nearest  when  least  suspected. 
The  foot  has  not  yet  pressed,  nor  the  eye  beheld 
it;  but  the  mind,  in  its  deepest  musings,  in  its 
wildest  excursions,  will  sometimes  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  hidden  realm — a  gleam  of  light  from  the 
Hesperian  island — a  fresh  and  fragrant  breeze  from 
off  the  undiscovered  land — 

"Sabscan  odours  from  the  spicy  shore," 
which  happier  voyagers,  in  after  times,  shall  ap 
proach,  explore  and  inhabit.  Who  has  not  felt, 
when,  with  his  very  soul  concentrated  in  his  eyes, 
while  the  world  around  him  is  wrapped  in  sleep, 
he  gazes  into  the  holy  depths  of  the  midnight  hea 
vens,  or  wanders  in  contemplation  among  the 
worlds  and  systems  that  sweep  through  the  immen 
sity  of  space — who  has  not  felt  as  if  their  mystery 
must  yet  more  fully  yield  to  the  ardent,  unwearied, 
imploring  research  of  patient  science  1  Who  does 
not,  in  those  choice  and  blessed  moments,  in  which 
the  world  and  its  interests  are  forgotten,  and  the 
spirit  retires  into  the  inmost  sanctuary  of  its  own 
meditations,  and  there,  unconscious  of  every  thing 
but  itself  and  the  infinite  Perfection,  of  which  it 
is  the  earthly  type,  and  kindling  the  flame  of  thought 
on  the  altar  of  prayer — who  does  not  feel,  in  mo 
ments  like  these,  as  if  it  must  at  last  be  given  to 
man,  to  fathom  the  great  secret  of  his  own  being — 
to  solve  the  mighty  problem 

"Of  providence,  foreknowledge,  will  and  fate?" 
When  I  think  in  what  slight  elements  the  great 
discoveries  that  have  changed  the  condition  of  the 
world  have  oftentimes  originated  ;  on  the  entire 
revolution  in  political  and  social  affairs  which  has 
resulted  from  the  use  of  the  magnetic  needle ;  on 
the  world  of  wonders,  teeming  with  the  most  im 
portant  scientific  discoveries, which  has  been  opened 
by  the  telescope  ;  on  the  all-controlling  influence 
of  so  simple  an  invention  as  that  of  movable  me 
tallic  types;  on  the  effects  of  the  invention  of  gun 
powder,  no  doubt  the  casual  result  of  some  idle 
experiment  in  alchemy  ;  on  the  consequences  that 
have  resulted  and  are  likely  to  result,  from  the  ap 
plication  of  the  vapour  of  boiling  water  to  the  manu 
facturing  arts,  to  navigation,  and  transportation  by 
land ;  on  the  results  of  a  single  sublime  concep 
tion  in  the  mind  of  Newton,  on  which  he  erected, 
as  on  a  foundation,  the  glorious  temple  of  the  sys 
tern  of  the  heavens;  in  fine,  when  I  consider  how, 
from  the  great  master-principle  of  the  philosophy 


336 


EDWARD   EVERETT. 


of  Bacon — the  induction  of  Truth  from  the  obser 
vation  of  Fact — has  flowed,  as  from  a  living  foun 
tain,  the  fresh  and  still  swelling  stream  of  modern 
science,  I  am  almost  oppressed  with  the  idea  of 
the    probable    connection   of    the   truths   already 
known,  with  great  principles  which  remain  undis 
covered, — of  the  proximity  in  which  we  may  un-  ! 
consciously  stand,  to  the  most  astonishing,  though  I 
yet  unrevealed  mysteries  of  the  material  and  intel 
lectual  world. 

If,  after  thus  considering  the  seemingly  obvious 
sources  from  which  the  most  important  discoveries 
and  improvements  have  sprung,  we  inquire  into 
the  extent  of  the  field,  in  which  farther  discoveries 
are  to  be  made,  which  is  no  other  and  no  less  than 
the  entire  natural  and  spiritual  creation  of  God — 
a  grand  and  lovely  system,  even  as  we  imperfectly 
apprehend  it,  but  no  doubt  most  grand,  lovely  and 
harmonious,  beyond  all  that  we  now  conceive  or  ima 
gine  ;  when  we  reflect  that  the  most  insulated,  seem 
ingly  disconnected,  and  even  contradictory  parts  of 
the  system  are,  no  doubt,  bound  together  as  por 
tions  of  one  stupendous  whole ;  and  that  those 
which  are  at  present  the  least  explicable,  and  which 
most  completely  defy  the  penetration  hitherto 
bestowed  upon  them,  are  as  intelligible,  in  re 
ality,  as  that  which  seems  most  plain  and  clear  ; 
that  as  every  atom  in  the  universe  attracts  every 
other  atom,  and  is  attracted  by  it,  so  every  truth 
stands  in  harmonious  connection  with  every  other 
truth ;  we  are  brought  directly  to  the  conclusion, 
that  every  portion  of  knowledge  now  possessed, 
every  observed  fact,  every  demonstrated  principle,  is 
a  clew,  which  we  hold  by  one  end  in  the  hand, 
and  which  is  capable  of  guiding  the  faithful  in 
quirer  farther  and  farther  into  the  inmost  recesses 
of  the  labyrinth  of  nature.  Ages  and  ages  may 
elapse,  before  it  conduct  the  patient  intellect  to  the 
wonders  of  science  to  which  it  will  eventually  lead 
him ;  and  perhaps  with  the  next  step  he  takes,  he 
will  reach  the  goal,  and  principles  destined  to  af 
fect  the  condition  of  millions  beam  in  characters 
of  light  upon  his  understanding.  What  was  at 
once  more  unexpected  and  more  obvious  than 
Newton's  discovery  of  the  origin  of  light]  Every 
living  oemg,  since  the  creation  of  the  world,  had 
gazeii  on  the  rainbow ;  to  none  had  the  beautiful 
mystery  revealed  itself.  And  even  the  great  phi 
losopher  himself,  while  dissecting  the  solar  beam, 
while  actually  untwisting  the  golden  and  silver 
threads  that  compose  the  ray  of  light,  laid  open 
but  half  its  wonders.  And  who  shall  say  that  to 
us,  to  whom,  as  we  think,  modern  science  has  dis 
closed  the  residue,  truths  more  wonderful  than 
those  now  known  will  not  yet  be  revealed  1 

It  is  therefore  by  no  means  to  be  inferred,  be 
cause  the  human  mind  has  seemed  to  linger  for  a 
long  time  around  certain  results — as  ultimate  prin 
ciples — that  they  and  the  principles  closely  con 
nected  with  them  are  not  likely  to  be  pushed  ranch 
farther ,  nor,  on  the  other  hand,  does  the  intellect 
always  require  much  time  to  bring  its  noblest  truths 
to  seeming  perfection.  It  was,  I  suppose,  two 
thousand  years  from  the  time  when  the  peculiar 
properties  of  the  magnet  were  first  observed,  be 


fore  it  became,  through  the  means  of  those  quali 
ties,  the  pilot  which  guided  Columbus  to  the  Ame 
rican  continent.  Before  the  invention  of  the  com 
pass  could  take  full  effect,  it  was  necessary  that 
some  navigator  should  practically  and  boldly  grasp 
the  idea  that  the  globe  is  round.  The  two  truths 
are  apparently  without  connection ;  but  in  their 
application  to  practice,  they  are  intimately  associ 
ated.  Hobhes  says  that  Dr.  Harvey,  the  illustrious 
discoverer  of  the  circulation  of  the  blood,  is  the 
only  author  of  a  great  discovery  who  ever  lived  to 
see  it  universally  adopted.  To  the  honour  of  sub 
sequent  science,  this  remark  could  not  now,  with 
equal  truth,  be  made.  Nor  was  Harvey  himself 
without  some  painful  experience  of  the  obstacles, 
arising  from  popular  ignorance,  against  which 
truth  sometimes  forces  its  way  to  general  accept 
ance.  When  he  first  proposed  the  beautiful  doc 
trine,  .his  practice  fell  off';  people  would  not  con 
tinue  to  trust  their  lives  in  the  hands  of  such  a 
dreamer.  When  it  was  firmly  established  and  ge 
nerally  received,  one  of  his  opponents  published  a 
tract  de  circulo  sanguinis  Salomoneo,  and  proved 
from  the  twelfth  chapter  of  Ecclesiastes,  that  the 
circulation  of  the  blood  was  no  secret  in  the  time 
of  Solomon.  The  whole  doctrine  of  the  Reforma 
tion  may  be  found  in  the  writings  of  Wiclif ;  but 
neither  he  nor  his  age  felt  the  importance  of  his 
principles,  nor  the  consequences  to  which  they  led. 
Huss  had  studied  the  writings  of  Wiclif  in  manu 
script,  and  was  in  no  degree  behind  him,  in  the 
boldness  with  which  he  denounced  the  papal  usur 
pations.  But  his  voice  was  not  heard  beyond  the 
mountains  of  Bohemia ;  and  he  expired  in  agony 
at  the  stake,  and  his  ashes  were  scattered  upon  the 
Rhine.  A  hundred  years  passed  away.  Luther, 
like  an  avenging  angel,  burst  upon  the  world,  and 
denounced  the  corruptions  of  the  church,  and  ral 
lied  the  host  of  the  faithful,  with  a  voice  which 
might  almost  call  up  those  ashes  from  their  watery 
grave,  and  form  and  kindle  them  again  into  a  liv 
ing  witness  of  the  truth. 

Thus  Providence,  which  has  ends  innumerable 
to  answer,  in  the  conduct  of  the  physical  and  intellec 
tual,  as  well  as  of  the  moral  world,  sometimes  per 
mits  the  great  discoverers  fully  to  enjoy  their  fame, 
sometimes  to  catch  but  a  glimpse  of  the  extent  of 
their  achievements,  and  sometimes  sends  them  de 
jected  and  heart-broken  to  the  grave,  unconscious 
of  the  importance  of  their  own  discoveries,  and  not 
merely  undervalued  by  their  contemporaries,  hut 
by  tuemselves.  It  is  plain  that  Copernicus,  like 
his  great  contemporary,  Columbus,  though  fully 
conscious  of  the  boldness  and  the  novelty  of  his 
doctrine,  snw  but  a  part  of  the  changes  it  was  to 
effect  in  science.  After  harbouring  in  his  bosom 
for  long,  long  years  that  pernicious  heresy — the 
solar  system — he  died  on  the  day  of  the  appear 
ance  of  his  book  from  the  press.  The  closing 
scene  of  his  life,  with  a  little  help  from  the  imagi 
nation,  would  furnish  a  noble  subject  for  an  artist. 
For  thirty-five  years  he  has  revolved  and  matured  in 
his  mind  his  system  of  the  heavens.  A  natural 
mildness  of  disposition,  bordering  on  timidity,  a 
reluctance  to  encounter  controversy,  and  a  dread 


EDWARD    EVERETT. 


337 


of  persecution,  have  led  him  to  withhold  his  work 
fro  in  the  press,  and  make  known  his  system  but 
to  a  few  confidential  disciples  and  friends.  At 
length  he  draws  near  his  end  ;  he  is  seventy-three 
years  of  age,  and  he  yields  his  work  on  "  The  Re 
volutions  of  the  Heavenly  Orbs''  to  his  friends  for 
publication.  The  day  at  last  has  come,  on  which  it 
is  to  be  ushered  into  the  world.  It  is  the  twenty- 
fourth  of  May,  1543.  On  that  day — the  effect,  no 
doubt,  of  the  intense  excitement  of  his  mind,  ope 
rating  upon  an  exhausted  frame — an  effusion  of 
blood  brings  him  to  the  gates  of  the  grave.  His 
last  hour  has  come;  he  lies  stretched  upon  the 
couch  from  which  he  will  never  rise,  in  his  apart 
ment  at  the  Canonry  at  Frauenberg,  East  Prussia. 
The  beams  of  the  setting  sun  glance  through  the 
Gothic  windows  of  his  chamber ;  near  his  bedside 
is  the  ancillary  sphere,  which  he  has  contrived  to 
represent  his  theory  of  the  heavens ;  his  picture, 
painted  by  himself,  the  amusement  of  his  earlier 
years,  hangs  before  him ;  beneath  it  are  his  astro 
labe  arid  other  imperfect  astronomical  instruments ; 
and  around  him  are  gathered  his  sorrowing  disci 
ples.  The  door  of  the  apartment  opens; — the 
eye  of  the  departing  sage  is  turned  to  see  who  en 
ters  :  it  is  a  friend,  who  brings  him  the  first  printed 
copy  of  his  immortal  treatise.  He  knows  that  in 
that  book  he  contradicts  all  that  had  ever  been 
distinctly  taught,  by  former  philosophers;  he  knows 
that  he  has  rebelled  against  the  sway  of  Ptolemy, 
which  the  scientific  world  had  acknowledged  for  a 
thousand  years ;  he  knows  that  the  popular  mind 
will  be  shocked  by  his  innovations  ;  he  knows  that 
the  attempt  will  be  made  to  press  even  religion  into 
the  service  against  him ;  but  he  knows  that  his 
book  is  true.  He  is  dying,  but  he  leaves  a  glorious 
truth,  as  his  dying  bequest  to  the  world.  He  bids 
the  friend  who  has  brought  it  place  himself  between 
the  window  and  his  bedside,  that  the  sun's  rays 
may  fall  upon  the  precious  volume,  and  he  may 
behold  it  once  more,  before  his  eye  grows  dim. 
He  looks  upon  it,  Ukes  it  in  his  hands,  presses  it 
to  his  breast,  and  expires.  But  no,  he  is  not  wholly 
gone.  A  smile  lights  up  his  dying  countenance; 
a  beam  of  returning  intelligence  kindles  in  his  eye ; 
his  lips  move  ;  and  the  friend,  who  leans  over  him, 
can  hear  him  faintly  murmur  the  beautiful  senti 
ments  which  the  Christian  lyrist  of  a  later  age  has 
so  finely  expressed  in  verse : 

Ye  golden  lamps  of  heaven,  farewell,  with  all  your  feeble 

light; 
Farewell,  thou  ever-changing  moon,  pale  empress  of  the 

night ; 

A  nd  thou  refulgent  orb  of  day,  in  brighter  flames  array'd, 
My  soul  which  springs  beyond  thy  sphere,  no  more  de 
mands  thy  aid. 

Ye  stars  are  but  the  shining  dust  of  my  divine  abode, 
The  pavement  of  those  heavenly  courts,  where  I  shall 
reign  with  God. 

So  died  the  great  Columbus  of  the  heavens. 


EXTENSION  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 

FROM  AN   ORATION    BEFORE   THE   PHI  BETA    KAPPA  SOCIETY. 

IN  the  grand  and  steady  progress  of  our  coun 
try,  the  career  of  duty  and  usefulness  will  be  run 
by  all  its  children,  under  a  constantly  increasing 
491 


excitement.  The  voice,  which,  in  the  morning  of 
life,  shall  awaken  the  patriotic  sympathy  of  the 
land,  will  be  echoed  back  by  a  community,  incal 
culably  swelled  in  all  its  proportions,  before  that 
voice  shall  be  hushed  in  death.  The  writer,  by  whom 
the  noble  features  of  our  scenery  shall  be  sketched 
with  a  glowing  pencil,  the  traits  of  our  romantic 
early  history  gathered  up  with  filial  zeal,  and  the 
peculiarities  of  our  character  seized  with  delicate 
perception,  cannot  mount  so  entirely  and  rapidly 
to  success,  but  that  ten  years  will  add  new  millions 
to  the  numbers  of  his  readers.  The  American 
statesman,  the  orator,  whose  voice  is  already  heard 
in  its  supremacy,  from  Florida  to  Maine,  whose  in 
tellectual  empire  already  extends  beyond  the  limits 
of  Alexander's,  has  yet  new  states  and  new  na 
tions  starting  into  being,  the  willing  tributaries  to 
his  sway. 

This  march  of  our  population  westward  has  been 
attended  with  consequences  in  some  degree  novel 
in  the  history  of  the  human  mind.  It  is  a  fact 
somewhat  difficult  of  explanation,  that  the  refine 
ment  of  the  ancient  nations  seemed  almost  wholly 
devoid  of  an  elastic  and  expansive  principle.  The 
arts  of  Greece  were  enchained  to  her  islands  and 
her  coasts ;  they  did  not  penetrate  the  interior,  at 
least  not  in  every  direction.  The  language  and 
literature  of  Athens  were  as  much  unknown  to 
the  north  of  Pindus,  at  a  distance  of  two  hundred 
miles  from  the  capital  of  Grecian  refinement,  as 
they  were  in  Scythia.  Thrace,  whose  mountain 
tops  may  almost  be  seen  from  the  porch  of  the 
temple  of  Minerva  at  Sunium,  was  the  proverbial 
abode  of  barbarism.  Though  the  colonies  of 
Greece  were  scattered  on  the  coasts  of  Italy,  of 
France,  of  Spain,  and  of  Africa,  no  extension  of 
their  population  far  into  the  interior  took  place,  and 
the  arts  did  not  penetrate  beyond  the  walls  of  the 
cities  where  they  were  cultivated.  How  differ 
ent  is  the  picture  of  the  diffusion  of  the  arts  and 
improvements  of  civilization,  from  the  coast  to  the 
interior  of  America !  Population  advances  west 
ward  with  a  rapidity  which  numbers  may  describe 
indeed,  but  cannot  represent,  with  any  vivacity,  to 
the  mind.  The  wilderness,  which  one  year  is  im 
passable,  is  traversed  the  next  by  the  caravans  of 
the  industrious  emigrants,  who  go  to  follow  the  set 
ting  sun,  with  the  language,  the  institutions,  and 
the  arts  of  civilized  life.  It  is  not  the  irruption  of 
wild  barbarians,  sent  to  visit  the  wrath  of  God  on 
a  degenerate  empire ;  it  is  not  the  inroad  of  disci 
plined  banditti,  marshalled  by  the  intrigues  of  min 
isters  and  kings.  It  is  the  human  family,  led  out 
to  possess  its  broad  patrimony.  The  states  and 
nations,  which  are  springing  up  in  the  valley  of 
the  Missouri,  are  bound  to  us,  by  the  dearest  ties 
of  a  common  language,  a  common  government, 
and  a  common  descent.  Before  New  England  can 
look  with  coldness  on  their  rising  myriads,  she  must 
forget  that  some  of  the  best  of  her  own  blood  is 
beating  in  their  veins ;  that  her  hardy  children, 
with  their  axes  on  their  shoulders,  have  been  lite 
rally  among  the  pioneers  in  this  march  of  humani 
ty ;  that  young  as  she  is,  she  has  become  the  mo 
ther  of  populous  states.  What  generous  mind 
2F 


338 


EDWARD    EVERETT. 


would  sacrifice  to  a  selfish  preservation  of  local  pre 
ponderance,  the  delight, of  beholding  civilized. na 
tions  rising  up  in  the  desert;  and  the  language, 
the  manners,  the  institutions,  to  which  he  has  been 
reared,  carried  with  his  household  gods  to  the  foot 
of  the  Rocky  Mountains  ?  Who  can  forget  that 
this  extension  of  our  territorial  limits  is  the  exten 
sion  of  the  empire  of  all  we  hold  dear ;  of  our 
laws,  of  our  character,  of  the  memory  of  our  an 
cestors,  of  the  great  achievements  in  our  history  ] 
Whithersoever  the  sons  of  the  thirteen  states  shall 
wander,  to  southern  or  western  climes,  they  will 
send  back  their  hearts  to  the  rocky  shores,  the  bat 
tle  fields,  and  the  intrepid  councils  of  the  Atlantic 
coast.  These  are  placed  beyond  the  reach  of  vicis 
situde.  They  have  become  already  matter  of  his 
tory,  of  poetry,  of  eloquence: 

The  love,  where  death  has  set  his  seal, 
Nor  a<?e  can  chill,  nor  rival  steal, 
Nor  falsehood  disavow. 

Divisions  may  spring  up,  ill  blood  may  burn, 
parties  be  formed,  and  interests  may  seem  to  clash  ; 
but  the  great  bonds  of  the  nation  are  linked  to 
what  is  passed.  The  deeds  of  the  great  men,  to 
whom  this  country  owes  its  origin  and  growth,  are 
a  patrimony,  I  know,  of  which  its  children  will 
never  deprive  themselves.  As  long  as  the  Missis 
sippi  and  the  Missouri  shall  flow,  those  men  and 
those  deeds  will  be  remembered  on  their  banks. 
The  sceptre  of  government  may  go  where  it  will ; 
but  that  of  patriotic  feeling  can  never  depart  from 
Judah.  In  all  that  mighty  region  which  is  drained 
by  the  Missouri  and  its  tributary  streams — the  val 
ley  co-extensive  with  the  temperate  zone — will 
there  be,  as  long  as  the  name  of  America  shall 
last,  a  father,  that  will  not  take  his  children  on  his 
knee  and  recount  to  them  the  events  of  the  twen 
ty-second  of  December,  the  nineteenth  of  April, 
the  seventeenth  of  June,  and  the  fourth  of  July  1 

This  then  is  the  theatre  on  which  the  intellect 
of  America  is  to  appear,  and  such  the  motives  to 
its  exertion ;  such  the  mass  to  be  influenced  by  its 
energies,  such  the  crowd  to  witness  its  efforts,  such 
the  glory  to  crown  its  success.  If  I  err  in  this 
happy  vision  of  my  country's  fortunes,  I  thank 
God  for  an  error  so  animating.  If  this  be  false, 
may  I  never  know  the  truth.  Never  may  you,  my 
friends,  be  under  any  other  feeling,  than  that  a  great, 
a  growing,  an  immeasurably  expanding  country  is 
calling  upon  you  for  your  best  services.  The 
name  and  character  of  our  Alma  Mater  have  al 
ways  been  carried  by  some  of  our  brethren  thou 
sands  of  miles  from  her  venerable  walls  ;  and  thou 
sands  of  miles  still  farther  westward,  the  commu 
nities  of  kindred  men  are  fast  gathering,  whose 
minds  and  hearts  will  act  in  sympathy  with  yours. 

The  most  powerful  motives  call  on  us,  as  scholars, 
for  those  efforts,  which  our  common  country  de 
mands  of  all  her  children.  Most  of  us  are  of  that 
class,  who  owe  whatever  of  knowledge  has  shone 
into  our  minds,  to  the  free  and  popular  institutions 
of  our  native  land.  There  are  few  of  us,  who 
may  not  be  permitted  to  boast,  that  we  have  been  I 
reared  in  an  honest  poverty  or  a  frugal  competence, 
and  owe  every  thing  to  those  means  of  education 


which  are  equally  open  to  all.  We  are  summoned 
to  new  energy  and  zeal  by  the  high  nature  of  the 
experiment  we  are  appointed  in  Providence  to 
make,  and  the  grandeur  of  the  theatre  on  which  it 
is  to  be  performed.  When  the  old  world  afforded 
no  longer  any  hope,  it  pleased  Heaven  to  open 
this  last  refuge  of  humanity.  The  attempt  has 
begun,  and  is  going  on,  far  from  foreign  corruption, 
on  the  broadest  scale,  and  under  the  most  benig 
nant  prospects  ;  and  it  certainly  rests  with  us  to  solve 
the  great  problem  in  human  society,  to  settle,  and 
that  for  ever,  that  momentous  question — whether 
mankind  can  be  trusted  with  a  purely  popular 
system 1  One  might  almost  think,  without  extra 
vagance,  that  the  departed  wise  and  good  of  all 
places  and  times  are  looking  down  from  their  happy 
seats  to  witness  what  shall  now  be  done  by  us ;  that 
they  who  lavished  their  treasures  and  their  blood 
of  old,  who  laboured  and  suffered,  who  spake  and 
wrote,  who  fought  and  perished,  in  the  one  great 
cause  of  freedom  and  truth,  are  now  hanging 
from  their  orbs  on  high,  over  the  last  solemn  expe 
riment  of  humanity.  As  I  have  wandered  over 
the  spots,  once  the  scene  of  their  labours,  and 
mused  among  the  prostrate  columns  of  their  se 
nate  houses  and  forums,  I  have  seemed  almost  to 
hear  a  voice  from  the  tombs  of  departed  ages ;  from 
the  sepulchres  of  the  nations,  which  died  before 
the  sight.  They  exhort  us,  they  adjure  us  to  be 
faithful  to  our  trust.  They  implore  us,  by  the 
long  trials  of  struggling  humanity,  by  the  blessed 
memory  of  the  departed  ;  by  the  dear  faith,  which 
has  been  plighted  by  pure  hands,  to  the  holy  cause 
of  truth  and  man  ;  by  the  awful  secrets  of  the 
prison  houses,  where  the  sons  of  freedom  have 
been  immured ;  by  the  noble  heads  which  have 
been  brought  to  the  block;  by  the  wrecks  of  time, 
by  the  eloquent  ruins  of  nations,  they  conjure  us 
not  to  quench  the  light  which  is  rising  on  the 
world.  Greece  cries  to  us,,  by  the  convulsed  lips 
of  her  poisoned,  dying  Demosthenes ;  and  Rome 
pleads  with  us,  in  the  mute  persuasion  of  her 
mangled  Tully. 


THREE  PICTURES  OF  BOSTON. 

FROM  AN  ADDRESS   BEFORE  THE   MERC.  LIB.  ASSOCIATION. 

To  understand  the  character  of  the  commerce 
of  our  own  city,  we  must  not  look  merely  at  one 
point,  but  at  the  whole  circuit  of  country,  of 
which  it  is  the  business  centre.  We  must  not 
contemplate  it  only  at  this  present  moment  of 
time,  but  we  must  bring  before  our  imaginations, 
as  in  the  shifting  scenes  of  a  diorama,  at  least  three 
successive  historical  and  topographical  pictures ; 
and  truly  instructive  I  think  it  would  be  to  see 
them  delineated  on  canvas.  We  must  survey  the 
first  of  them  in  the  company  of  the  venerable 
John  Winthrop,  the  founder  of  the  state.  Let  us 
go  up  with  him,  on  the  day  of  his  landing,  the  se 
venteenth  of  June,  1630,  to  the  heights  of  yonder 
peninsula,  as  yet  without  a  name.  Landward 
stretches  a  dismal  forest ;  seaward,  a  waste  of  waters, 


EDWARD    EVERETT. 


339 


unspotted  with  a  sail,  except  that  of  his  own  ship. 
At  the  foot  of  the  hill  you  see  the  cabins  of  Wai- 
ford  and  the  Spragues,  who — the  latter  a  year  be 
fore,  the  former  still  earlier — had  adventured  to 
this  spot,  untenanted  else  by  any  child  of  civiliza 
tion.  On  the  other  side  of  the  river  lies  Mr. 
Blackstone's  farm.  It  comprises  three  goodly  hills, 
converted  by  a  spring-tide  into  three  wood-crowned 
islets ;  and  it  is  mainly  valued  for  a  noble  spring  of 
fresh  water  which  gushes  from  the  northern  slope 
of  one  of  these  hills,  and  which  furnished,  in  the 
course  of  the  summer,  the  motive  for  transferring 
the  seat  of  the  infant  settlement.  This  shall  be 
the  first  picture. 

The  second  shall  be  contemplated  from  the  same 
spot — the  heights  of  Charleston — on  the  same  day, 
the  eventful  seventeenth  of  June,  one  hundred  and 
forty-five  years  later,  namely,  in  the  year  1775. 
A  terrific  scene  of  war  rages  on  the  top  of  the  hill. 
Wait  for  a  favourable  moment,  when  the  volumes 
of  fiery  smoke  roll  away,  and  over  the  masts  of 
that  sixty-gun  ship,  whose  batteries  are  blazing 
upon  the  hill,  you  behold  Mr.  Blackstone's  farm 
changed  to  an  ill-built  town  of  about  two  thou 
sand  dwelling  houses,  mostly  of  wood,  with  scarce 
any  public  buildings,  but  eight  or  nine  churches, 
the  old  State  House,  and  Faneuil  Hall ;  Roxbury 
beyond,  an  insignificant  village ;  a  vacant  marsh  in 
all  the  space  now  occupied  by  Cambridgeport  and 
East  Cambridge,  by  Chelsea  and  East  Boston ;  and 
beneath  your  feet  the  town  of  Charlestown,  con 
sisting  in  the  morning  of  a  line  of  about  three 
hundred  houses,  wrapped  in  a  sheet  of  flames  at 
noon,  and  reduced  at  eventide  to  a  heap  of  ashes. 

But  those  fires  are  kindled  on  the  altar  of  Liber 
ty.  American  independence  is  established.  Ame 
rican  commerce  smiles  on  the  spot;  and  now  from 
the  top  of  one  of  the  triple  hills  of  Mr.  Blackstone's 
farm,  a  stately  edifice  arises,  which  seems  to  invite 
us  as  to  an  observatory.  As  we  look  down  from 
this  lofty  structure,  we  behold  the  third  picture — 
a  crowded,  busy  scene.  We  see  beneath  us  a  city 
containing  eighty  or  ninety  thousand  inhabitants, 
and  mainly  built  of  brick  and  granite.  Vessels  of 
every  description  are  moored  at  the  wharves.  Long 
lines  of  commodious  and  even  stately  houses  cover 
a  space  which,  within  the  memory  of  man,  was  in 
a  state  of  nature.  Substantial  blocks  of  ware 
houses  and  stores  have  forced  their  way  to  the 
channel.  Faneuil  Hall  itself,  the  consecrated  and 
unchangeable,  has  swelled  to  twice  its  original  di 
mensions.  Athenseums,  hopitals,  asylums  and  in- 
fi  rmaries,  adorn  the  streets.  The  school-house  rears 
its  modest  front  in  every  quarter  of  the  city,  and 
sixty  or  seventy  churches  attest  tlvit  the  children 
are  content  to  walk  in  the  good  old  ways  of  their 
fathers.  Connected  with  the  city  by  eight  bridges, 
avenues,  or  ferries,  you  behold  a  rano:e  of  towns, 
most  of  them  municipally  distinct,  but  all  of  them 
in  reality  forming,  with  Boston,  one  vast  metropolis, 
animated  by  one  commercial  life.  Shading  off 
from  these,  you  see  that  most  lovely  back-ground, 
a  succession  of  happy  settlements,  spotted  with  vil 
las,  farm  houses  and  cottages;  united  to  Boston  by 
a  constant  intercourse ;  sustaining  the  capital  from 


their  fields  and  gardens,  and  prosperous  in  the  re 
flux  of  the  city's  wealth.  Of  the  social  life  in 
cluded  within  this  circuit,  and  of  all  that  in  times 
past  has  adorned  and  ennobled  it,  commercial  in 
dustry  has  been  an  active  element,  and  has  ex 
alted  itself  by  its  intimate  association  with  every 
thing  else  we  hold  dear.  Within  this  circuit  what 
memorials  strike  the  eye  ! — what  recollections — 
what  institutions — what  patriotic  treasures  and 
names  that  cannot  die  !  There  lie  the  canonized 
precincts  of  Lexington  and  Concord  ;  there  rise 
the  sacred  heights  of  Dorchester  and  Charlestown ; 
there  is  Harvard,  the  ancient  and  venerable,  fos 
ter-child  of  public  and  private  liberality  in  every 
part  of  the  state ;  to  whose  existence  Charlestown 
gave  the  first  impulse,  to  whose  growth  and  useful 
ness  the  opulence  of  Boston  has  at  all  times  min 
istered  with  open  hand.  Still  farther  on  than  the 
eye  can  reach,  four  lines  of  communication  by  rail 
road  and  steam  have  within  our  own  day  united 
with  the  capital,  by  bands  of  iron,  a  still  broader 
circuit  of  towns  and  villages.  Hark  to  the  voice 
of  life  and  business  which  sounds  along  the  lines ! 
While  we  speak,  one  of  them  is  shooting  onward 
to  the  illimitable  west,  and  all  are  uniting  with  the 
other  kindred  enterprises,  to  form  one  harmonious 
and  prosperous  whole,  in  which  town  and  country, 
agriculture  and  manufactures,  labour  and  capital, 
art  and  nature — wrought  and  compacted  into  one 
grand  system — are  constantly  gathering  and  dif 
fusing,  concentrating  and  radiating  the  economical, 
the  social,  the  moral  blessings  of  a  liberal  and  dif 
fusive  commerce. 


EXAMPLES    OF   PATRIOTISM   IN    OUR 
OWN  HISTORY. 

THE  national  character,  in  some  of  its  most  im 
portant  elements,  must  be  formed,  elevated,  and 
strengthened  from  the  materials  which  history  pre 
sents.  Are  we  to  be  eternally  ringing  the  changes 
upon  Marathon  and  Thermopylae ;  and  going  back 
to  find  in  obscure  texts  of  Greek  and  Latin  the 
great  exemplars  of  patriotic  virtue  1  I  rejoice  that  we 
can  find  them  nearer  home,  in  our  own  country,  on 
our  own  soil ; — that  strains  of  the  noblest  sentiment 
that  ever  swelled  in  the  breast  of  man  are  breath 
ing  to  us  out  of  every  page  of  our  country's  history, 
in  the  native  eloquence  of  our  mother  tongue ; — 
that  the  colonial  and  the  provincial  councils  of 
America  exhibit  to  us  models  of  the  spirit  and 
character  which  gave  Greece  and  Rome  their 
name  and  their  praise  among  the  nations.  Here 
we  ought  to  go  for  our  instruction ;  the  lesson  is 
plain,  it  is  clear,  it  is  applicable.  When  we  go  to 
ancient  history,  we  are  bewildered  with  the  differ 
ence  of  manners  and  institutions.  We  are  willing 
to  pay  our  tribute  of  applause  to  the  memory  of 
Leonidas,  who  fell  nobly  for  his  country,  in  the 
face  of  the  foe.  But  when  we  trace  him  to  his 
home,  we  are  confounded  at  the  reflection,  that  the 
same  Spartan  heroism  to  which  he  sacrificed  him 
self  at  Thermopylae,  would  have  led  him  to  tear 
his  only  child,  if  it  happened  to  be  a  sickly  babe, — 
2*2 


340 


EDWARD    EVERETT. 


the  very  object  for  which  all  that  is  kind  and  good 
in  man  rises  up  to  plead, — from  the  bosom  of  its 
mother,  and  carry  it  out  to  be  eaten  by  the  wolves 
of  Taygetus.  We  feel  a  glow  of  admiration  at 
the  heroism  displayed  at  Marathon  by  the  ten 
thousand  champions  of  invaded  Greece ;  but  we 
<  annot  forget  that  the  tenth  part  of  the  number 
were  slaves,  unchained  from  the  workshops  and 
door-posts  of  their  masters,  to  go  and  fight  the  bat 
tles  of  freedom.  I  do  not  mean  that  these  exam 
ples  are  to  destroy  the  interest  with  which  we 
read  the  history  of  ancient  times ;  they  possibly 
increase  that  interest,  by  the  singular  contrast  they 
exhibit.  But  they  do  warn  us,  if  we  need  the 
warning,  to  seek  our  great  practical  lessons  of  pa 
triotism  at  home  ;  out  of  the  exploits  and  sacrifices 
of  which  our  own  country  is  the  theatre ;  out  of 
the  characters  of  our  own  fathers.  Them  we 
know,  the  high-souled,  natural,  unaffected,  the 
citizen  heroes.  We  know  what  happy  firesides 
they  left  for  the  cheerless  camp.  We  know  with 
what  pacific  habits  they  dared  the  perils  of  the 
field.  There  is  no  mystery,  no  romance,  no  mad 
ness,  under  the  name  of  chivalry,  about  them.  It 
is  all  resolute,  manly  resistance — for  conscience' 
and  liberty's  sake — not  merely  of  an  overwhelming 
power,  but  of  all  the  force  of  long-rooted  habits, 
and  the  native  love  of  order  and  peace. 


LUTHER. 

IN  the  solemn  loneliness,  in  which  Luther  found 
himself,  he  called  around  him  not  so  much  the  mas 
ters  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  wisdom  through  the 
study  of  the  ancient  languages,  as  he  did  the  mass 
of  his  own  countrymen,  by  his  translation  of  the 
Bible.  It  would  have  been  a  matter  of  tardy  im 
pression  and  remote  efficacy,  had  he  done  no  more 
than  awake  from  the  dusty  alcoves  of  the  libraries 
the  venerable  shades  of  the  classic  teachers.  He 
roused  up  a  population  of  living,  sentient  men,  his 
countrymen,  his  brethren.  He  might  have  writ 
ten  and  preached  in  Latin  to  his  dying  day,  and  the 
elegant  Italian  scholars,  champions  of  the  church, 
would  have  answered  him  in  Latin  better  than  his 
own  ;  and  with  the  mass  of  the  people,  the  whole 
affair  would  have  been  a  contest  between  angry 
and  loquacious  priests.  "  Awake  all  antiquity  from 
the  sleep  of  the  libraries!"  He  awoke  all  Germa 
ny  and  half  Europe  from  the  scholastic  sleep  of 
an  ignorance  worse  than  death.  He  took  into  his 
hands  not  the  oaten  pipe  of  the  classic  muse ;  he 
moved  to  his  great  work,  not 

to  the  Dorian  mood 

Of  flutes  and  soft  recorders: — 

He  grasped  the  iron  trumpet  of  his  mother  tongue, 
— the  good  old  Saxon  from  which  our  own  is  de 
scended,  the  language  of  noble  thought  and  high 
resolve, — and  blew  a  blast  that  shook  the  nations 
from  Rome  to  the  Orkneys.  Sovereign,  citizen, 


and  peasant,  started  at  the  sound ;  and,  in  a  few 
short  years,  the  poor  monk,  who  had  begged  his 
bread  for  a  pious  canticle  in  the  streets  of  Eisen 
ach, — no  longer  friendless, — no  longer  solitary, — 
was  sustained  by  victorious  armies,  countenanced  by 
princes,  and,  what  is  a  thousand  times  more  pre 
cious  than  the  brightest  crown  in  Christendom,  re 
vered  as  a  sage,  a  benefactor,  and  a  spiritual  pa 
rent,  at  the  firesides  of  millions  of  his  humble  and 
grateful  countrymen. 


LITERATURE  AND  LIBERTY. 

LITERATURE  is  the  voice  of  the  age  and  the 
state.  The  character,  energy,  and  resources  of  the 
country  are  reflected  and  imaged  forth  in  the  con 
ceptions  of  its  great  minds.  They  are  organs  of  the 
time ;  they  speak  not  their  own  language,  they 
scarce  think  their  own  thoughts ;  but  under  an  im 
pulse  like  the  prophetic  enthusiasm  of  old,  they 
must  feel  and  utter  the  sentiments  which  society 
inspires.  They  do  not  create,  they  obey  the  spirit 
of  the  age ;  the  serene  and  beautiful  spirit  de 
scended  from  the  highest  heaven  of  liberty,  who 
laughs  at  our  preconceptions,  and,  with  the  breath 
of  his  mouth,  sweeps  before  him  the  men  and  the 
nations  that  cross  his  path.  By.  an  unconscious 
instinct,  the  mind,  in  the  action  of  its  powers, 
adapts  itself  to  the  number  and  complexion  of  the 
other  minds  with  which  it  is  to  enter  into  commu 
nion  or  conflict.  As  the  voice  falls  into  the  key 
which  is  suited  to  the  space  to  be  filled,  the  mind, 
in  the  various  exercises  of  its  creative  faculties, 
strives  with  curious  search  for  that  master-note, 
which  will  awaken  a  vibration  from  the  surround 
ing  community,  and  which,  if  it  do  not  find  it, 
is  itself  too  often  struck  dumb. 

For  this  reason,  from  the  moment  in  the  destiny 
of  nations,  that  they  descend  from  their  culminat 
ing  point,  and  begin  to  decline,  from  that  moment 
the  voice  of  creative  genius  is  hushed,  and  at  best, 
the  age  of  criticism,  learning,  and  imitation  suc 
ceeds.  When  Greece  ceased  to  be  independent, 
the  forum  and  the  stage  became  mute.  The  pa 
tronage  of  Macedonian,  Alexandrian,  and  Perga- 
mcan  princes  was  lavished  in  vain.  They  could 
not  woo  the  healthy  Muses  of  Hellas,  from  the 
cold  mountain  tops  of  Greece,  to  dwell  in  their 
gilded  halls.  Nay,  though  the  fall  of  greatness, 
the  decay  of  beauty,  the  waste  of  strength,  and  the 
wreck  of  power  have  ever  been  among  the  favour 
ite  themes  of  the  pensive  muse,  yet  not  a  poet 
arose  in  Greece  to  chant  her  own  elegy ;  and  it  is 
after  near  three  centuries,  and  from  Cicero  arid 
Sulpicius,  that  we  catch  the  first  notes  of  pious  and 
pathetic  lamentation  over  the  fallen  land  of  the 
arts.  The  freedom  and  genius  of  a  country  are 
invariably  gathered  into  a  common  tomb,  and  there 

can  only  strangers  breathe 

The  name  of  that  which  was  beneath. 


JOHN  PENDLETON  KENNEDY. 


[Born  1795.    Died  1870.] 


Mu.  KENNEDY  was  born  in  Baltimore  on  the 
twenty-fifth  of  October,  1795.  His  mother  was 
of  the  Pendleton  family,  in  Virginia.  His  father 
was  a  prosperous  merchant  in  Baltimore.  He 
is  the  eldest  of  four  sons,  two  now  deceased; 
his  brother  Anthony  represented  Maryland,  in 
the  United  States  Senate,  for  six  years.  He  went 
through  the  usual  course  of  instruction  in  the 
schools  of  his  native  town,  and  finally  was 
graduated  at  the  Baltimore  College,  in  1812. 
He  was  just  old  enough  to  bear  arms  when 
General  Ross  invaded  Maryland,  and  was 
among  the  volunteers  who  fought  at  Bladens- 
burg  and  North  Point,  where  he  had  sufficient 
military  experience  to  serve  the  purposes  of 
authorship. 

He  studied  law,  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in 
1816,  and  continued  to  practise  with  great 
success  until  he  went  into  Congress,  from 
which  period  he  took  an  unreluctant  farewell 
of  a  pursuit  which  he  appears  never  to  have 
liked,  notwithstanding  the  eminence  he  at 
tained  in  it.  Swallow  Barn  shows  that  he 
had  a  greater  affection  for  lawyers  than  for 
the  law. 

Mr.  Kennedy's  professional  life  was  from 
first  to  last  mixed  with  literature  and  politics. 
Through  every  stage  of  it  he  wrote  a  great 
deal  of  both  grave  and  gay,  the  principal  por 
tion  of  which  has  been  published  either  in  the 
newspapers  or  in  pamphlets,  though  he  occa 
sionally  appeared  in  more  ambitious  volumes. 
At  no  time,  however,  has  his  application  to 
letters  been  so  earnest  or  exclusive  as  to  give 
him  a  plac.e  in  the  class  of  literary  men,  a  class 
which,  until  very  recently,  had  no  existence 
in  this  country,  and  which  is  still  very  small 
here. 

His  first  work  was  a  joint-stock  affair,  in 
two  volumes,  called  The  Red  Book,  in  its 
character  not  unlike  the  Salmagundi  of  Irving 
arid  Paulding.  With  a  very  dear  friend,  and 
one  of  the  most  gifted  scholars  of  our  country, 
Mr.  Peter  Hoffman  Cruse,  it  was  thrown  off 
in  numbers,  with  an  interval  of  about  a  fort 
night  between  them,  in  Baltimore,  iri  1818 
and  1819.  It  was  of  local  and  temporary  in 


terest,  but  it  contained  much  neat  and  playful 
satire  by  Kennedy,  and  some  exceedingly  cle 
ver  poetry  by  Cruse,*  which  will  prevent  its 
being  forgotten. 

Swallow  Barn,  or  a  Sojourn  in  the  Old 
Dominion,  was  published  in  1832.  "  I  have 
had  the  greatest  difficulty,"  he  says  in  the  pre 
face,  "  to  keep  myself  from  writing  a  novel." 
It  appears  to  have  been  commenced  as  a  series 
of  detached  sketches  of  old  or  lower  Virginia, 
exhibiting  the  habits,  customs  and  opinions 
of  the  people  of  that  region,  and  to  have  grown 
into  something  with  the  coherence  of  a  story 
before  it  was  finished.  The  plan  of  it  very 
much  resembles  that  of  Bracebridge  Hall,  but 
it  is  purely  American,  and  has  more  fidelity 
as  an  exhibition  of  rural  life,  while  it  is 
scarcely  inferior  in  spirit  and  graceful  hu 
mour.  Miss  Sedgwick  has  given  us  some 
delightful  sketches  of  primitive  customs  and 
feelings  in  New  England;  Mrs.  Kirkland 
has  described  with  remarkable  accuracy  the 
"  new  homes"  of  Michigan ;  Judge  Hall  has 
been  successful  in  delineating  the  border  ex 
periences  of  Illinois;  Judge  Longstreet  has 
painted  up  to  nature  in  his  humorous  Georgia 
Scenes;  and  Mr.  Thorpe,  Mr.  Hooper,  and 
others,  have  lifted  the  veil  from  the  lodge  of 
the  hunter  and  the  cabin  of  the  settler  in  the 
far  south-west;  but  none  of  our  pictures  of 

*  P.  H.  Cruse  feJl  a  victim  to  the  cholera  in  1832.  He 
died  before  he  had  achieved  in  letters  ihat  distinguished 
reputation  which  all  who  knew  him  predicted  for  him. 
He  was  born  in  Baltimore  in  1793,  was  educated  at 
Princeton  College,  New  Jersey,  and  prepared  himself 
for  the  practice  of  the  law,  to  which,  however,  he  never 
devoted  himfeelf,  preferring  rather  to  follow  the  bent  of 
his  inclination  in  a  life  of  literary  study.  He  thus  be 
came  an  accomplished  scholar,  and  one  of  the  purest 
writers  of  our  language.  What  he  published  is  confined 
chiefly  to  the  Reviews,  of  the  ten  years  previous  to  his 
death,  and  to  the  Baltimore  American,  the  editorial  de 
partment  of  which  was  for  several  years  under  his 
charge.  He  possessed  the  most  graceful  wit,  com 
bined,  as  it  usually  is,  with  a  taste  of  the  most  classical 
purity,  and  was  always  greatly  remarked  for  the  extra 
ordinary  vivacity  and  brilliancy  of  his  conversation. 
These  traits  appear,  though  in  less  degree,  in  his  writ 
ings.  An  agreeable  volume  might  be  funrshei  from  his 
published  and  unpublished  works,  and  I  hope  Mr.  Ken 
nedy  will  ere  long  lay  such  a  one  before  the  public. 
2  F  2  341 


342 


JOHN    P.   KENNEDY. 


local  manners  surpass,  in  truthful  minuteness 
or  easy  elegance  of  diction,  these  transcripts 
of  life  in  Virginia. 

In  1835  Mr.  Kennedy  published  his  next 
work,  Horse  Shoe  Robinson,  a  Tale  of  the 
Tory  Ascendancy.  He  had  spent  a  part  of 
the  winter  of  1818-19  in  the  Pendleton  Dis 
trict  of  South  Carolina,  and  there  met  his 
hero,  .from  whom  he  heard  some  extraordinary 
details  of  his  personal  adventures.  The  novel 
was  suggested  by  this  meeting,  and  he  has 
introduced  into  it  almost  a  verbatim  repetition 
of  Horse  Shoe's  escape  from  Charleston  after 
its  surrender.  No  works  could  be  more  un 
like  each  other  than  this  and  Swallow  Barn. 
They  have  no  resemblance  in  style,  in  con 
struction,  or  in  spirit ;  but  Horse  Shoe  Robin 
son  was  even  more  successful  than  its  prede 
cessor.  Frank  Meriwether  the  country  gen 
tleman,  the  shrewd  and  good-humoured  old 
lawyer  Philpot  Wart,  and  other  characters,  in 
the  first,  are  sketched  with  singular  skill  and 
felicity,  but  they  are  less  essentially  creations 
than  the  free-hearted,  sagacious,  and  heroic 
partisan  yeoman,  who  quits  his  anvil  at  the 
commencement  of  the  civil  war,  and  acts  an 
important  though  humble  part  through  its 
scenes  of  excitement  and  daring  until  the 
Whigs  are  triumphant.  There  are  in  the 
second  work  other  original  and  admirably 
executed  characters,  whose  individuality  is 
distinct  and  perfectly  sustained  amid  all  va 
rieties  of  circumstance ;  and  skilful  under 
plots,  in  which  are  imbodied  beautifully- 
wrought  scenes  of  love  and  touching  inci 
dents  of  sorrow. 

In  1838  appeared  Rob  of  the  Bowl,  a  Le 
gend  of  St.  Inigoe's.  This  novel  was  evi* 
dently  written  with  much  more  care  than  the 
others,  but  it  was  less  successful.  Though 
dealing  largely  in  invention,  it  is,  like  Horse 
Shoe  Robinson,  of  an  historical  character,  and 
may  be  regarded  as  an  attempt  to  illustrate 
the  annals  of  Maryland  under  the  rule  of  the 
lord  proprietary  Cecilius  Calvert,  when  the 
colony  was  distracted  by  feuds  between  the 
Protestants  and  Catholics.  The  characters 
are  numerous,  various,  and  strongly  marked  ; 
but  several  rf  them  are  so  prominent  and  so 
elaborately  finished  that  the  interest  is  much 
divided,  and  it  has  been  remarked  with  some 
reason,  that  the  story  wants  a  hero.  The 
historical  impression  which  it  conveys  is  as 
accurate  as  the  most  careful  study  of  the 


incidents  and  temper  of  the  times  enabled  the 
author  to  render  it ;  the  costume  throughout 
is  exact  and  in  keeping ;  and  the  descriptions 
of  scenery  are  spirited  and  picturesque  in  an 
eminent  degree. 

Mr.  Kennedy's  next  work,  published  in 
1840,  was  the  Annals  of  Quodlibet,  suggested 
by  the  presidential  canvass  then  just  closed. 
It  is  full  of  wit,  humour,  and  pungent  irony, 
but  is  too  exclusive  in  its  reference  to  events 
of  the  day  to  possess  much  interest  now  when 
those  events  are  nearly  forgotten. 

Each  of  the  four  works  that  have  been  men 
tioned  is  marked  by  distinct  and  happy  pecu 
liarities,  and  from  internal  evidence  it  probably 
would  never  have  been  surmised  that  they  were 
by  one  author. 

Mr.  Kennedy  was  elected  from  Baltimore 
to  the  Maryland  House  of  Delegates  in  1820, 
1821,  and  1822.  In  1824  he  received  from 
President  Monroe  the  appointment  of  Secre 
tary  of  Legation  to  Chili,  which  he  resigned 
before  the  sailing  of  the  mission.  He  was 
three  times  chosen  a  member  of  the  House 
of  Representatives  of  the  United  States,  for 
the  twenty-fifth,  twenty-seventh,  and  twenty- 
eighth  congresses ;  and  in  1846  was  again 
elected  to  the  House  of  Delegates  of  Mary 
land.  In  the  national  legislature  he  soon  rose 
to  a  commanding  position,  and  few  members 
enjoyed  a  higher  degree  of  respect,  or  exerted 
a  more  powerful  influence,  during  the  six  years 
for  which  he  was  a  member.  In  the  course 
of  his  political  career  and  connections  he  has 
written  and  published  many  tracts  on  the  more 
engrossing  questions  of  public  economy  and 
policy  to  which  the  agitations  of  the  time  have 
given  rise,  among  which  may  be  mentioned 
several  speeches  and  official  reports  in  Con 
gress,  and  numerous  dissertations  on  public 
affairs.  One  of  his  earliest  performances  was 
a  pamphlet  under  the  signature  of  Mephisto- 
philes,  in  which  he  reviews  with  great  ability 
Mr.  Cambreling's  somewhat  celebrated  Report 
on  Commerce.  This  was  published  in  1830, 
and  in  the  following  year,  as  a  member  of  the 
Convention  of  the  friends  of  American  Indus 
try,  held  in  New  York,  he  wrote  conjointly 
with  Mr.  Warren  Dutton  of  Massachusetts, 
and  Mr.  Charles  Jared  Ingersoll  of  Pennsyl 
vania,  the  address  which  that  body  issued  to 
the  people  of  the  United  States.  Mr.  Ken 
nedy's  last  volume  is  A  Defence  of  the  Whigs, 
published  in  1844.  This  work  is  purely  po- 


JOHN    P.    KENNEDY. 


343 


litical,  and  is  remarkable  for  clearness,  vigour, 
and  amplitude  of  statement  and  illustration. 
It  embraces  an  outline  of  the  origin  and  growth 
of  the  Whig  party,  coupled  with  a  history  of 
the  twenty-seventh  Congress,  and  a  vindica 
tion  of  the  Whigs  in  that  body. 

He  was  Speaker  of  the  House  of  Delegates 
of  Maryland.  In  1852,  he  was  Secretary  of  the 
Navy  under  Fillmore,  and  fitted  out  the  Expedi 
tion  to  Japan  under  Perry  ;  that  for  the  explora 
tion  of  Behring's  Straits  ;  the  one  to  the  River 
Platte ;  the  one  to  the  Coast  of  Africa  by  Lynch ; 
and  Dr.  Kane's  Expedition  to  the  Arctic  Ocean. 

Among  the  other  minor  publications  of  Mr. 
Kennedy  are  an  Address  delivered  before  the 
Baltimore  Horticultural  Society  in  1833,  an 
eulogium  on  the  life  and  character  of  his  friend 
William  Wirt  in  1834,  and  a  discourse  at  the 
dedication  of  the  Green  Mount  Cemetery,  in 
1839.  He  died  in  1870. 

Mr.  Kennedy  is  altogether  one  of  our  most 
genial,  lively,  and  agreeable  writers.  His 
style  is  airy,  easy,  and  graceful,  but  various, 
and  always  in  keeping  with  his  subject.  He 


excels  both  as  a  describer  and  as  a  raconteur. 
His  delineations  of  nature  are  picturesque  and 
truthful,  and  his  sketches  of  character  are 
marked  by  unusual  freedom  and  delicacy. 
He  studies  the  periods  which  he  attempts  to 
illustrate  with  the  greatest  care,  becomes  tho 
roughly  imbued  with  their  spirit,  and  writes 
of  them  with  the  enthusiasm  and  the  apparent 
sincerity  and  earnestness  of  a  contemporary 
and  an  actor.  He  pays  an  exemplary  regard 
to  the  details  of  costume,  manners,  and  opi 
nion,  and  is  scarce  ever  detected  in  any  kind 
of  anachronism.  There  are  some  inequalities 
in  his  works,  arising  perhaps  from  the  inter 
ruptions  to  which  a  man  in  active  public  life 
is  liable ;  there  is  occasional  diffuseness  and 
redundance  of  incident  as  well  as  of  expres 
sion;  but  his  faults  are  upon  the  surface,  and 
could  be  easily  removed. 

He  published  in  1849,  Life  of  Wm.  Wirt,  2 
vols.,  8vo.,  and  later  2  vols.,  12mo.  At  the  break 
ing  out  of  the  Rebellion,  he  issued,  The  Border 
States,  their  Power  and  Duty;  The  Great  Drama ; 
and  Ambrose's  Letters  on  the  Rebellion. 


A  COUNTRY   GENTLEMAN. 

FROM   SWALLOW   BARN. 

FRAJTK  MERIWETHER  is  now  in  the  meridian 
of  life ; — somewhere  close  upon  forty-five.  Good 
cheer  and  a  good  temper  both  tell  well  upon  him. 
The  first  has  given  him  a  comfortable  full  figure, 
and  the  latter  certain  easy,  contemplative  habits, 
that  incline  him  to  be  lazy  and  philosophical.  He 
has  the  substantial  planter  look  that  belongs  to  a 
gentleman  who  lives  on  his  estate,  and  is  not  much 
vexed  with  the  crosses  of  life. 

I  think  he  prides  himself  on  his  personal  appear 
ance,  for  he  has  a  handsome  face,  with  a  dark  blue 
eye,  and  a  high  forehead  that  is  scantily  embel 
lished  with  some  silver-tipped  locks  that,  I  observe, 
he  cherishes  for  their  rarity  :  besides,  he  is  growing 
manifestly  attentive  to  his  dress,  and  carries  him 
self  erect,  with  some  secret  consciousness  that  his 
person  is  not  bad.  It  is  pleasant  to  see  him  when 
he  has  ordered  his  horse  for  a  ride  into  the  neigh 
bourhood,  or  across  to  the  court-house.  On  such 
occasions,  he  is  apt  to  make  his  appearance  in  a 
coat  of  blue  broadcloth,  astonishingly  new  and 
glossy,  and  with  a  redundant  supply  of  plaited 
ruffle  strutting  through  the  folds  of  a  Marseilles 
waistcoat :  a  worshipful  finish  is  given  to  this  cos 
tume  by  a  large  straw  hat,  lined  with  green  silk. 
There  is  a  magisterial  fulness  in  his  garments  that 
betokens  condition  in  the  world,  and  a  heavy  bunch 
of  seals,  suspended  by  a  chain  of  gold,  jingles  as 
he  moves, pronouncing  him  a  man  of  superfluities. 

It  is  considered  rather  extraordinary  that  he  has 


never  set  up  for  Congress ;  but  the  truth  is,  he  is 
an  unambitious  man,  and  has  a  great  dislike  to 
currying  favour — as  he  calls  it.  And,  besides,  he 
is  thoroughly  convinced  that  there  will  always  be 
men  enough  in  Virginia  willing  to  serve  the  peo 
ple,  and  therefore  does  not  see  why  he  should 
trouble  his  head  about  it.  Some  years  ago,  how 
ever,  there  was  really  an  impression  that  he  meant 
to  come  out.  By  some  sudden  whim,  he  took  it 
into  his  head  to  visit  Washington  during  the  ses 
sion  of  Congress,  and  returned,  after  a  fortnight, 
very  seriously  distempered  with  politics.  He  told 
curious  anecdotes  of  certain  secret  intrigues  which 
had  been  discovered  in  the  affairs  of  the  capital, 
gave  a  pretty  clear  insight  into  the  views  of  some 
deep-laid  combinations,  and  became  all  at  once 
painfully  florid  in  his  discourse,  and  dogmatical  to 
a  degree  that  made  his  wife  stare.  Fortunately, 
this  orgasm  soon  subsided,  and  Frank  relapsed  into 
an  indolent  gentleman  of  the  opposition ;  but  it 
had  the  effect  to  give  a  much  more  decided  cast  to 
his  studies,  for  he  forthwith  discarded  the  Whig 
and  took  to  the  Enquirer,  like  a  man  who  was  not 
to  be  disturbed  by  doubts ;  and  as  it  was  morally 
impossible  to  believe  what  was  written  on  both 
sides,  to  prevent  his  mind  from  being  abused,  he, 
from  this  time  forward,  gave  an  implicit  assent  to 
all  the  facts  that  set  against  Mr.  Adams.  The 
consequence  of  this  straightforward  and  confiding 
deportment  was  an  unsolicited  and  complimentary 
notice  of  him  by  the  executive  of  the  state.  He 
was  put  into  the  commission  of  the  peace,  and 
having  thus  become  a  public  man  against  his  will, 


344 


JOHN    P.    KENNEDY. 


his  opinions  were  observed  to  undergo  some  essen 
tial  changes.  He  now  thinks  that  a  good  citizen 
ought  neither  to  solicit  nor  decline  office ;  that  the 
magistracy  of  Virginia  is  the  sturdiest  pillar  that 
supports  the  fabric  of  the  constitution ;  and  that 
the  people,  « though  in  their  opinions  they  may 
be  mistaken,  in  their  sentiments  they  are  never 
wrong," — with  some  other  such  dogmas,  that,  a 
few  years  ago,  he  did  not  hold  in  very  good  repute. 
In  this  temper,  he  has  of  late  embarked  upon  the 
mill-pond  of  county  affairs,  and,  notwithstanding 
his  amiable  and  respectful  republicanism,  I  am 
told  he  keeps  the  peace  as  if  he  commanded  a  gar 
rison,  and  administers  justice  like  a  cadi. 

He  has  some  claim  to  supremacy  in  this  last 
department;  for  during  three  years  of  his  life  he 
smoked  segars  in  a  lawyer's  office  at  Richmond ; 
sometimes  looked  into  Blackstone  and  the  Revised 
Code ;  was  a  member  of  a  debating  society  that 
ate  oysters  once  a  week  during  the  winter ;  and 
wore  six  cravats  and  a  pair  of  yellow-topped  boots 
as  a  blood  of  the  metropolis.  Having  in  this  way 
qualified  himself  for  the  pursuits  of  agriculture,  he 
came  to  his  estate  a  very  model  of  landed  gentle 
men.  Since  that  time,  his  avocations  have  had 
a  certain  literary  tincture ;  for  having  settled  him 
self  down  as  a  married  man,  and  got  rid  of  his 
superfluous  foppery,  he  rambled  with  wonderful 
assiduity  through  a  wilderness  of  romances,  po 
ems,  and  dissertations,  which  are  now  collected  in 
his  library,  and,  with  their  battered  blue  covers, 
present  a  lively  type  of  an  army  of  continentals 
at  the  close  of  the  war,  or  an  hospital  of  veteran 
invalids.  These  have  all,  at  last,  given  way  to 
the  newspapers — a  miscellaneous  study  very  en 
ticing  to  gentlemen  in  the  country — that  have  ren 
dered  Meriwether  a  most  discomfiting  antagonist 
in  the  way  of  dates  and  names. 

He  has  great  suavity  of  manners,  and  a  genuine 
benevolence  of  disposition  that  makes  him  fond 
of  having  his  friends  about  him ;  and  it  is  particu 
larly  gratifying  to  him  to  pick  up  any  genteel 
stranger  within  the  purlieus  of  Swallow  Barn  and 
put  him  to  the  proof  of  a  week's  hospitality,  if  it 
be  only  for  the  pleasure  of  exercising  his  rhetoric 
upon  him.  He  is  a  kind  master,  and  considerate 
toward  his  dependants,  for  which  reason,  although 
he  owns  many  slaves,  they  hold  him  in  profound 
reverence,  and  are  very  happy  under  his  dominion. 
All  these  circumstances  make  Swallow  Barn  a  very 
agreeable  place,  and  it  is  accordingly  frequented 
by  an  extensive  range  of  his  acquaintances. 

There  is  one  quality  in  Frank  that  stands  above 
the  rest.  He  is  a  thoroughbred  Virginian,  and 
consequently  does  not  travel  much  from  home, 
except  to  make  an  excursion  to  Richmond,  which 
he  considers  emphatically  as  the  centre  of  civili 
zation.  Now  and  then  he  has  gone  beyond  the 
mountain,  but  the  upper  country  is  not  much  to 
his  taste,  and  in  his  estimation  only  to  be  resorted 
to  when  the  fever  makes  it  imprudent  to  remain 
upon  the  tide.  He  thinks  lightly  of  the  mercan 
tile  interest,  and  in  fact  undervalues  the  manners 
of  the  cities  generally ; — he  believes  that  their  in 
habitants  are  all  hollow-hearted  and  insincere,  and 


|  altogether  wanting  in  that  substantial  intelligence 
and  honesty  that  he  affirms  to  be  characteristic  of 
the  country.  He  is  a  great  admirer  of  the  genius 
of  Virginia,  and  is  frequent  in  his  commendation 
of  a  toast  in  which  the  state  is  compared  to  the 
mother  of  the  Gracchi : — indeed,  it  is  a  familiar 
thing  with  him  to  speak  of  the  aristocracy  of  talent 
as  only  inferior  to  that  of  the  landed  interest, — the 
idea  of  a  freeholder  inferring  to  his  mind  a  certain 
constitutional  pre-eminence  in  all  the  virtues  of 
citizenship,  as  a  matter  of  course. 

The  solitary  elevation  of  a  country  gentleman, 
well  to  do  in  the  world,  begets  some  magnificent 
notions.  •  He  becomes  as  infallible  as  the  pope ; 
gradually  acquires  a  habit  of  making  long  speeches; 
is  apt  to  be  impatient  of  contradiction,  and  is  al 
ways  very  touchy  on  the  point  of  honour.  There 
is  nothing  more  conclusive  than  a  rich  man's  logic 
anywhere,  but  in  the  country,  amongst  his  depend 
ants,  it  flows  with  the  smooth  and  unresisted  course 
of  a  gentle  stream  irrigating  a  verdant  meadow, 
and  depositing  its  mud  in  fertilizing  luxuriance. 
Meriwether's  sayings,  about  Swallow  Barn,  import 
absolute  verity — but  I  have  discovered  that  they 
are  not  so  current  out  of  his  jurisdiction.  Indeed, 
every  now  and  then-,  we  have  some  obstinate  dis 
cussions  when  any  of  the  neighbouring  potentates, 
who  stand*  in  the  same  sphere  with  Frank,  come 
to  the  house ;  for  these  worthies  have  opinions  ot 
their  own,  and  nothing  can  be  more  dogged  than 
the  conflict  between  them.  They  sometimes  fire 
away  at  each  other  with  a  most  amiable  and  un- 
convincible  hardihood  for  a  whole  evening,  bandy 
ing  interjections,  and  making  bows,  and  saying 
shrewd  things  with  all  the  courtesy  imaginable : 
but  for  unextinguishable  pertinacity  in  argument, 
and  utter  impregnability  of  belief,  there  is  no  dis 
putant  like  your  country  gentleman  .who  reads  the 
newspapers.  When  one  of  these  discussions  fairly 
gets  under  weigh,  it  never  comes  to  an  anchor 
again  of  its  own  accord — it  is  either  blown  out  so 
far  to  sea  as  to  be  given  up  for  lost,  or  puts  into 
port  in  distress  for  want  of  documents, — or  is  upset 
by  a  call  for  the  boot-jack  and  slippers — which  is 
something  like  the  previous  question  in  Congress. 

If  my  worthy  cousin  be  somewhat  over-argu 
mentative  as  a  politician,  he  restores  the  equili 
brium  of  his  character  by  a  considerate  coolness 
in  religious  matters.  He  piques  himself  upon  be 
ing  a  high-churchman,  but  he  is  only  a  rare  fre 
quenter  of  places  of  worship,  and  very  seldom 
permits  himself  to  get  into  a  dispute  upon  points 
of  faith.  If  Mr.  Chub,  the  Presbyterian  tutor  in 
the  family,  ever  succeeds  in  drawing  him  into  this 
field,  as  he  occasionally  has  the  address  to  do, 
Meriwether  is  sure  to  fly  the  course : — he  gets 
puzzled  with  scripture  names,  and  makes  some 
odd  mistakes  between  Peter  and  Paul,  and  then 
generally  turns  the  parson  over  to  his  wife,  who, 
he  says,  has  an  astonishing  memory. 

Meriwether  is  a  great  breeder  of  blooded  horses ; 
and,  ever  since  the  celebrated  race  between  Eclipse 
and  Henry,  he  has  taken  to  this  occupation  with 
a  renewed  zeal,  as  a  matter  affecting  the  reputa 
tion  of  the  state.  It  is  delightful  to  hear  him  ex- 


JOHN    P.   KENNEDY. 


345 


patiate  upon  the  value,  importance,  and  patriotic 
bearing  of  this  employment,  and  to  listen  to  all  his 
technical  lore  touching  the  mystery  of  horse-craft. 
He  has  some  fine  colts  in  training,  that  are  com 
mitted  to  the  care  of  a  pragmatical  old  negro, 
named  Carey,  who,  in  his  reverence  for  the  occu 
pation,  is  the  perfect  shadow  of  his  master.  He 
and  Frank  hold  grave  and  momentous  consulta 
tions  upon  the  affairs  of  the  stable,  and  in  such  a 
sagacious  strain  of  equal  debate,  that  it  would 
puzzle  a  spectator  to  tell  which  was  the  leading 
member  in  the  council.  Carey  thinks  he  knows 
a  great  deal  more  upon  the  subject  than  his  mas 
ter,  and  their  frequent  intercourse  has  begot  a 
familiarity  in  the  old  negro  that  is  almost  fatal  to 
Meriwether's  supremacy.  The  old  man  feels  him 
self  authorized  to  maintain  his  positions  according 
to  the  freest  parliamentary  form,  and  sometimes 
with  a  violence  of  asseveration  that  compels  his 
master  to  abandon  his  ground,  purely  out  of  faint 
heartedness.  Meriwether  gets  a  little  nettled  by 
Carey's  doggedness,  but  generally  turns  it  off  in  a 
laugh.  I  was  in  the  stable  with  him,  a  few  morn 
ings  after  my  arrival,  when  he  ventured  to  expos 
tulate  with  the  venerable  groom  upon  a  professional 
point,  but  the  controversy  terminated  in  its  cus 
tomary  way.  «  Who  sot  you  up,  Master  Frank, 
to  tell  me  how  to  fodder  that  'ere  cretur,  when  I 
as  good  as  nursed  you  on  my  knee?"  "Well, 
tie  up  your  tongue,  you  old  mastiff,"  replied  Frank, 
as  he  walked  out  of  the  stable,  "  and  cease  growl 
ing,  since  you  will  have  it  your  own  way ;" — and 
then,  as  we  left  the  old  man's  presence,  he  added, 
with  an  affectionate  chuckle — "  a  faithful  old  cur, 
too,  that  licks  my  hand  out  of  pure  honesty ;  he 
has  not  many  years  left,  and  it  does  no  harm  to 
humour  him !" 


OLD  LAWYERS. 

FROM   THE   SAME. 

I  HAVE  a  great  reverence  for  the  profession  of 
the  law  and  its  votaries ;  but  especially  for  that 
part  of  the  tribe  which  comprehends  the  old  and 
thorough-paced  stagers  of  the  bar.  The  feelings, 
habits,  and  associations  of  the  bar  in  general,  have 
a  very  happy  influence  upon  the  character.  It 
abounds  with  good  fellows :  And,  take  it  altoge 
ther,  there  may  be  collected  from  it  a  greater  mass 
of  shrewd,  observant,  droll,  playful  and  generous 
spirits,  than  from  any  other  equal  numbers  of  so 
ciety.  They  live  in  each  other's  presence  like  a 
set  of  players ;  congregate  in  the  courts  like  the 
former  in  the  green  room ;  and  break  their  unpre 
meditated  jests,  in  the  interval  of  business,  with 
that  sort  of  undress  freedom  that  contrasts  amus 
ingly  with  the  solemn  and  even  tragic  seriousness 
with  which  they  appear,  in  turn,  upon  the  boards. 
They  have  one  face  for  the  public,  rife  with  the 
saws  and  learned  gravity  of  the  profession,  and 
a  .other  for  themselves,  replete  with  broad  mirth, 
sprightly  wit,  and  gay  thoughtlessness.  The  in 
tense  mental  toil  and  fatigue  of  business  give  them 
a  peculiar  relish  for  the  enjoyment  of  their  hours 
44 


of  relaxation,  and,  in  the  same  degree,  incapacitate 
them  for  that  frugal  attention  to  their  private  con 
cerns  which  their  limited  means  usually  require. 
They  have,  in  consequence,  a  prevailing  air  of  un- 
thriftiness  in  personal  matters,  which,  however  it 
may  operate  to  the  prejudice  of  the  pocket  of  the 
individual,  has  a  mellow  and  kindly  effect  upon 
his  disposition. 

In  an  old  member  of  the  profession, — one  who 
has  grown  gray  in  the  service,  there  is  a  rich  unc 
tion  of  originality,  that  brings  him  out  from  the 
ranks  of  his  fellow-men  in  strong  relief.  His  ha 
bitual  conversancy  with  the  world  in  its  strangest 
varieties,  and  with  the  secret  history  of  character, 
gives  him  a  shrewd  estimate  of  the  human  heart. 
He  is  quiet  and  unapt  to  be  struck  with  wonder  at 
any  of  the  actions  of  men.  There  is  a  deep  cur 
rent  of  observation  running  calmly  through  his 
thoughts,  and  seldom  gushing  out  in  words :  the 
confidence  which  has  been  placed  in  him,  in  the 
thousand  relations  of  his  profession,  renders  him 
constitutionally  cautious.  His  acquaintance  with 
the  vicissitudes  of  fortune,  as  they  have  been  ex 
emplified  in  the  lives  of  individuals,  and  with  the 
severe  afflictions  that  have  "tried  the  reins"  of 
many,  known  only  to  himself,  makes  him  an  in 
dulgent  and  charitable  apologist  of  the  aberrations 
of  others.  He  has  an  impregnable  good  humour, 
that  never  falls  below  the  level  of  thoughtful  ness 
into  melancholy.  He  is  a  creature  of  habits ;  rising 
early  for  exercise ;  temperate  from  necessity,  and 
studious  against  his  will.  His  face  is  accustomed 
to  take  the  ply  of  his  pursuits  with  great  facility, 
grave  and  even  severe  in  business,  and  readily 
rising  into  smiles  at  a  pleasant  conceit.  He  works 
hard  when  at  his  task ;  and  goes  at  it  with  the 
reluctance  of  an  old  horse  in  a  bark-mill.  His 
common-places  are  quaint  and  professional :  they 
are  made  up  of  law  maxims,  and  first  occur  to  him 
in  Latin.  He  measures  all  the  sciences  out  of  his 
proper  line  of  study,  (and  with  these  he  is  but  scant 
ily  acquainted,)  by  the  rules  of  law.  He  thinks  a 
steam-engine  should  be  worked  with  due  diligence, 
and  without  laches :  a  thing  little  likely  to  happen, 
he  considers  as  potentia  remotissima  ;  and  what  is 
not  yet  in  existence,  or  in  esse,  as  he  would  say, 
is  in  nubibus.  He  apprehends  that  wit  best  that 
is  connected  with  the  affairs  of.  the  term ;  is  par 
ticularly  curious  in  his  anecdotes  of  old  lawyers, 
and  inclined  to  be  talkative  concerning  the  amus 
ing  passages  of  his  own  professional  life.  He  is, 
sometimes,  not  altogether  free  of  outward  foppery ; 
is  apt  to  be  an  especial  good  liver,  and  he  keeps 
the  best  company.  His  literature  is  not  much 
diversified ;  and  he  prefers  books  that  are  bound 
in  plain  calf,  to  those  that  are  much  lettered  and 
gilded.  He  garners  up  his  papers  with  a  wonder 
ful  appearance  of  care ;  ties  them  in  bundles  with 
red  tape ;  and  usually  has  great  difficulty  to  find 
them  when  he  wants  them.  Too  much  particu 
larity  has  perplexed  him ;  and  just  so  it  is  with 
his  cases :  they  are  well  assorted,  packed  and 
laid  away  in  his  mind,  but  are  not  easily  to  be 
brought  forth  again  without  labour.  This  makes 
him  something  of  a  procrastinator,  and  rather  to 


346 


JOHN    P.   KENNEDY. 


delight  in  new  business  than  finish  his  old.  He 
is,  however,  much  beloved,  and  affectionately  con 
sidered  by  the  people. 


A  RANGERS'  DINNER. 

FROM  HORSE  SHOE  ROBINSON. 

THE  day  was  hot,  and  it  was  with  a  grateful 
sense  of  refreshment  that  our  wayfarers,  no  less 
than  their  horses,  found  themselves,  as  they  ap 
proached  the  lowland,  gradually  penetrating  the 
deep  and  tangled  thicket  and  the  high  wood  which 
hung  over  and  darkened  the  channel  of  the  small 
stream  that  rippled  through  the  valley.  Their 
road  lay  along  this  stream  and  frequently  crossed 
it  at  narrow  fords,  where  the  water  fell  from  rock 
to  rock  in  small  cascades,  presenting  natural  basins 
of  the  limpid  flood,  hemmed  in  with  the  laurel  and 
the  alder,  and  giving  forth  that  gurgling,  busy  mu 
sic  which  is  one  of  the  pleasantest  sounds  that  can 
assail  the  ear  of  a  wearied  and  overheated  traveller. 

Butler  said  but  little  to  his  companion,  except 
now  and  then  to  express  a  passing  emotion  of  ad 
miration  for  the  natural  embellishments  of  the 
region;  until,  at  length,  the  road  brought  them  to  a 
huge  mass  of  rock,  from  whose  base  a  clear  fountain 
issued  forth  over  a  bed  of  gravel,  and  soon  lost  itself 
in  the  brook  hard  by.  A  small  strip  of  bark,  which 
some  friend  of  the  traveller  had  placed  there,  caught 
the  pure  water  as  it  was  distilled  from  the  rock, 
and  threw  it  off  in  a  spout  some  few  inches  above 
the  surface  of  the  ground.  The  earth  trodden 
around  this  spot  showed  it  to  be  a  customary  halt 
ing  place  for  those  who  journeyed  the  road. 

Here  Butler  checked  his  horse,  and  announced 
to  his  comrade  his  intention  to  suspend,  for  awhile, 
the  toil  of  travel.  «  There  is  one  thing,  Galbraith," 
said  he,  as  he  dismounted,  "  wherein  all  philoso 
phers  agree, — a  man  must  eat  when  he  is  hungry, 
and  rest  when  he  is  weary.  We  have  now  been 
some  six  hours  on  horseback,  and  as  this  fountain 
seems  to  have  been  put  here  for  our  use,  it  would 
be  sinfully  slighting  the  bounties  of  providence  not 
to  do  it  the  honour  of  a  halt.  Get  down,  man : 
rummage  your  havresac,  and  let  us  see  what  you 
have  there." 

Robinson  was  soon  upon  his  feet,  and  taking 
the  horses  a  little  distance  off,  he  fastened  their 
bridles  to  the  impending  branches  of  a  tree ;  then 
opening  his  saddle-bags,  he  produced  a  wallet  with 
which  he  approached  the  fountain  where  Butler 
had  thrown  himself  at  full  length  upon  the  grass. 
Here,  as  he  successively  disclosed  his  stores,  he 
announced  his  bill  of  fare  with  suitable  deliberation 
between  each  item,  in  the  following  terms  : 

"  I  don't  march  without  provisions,  you  see,  cap 
tain — or  major,  I  suppose  I  must  call  you  now. 
Here's  the  rear  division  of  a  roast  pig ;  and  along 
with  it,  by  way  of  flankers,  two  spread  eagles, 
(holding  up  two  broiled  fowls,)  and  here  are  four 
slices  from  the  best  end  of  a  ham.  Besides  these, 
I  can  throw  in  two  apple-jacks,  a  half-dozen  of 
rolls,  and — " 


"  I  cry  your  mercy,  sergeant !  your  wallet 
is  as  bountiful  as  a  conjurer's  bag:  It  is  a  per 
fect  cornucopia.  How  did  you  come  by  all  this 
provender  1" 

"  It  isn't  so  overmuch,  major,  when  you  come 
to  consider,"  said  Robinson.  "  The  old  landlady 
at  Charlottesville  is  none  of  your  heap-up,  shake 
down,  and  running-over  measures, — and  when  I 
signified  to  her  that  we  mought  want  a  snack  upon 
the  road,  she  as  much  as  gave  me  to  understand 
that  there  wa'n't  nothing  to  be  had.  But  I  took 
care  to  make  fair  weather  with  her  daughter, — as 
I  always  do  amongst  the  creatures, — and  she  let 
me  into  the  pantry,  where  I  made  bold  to  stow 
away  these  few  trifling  articles,  under  the  deno 
mination  of  pillage. — If  you  are  fond  of  Indian 
corn  bread,  I  can  give  you  a  pretty  good  slice  of 
that." 

"  Pillage,  Galbraith  !  You  forget  you  are  not 
in  an  enemy's  country.  I  directed  you  scrupu 
lously  to  pay  for  every  thing  you  got  upon  the 
road. — I  hope  you  have  not  omitted  it  to-day"?" 

«  Lord,  sir !  what  do  these  women  do  for  the 
cause  of  liberty  but  cook,  and  wash,  and  mend  1 
I  told  the  old  Jezebel  to  charge  it  all  to  the  conti 
nental  congress." 

"  Out  upon  it,  man !  Would  you  bring  us  into 
discredit  with  our  best  friends  by  your  villanous 
habits  of  free  quarters — " 

"  I  am  not  the  only  man,  major,  that  has  been 
spoiled  in  his  religion,  by  these  wars.  I  had  both 
politeness  and  decency  till  we  got  to  squabbling 
over  our  chimney  corners  in  Carolina.  But  when 
a  man's  conscience  begins  to  get  hard,  it  does  it 
faster  than  any  thing  in  nature:  it  is,  I  may  say, 
like  the  boiling  of  an  egg ;  it  is  very  clear  at  first, 
but  as  soon  as  it  gets  cloudy,  one  minute  more 
and  you  may  cut  it  with  a  knife." 

"  Well,  well !  let  us  fall  to,  sergeant ;  this  is  no 
time  to  argue  points  of  conscience." 

"  You  seem  to  take  no  notice  of  this  here  bottle 
of  peach  brandy,  major,"  said  Robinson.  "  It's  a 
bird  that  came  out  of  the  same  nest.  To  my 
thinking,  it's  a  sort  of  a  file  leader  to  an  eatable — 
if  it  ar'n't  an  eatable  itself." 

«  Peace,  Galbraith ; — it  is  the  vice  of  the  army 
to  set  too  much  store  by  this  devil  brandy." 

The  sergeant  was  moved  by  an  inward  laugh 
that  shook  his  head  and  shoulders. 

"  Do  you  suppose,  major,  that  Troy  town  was 
taken  without  brandy  1  It's  drilling  and  counter 
marching  and  charging  with  the  bagnet,  all  three, 
sir.  But  before  we  begin,  I  will  just  strip  our 
horses.  A  flurry  of  cool  air  on  the  saddle  spot  is 
the  best  thing  in  nature  for  a  tired  horse." 

Robinson  now  performed  this  office  for  their 
jaded  cattle  ;  and  having  given  them  a  mouthful 
of  water  at  the  brook,  returned  to  his  post,  and 
soon  began  to  despatch,  with  a  laudable  alacrity, 
the  heaps  of  provision  before  him.  Butler  partook 
with  a  keen  appetite  of  this  sylvan  repast,  and 
was  greatly  amused  to  see  with  what  relish  his 
companion  caused  slice  after  slice  to  vanish,  until 
nothing  was  left  of  this  large  supply  but  a  few 
fragments. 


JOHN    P.    KENNEDY. 


347 


A  RUSE  DE  GUERRE. 

FROM   THE  SAME. 

Ox  the  morning  that  succeeded  the  night  in  which 
Horse  Shoe  Robinson  arrived  at  Musgrove's,  the 
stout  sergeant  might  have  been  seen,  about  eight 
o'clock,  leaving  the  main  road  from  Ninety-Six, 
at  the  point  where  that  leading  to  David  Ramsay's 
s  parated  from  it,  and  cautiously  urging  his  way 
into  the  deep  forest  by  the  more  private  path  into 
which  he  had  entered.  The  knowledge  that  Innis 
was  encamped  along  the  Ennoree,  within  a  short 
distance  of  the  mill,  had  compelled  him  to  make 
an  extensive  circuit  to  reach  Ramsay's  dwelling, 
whither  he  was  now  bent ;  and  he  had  experienced 
considerable  delay  in  his  morning  journey,  by  find 
ing  himself  frequently  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
small  foraging  parties  of  tories,  whose  motions  he 
was  obliged  to  watch  for  fear  of  an  encounter. 
He  had  once  already  been  compelled  to  use  his 
horse's  heels  in,  what  he  called,  "  fair  flight," — 
and  once  to  ensconce  himself,  a  full  half  hour,  un 
der  cover  of  the  thicket  afforded  him  by  a  swamp. 
He  now,  therefore,  according  to  his  own  phrase, 
"  dived  into  the  little  road  that  scrambled  down 
through  the  woods  toward  Ramsay's,  with  all  his 
eyes  about  him,  looking  out  as  sharply  as  a  fox  on 
a  foggy  morning :"  and  with  this  circumspection, 
he  was  not  long  in  arriving  within  view  of  Ram 
say's  house.  Like  a  practised  soldier,  whom  fre 
quent  frays  has  taught  wisdom,  he  resolved  to 
reconnoitre  before  he  advanced  upon  a  post  that 
might  be  in  possession  of  an  enemy.  He  therefore 
dismounted,  fastened  his  horse  in  a  fence  corner, 
where  a  field  of  corn  concealed  him  from  notice, 
and  then  stealthily  crept  forward  until  he  came 
immediately  behind  one  of  the  out-houses.  From 
this  position  he  was  enabled  to  satisfy  himself  that 
no  danger  was  to  be  apprehended  from  his  visit. 
He  accordingly  approached  and  entered  the  dwell 
ing,  where  he  soon  found  himself  in  the  presence 
of  its  mistress. 

"  Mistress  Ramsay,"  said  he,  walking  up  to  the 
dame,  who  was  occupied  at  a  table,  with  a  large 
trencher  before  her,  in  which  she  was  plying  some 
household  thrift — Muck  to  you,  ma'am,  and  all 
your  house  !  I  hope  you  havn't  none  of  these 
clinking  and  clattering  bullies  about  you,  that  are 
as  thick  over  this  country  as  the  frogs  in  the 
kneading  troughs — that  they  tell  of." 

"  Good  lack — Mr.  Horse  Shoe  Robinson  !"  ex 
claimed  the  matron,  offering  the  sergeant  her  hand. 
"  What  has  brought  you  here  7  What  news  1 
Who  are  with  you  7  For  patience  sake,  tell  me  !" 

"  I  am  alone,"  said  Robinson,  "  and  a  little  wet- 
tish,  mistress,"  he  added,  as  he  took  off  his  hat  and 
shook  the  water  from  it ;  "  it  has  just  sot  up  a  rain, 
and  looks  as  if  it  was  going  to  give  us  enough 
on't.  You  don't  mind  doing  a  little  dinner-work 
of  a  Sunday,  I  see — shelling  of  beans,  I  s'pose,  is 
tantamount  to  dragging  a  sheep  out  of  a  pond,  as 
the  preachers  allow  on  the  Sabbath — ha,  ha! 
Where's  Davy  7" 

"  He's  gone  over  to  the  meeting-house  on  En- 
norce,  hoping  to  hear  something  of  the  army  at 


Camden ;  perhaps  you  can  tell  us  the  news  from 
that  quarter1?" 

"  Faith,  that's  a  mistake,  mistress  Ramsay. 
Though  I  don't  doubt  that  they  are  hard  upon  the 
scratches  by  this  time.  But,  at  this  present  speak 
ing,  I  command  the  flying  artillery.  We  have 
but  one  man  in  the  corps— and  that's  myself;  and 
all  the  guns  we  have  got  is  this  piece  of  ordnance 
that  hangs  in  this  old  belt  by  my  side,  (pointing 
to  his  sword) — and  that  I  captured  from  the  enemy 
at  Blackstock's.  I  was  hoping  I  mought  find 
John  Ramsay  at  home — I  have  need  of  him  as  a 
recruit." 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Robinson,  John  has  a  heavy  life  of 
it,  over  there  with  Sumpter.  The  boy  is  often 
without  his  natural  rest,  or  a  meal's  victuals ;  and 
the  general  thinks  so  much  of  him,  that  he  can't 
spare  him  to  come  home.  I  hav'nt  the  heart  to 
complain,  as  long  as  John's  service  is  of  any  ac 
count,  but  it  does  seem,  Mr.  Robinson,  like  need 
less  tempting  of  the  mercies  of  providence.  We 
thought  that  he  might  have  been  here  to-day  ;  yet 
I  am  glad  he  didn't  come — for  he  would  have  been 
certain  to  get  into  trouble.  Who  should  come  in, 
this  morning,  just  after  my  husband  had  cleverly 
got  away  on  his  horse,  but  a  young  cock-a-whoop 
ensign,  that  belongs  to  Ninety-Six,  and  four  great 
Scotchmen  with  him,  all  in  red  coats ;  they  had 
been  out  thieving,  I  warrant,  and  were  now  going 
home  again.  And  who  but  they  ! — Here  they 
were,  swaggering  all  about  my  house — and  calling 
for  this,  and  calling  for  that — as  if  they  owned  the 
fee  simple  of  every  thing  on  the  plantation.  And 
it  made  my  blood  rise,  Mr.  Horse  Shoe,  to  see 
them  turn  out  in  the  yard  and  catch  up  my  chick 
ens  and  ducks,  and  kill  as  many  as  they  could 
string  about  them — and  I  not  daring  to  say  a  word: 
though  I  did  give  them  a  piece  of  my  mind,  too." 

«  Who  is  at  home  with  you?"  inquired  the  ser 
geant  eagerly. 

"Nobody  but  my  youngest  boy,  Andrew,"  an 
swered  the  dame.  "  And  then,  the  filthy,  toping 
rioters,"  she  continued,  exalting  her  voice. 

"What  arms  have  you  in  the  house  1"  asked 
Robinson,  without  heeding  the  dame's  rising  anger. 

"  We  have  a  rifle,  and  a  horseman's  pistol  that 
belongs  to  John.  They  must  call  for  drink,  too, 
and  turn  my  house,  of  a  Sunday  morning,  into  a 
tavern" — 

"  They  took  the  route  toward  Ninety-Six,  you 
said,  mistress  Ramsay  7" 

"  Yes,  they  went  straight  forward  upon  the  road. 
But,  look  you,  Mr.  Horse  Shoe,  you're  not  think 
ing  of  going  after  them  7" 

"  Isn't  there  an  old  field,  about  a  mile  from  here, 
on  that  road  7"  inquired  the  sergeant,  still  intent 
upon  his  own  thoughts. 

"  Certain,"  replied  the  hostess.  "  You  must  re 
member  the  cobbler  that  died  of  drink  on  the  road 
side !" 

"  There  is  a  shabby,  racketty  cabin  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  field  ; — am  I  right,  good  woman  7" 

«  Yes." 

"  And  nobody  lives  in  it.  It  has  no  door 
to  it  7" 


348 


JOHN    P.    KENNEDY. 


«  There  ha'n't  been  a  family  there  these  seven 
years." 

"'I  know  the  place  very  well,"  said  the  sergeant 
thoughtfully,"  there  is  woods  just  on  this  side  of  it." 

"•  That's  true,"  replied  the  dame  : — "  but  what 
is  it  you  are  thinking  about,  Mr.  Robinson]" 

"  How  long  before  this  rain  began,  was  it  that 
they  quitted  this  house1?" 

"  Not  above  fifteen  minutes." 

"  Mistress  Ramsay — bring  me  the  rifle  and  pis 
tol  both — and  the  powder-horn  and  bullets." 

"  As  you  say,  Mr.  Horse  Shoe,"  answered  the 
dame  as  she  turned  round  to  leave  the  room, — 
«  but  I  am  sure  I  can't  suspicion  what  you  mean 
to  do." 

In  a  few  moments  the  woman  returned  with  the 
weapons,  and  gave  them  to  the  sergeant. 

"  Where  is  Andy  1"  asked  Horse  Shoe. 

The  hostess  went  to  the  door  and  called  her 
son ;  almost  immediately  afterward,  a  sturdy  boy, 
of  about  twelve  or  fourteen  years  of  age,  entered 
the  apartment, — his  clothes  dripping  with  rain. 
He  modestly  and  shyly  seated  himself  on  a  chair 
near  the  door,  with  his  soaked  hat  flapping  down 
over  a  face  full  of  freckles,  and  not  less  rife  with 
the  expression  of  an  open,  dauntless  hardihood  of 
character. 

"  How  would  you  like  a  scrummage,  Andy, 
with  them  Scotchmen  that  stole  your  mother's 
chickens  this  morning'?"  asked  Horse  Shoe. 

"  I'm  agreed,"  replied  the  boy,  '•  if  you  will  tell 
me  what  to  do." 

"  You  are  not  going  to  take  the  boy  out  on  any 
of  your  desperate  projects,  Mr.  Horse  Shoe?"  said 
the  mother,  with  the  tears  starting  instantly  into 
her  eyes.  "  You  wouldn't  take  such  a  child  as 
that  into  danger !" 

.'<  Bless  your  soul,  Mistress  Ramsay,  there  ar'n't 
no  danger  about  it! — Don't  take  on  so.  It's  a 
thing  that  is  either  done  at  a  blow,  or  not  done, — 
and  there's  an  end  of  it.  I  want  the  lad  only  to 
bring  home  the  prisoners  for  me,  after  I  have  took 
them." 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Robinson,  I  have  one  son  already  in 
these  wars.  God  protect  him  !  and  you  men  don't 
know  how  a  mother's  heart  yearns  for  her  children 
in  these  times.  I  cannot  give  another,"  she  added, 
as  she  threw  her  arms  over  the  shoulders  of  the 
youth  and  drew  him  to  her  bosom. 

"  Oh,  it  aint  nothing,"  said  Andrew,  in  a 
sprightly  tone.  "  It's  only  snapping  of  a  pistol, 
mother, — pooh  !  If  I'm  not  afeard,  you  oughtn't 
to  be." 

"  I  give  you  my  honour,  Mistress  Ramsay,"  said 
Robinson,  "  that  I  will  bring  or  send  your  son  safe 
back  in  one  hour ;  and  that  he  shan't  be  put  in 
any  sort  of  danger  whatsomedever : — come,  that's 
a  good  woman !" 

"  You  are  not  deceiving  me,  Mr.  Robinson  ?" 
asked  the  matron,  wiping  away  a  tear.  "  You 
wouldn't  mock  the  sufferings  of  a  weak  woman  in 
such  a  thing  as  this  ]" 

"  On  the  honesty  of  a  sodger,  ma'am,"  replied 
Horse  Shoe,  "  the  lad  shall  be  in  no  danger,  as  I 
said  before — whatsomedever." 


"  Then  I  will  say  no  more,"  answered  the  mo 
ther.  "  But  Andy,  my  child,  be  sure  to  let  Mr. 
Robinson  keep  before  you." 

Horse  Shoe  now  loaded  the  fire-arms,  and  hav 
ing  slung  the  pouch  across  his  body,  he  put  the 
pistol  into  the  hands  of  the  boy ;  then  shouldering 
his  rifle,  he  and  his  young  ally  left  the  room. 
Even  on  this  occasion,  serious  as  it  might  be 
deemed,  the  sergeant  did  not  depart  without  giv 
ing  some  manifestation  of  that  light-heartedness 
which  no  difficulties  ever  seemed  to  have  power 
to  conquer.  He  thrust,  his  head  back  into  the 
room,  after  he  had  crossed  the  threshold,  and  said 
with  an  encouraging  laugh,  "  Andy  and  me  will 
teach  them,  Mistress  Ramsay,  Pat's  point  of  war — 
we  will  surroitnd  the  ragamuffins." 

"  Now  Andy,  my  lad,"  said  Horse  Shoe,  after 
he  had  mounted  Captain  Peter,  "  you  must  get  up 
behind  me.  Turn  the  lock  of  your  pistol  down," 
he  continued,  as  the  boy  sprang  upon  the  horse's 
rump,  "  and  cover  it  with  the  flap  of  your  jacket, 
to  keep  the  rain  off.  It  won't  do  to  hang  fire  at 
such  a  time  as  this." 

The  lad  did  as  he  was  directed,  and  Horse  Shoe 
having  secured  his  rifle  in  the  same  way,  put  his 
horse  up  to  a  gallop  and  took  the  road  in  the  direc 
tion  that  had  been  pursued  by  the  soldiers. 

As  soon  as  our  adventurers  had  gained  a  wood, 
at  a  distance  of  about  half  a  mile,  the  sergeant  re 
laxed  his  speed  and  advanced  at  a  pace  but  little 
above  a  walk. 

"  Andy,"  he  said,  "  we  have  got  rather  a  ticklish 
sort  of  a  job  before  us — so  I  must  give  you  your 
lesson,  which  you  will  understand  better  by  know 
ing  something  of  my  plan.  As  soon  as  your  mo 
ther  told  me  that  these  thieving  villains  had  left 
her  house  about  fifteen  minutes  before  the  rain 
came  on,  and  that  they  had  gone  along  upon  this 
road,  I  remembered  the  old  field  up  here,  and  the 
little  log  hut  in  the  middle  of  it;  and  it  was  natu 
ral  to  suppose  that  they  had  just  got  about  near 
that  hut  when  this  rain  came  up, — and  then  it 
was  the  most  supposable  case  in  the  world,  that 
they  would  naturally  go  into  it  as  the  driest  place 
they  could  find.  So  now  you  see  it's  my  calcula 
tion  that  the  whole  batch  is  there  at  this  very  point 
of  time.  We  will  go  slowly  along  until  we  get  to 
the  other  end  of  this  wood,  in  sight  of  the  old  field 
— and  then,  if  there  is  no  one  on  the  look-out,  we 
will  open  our  first  trench : — you  know  what  that 
means,  Andy  1" 

"  It  means,  I  s'pose,  that  we'll  go  right  smack 
at  them,"  replied  Andrew. 

"  Pretty  exactly,"  said  the  sergeant.  «  But  lis 
ten  to  me.  Just  at  the  edge  of  the  woods  you  will 
have  to  get  down,  and  put  yourself  behind  a  tree : 
I'll  ride  forward,  as  if  I  had  a  whole  troop  at  my 
heels, — and  if  I  catch  them,  as  I  expect,  they  will 
have  a  little  fire  kindled,  and,  as  likely  as  not, 
they'll  be  cooking  some  of  your  mother's  fowls." 

"  Yes, — I  understand,"  said  the  boy  eagerly. 

«  No  you  don't,"  replied  Horse  Shoe  ;  "  but  you 
will  when  you  hear  what  I  am  going  to  say.  If  I 
get  at  them  onawares,  they'll  be  mighty  apt  to 
think  they  are  surrounded,  and  will  bellow,  like 


JOHN    P.    KENNEDY. 


349 


fine  fellows,  for  quarters.  And  thereupon,  Andy, 
I'll  cry  out,  '  Stand  fast,'  as  if  I  was  speaking  to 
my  own  men ;  and  when  you  hear  that,  you  must 
come  up  full  tilt, — because  it  will  be  a  signal  to 
you  that  the  enemy  has  surrendered.  Then  it 
will  be  your  business  to  run  into  the  house  and 
bring  out  the  muskets  as  quick  as  a  rat  runs 
through  a  kitchen:  and  when  you  have  done  that, 
— why,  all's  done.  But  if  you  should  hear  any 
popping  of  firearms, — that  is,  more  than  one  shot, 
which  I  may  chance  to  let  off — do  you  take  that 
for  a  bad  sign,  and  get  away  as  fast  as  you  can 
heel  it.  You  comprehend  V' 

"  Oh  yes,"  replied  the  lad, "  and  I'll  do  what  you 
want, — and  more  too,  may  be,  Mr.  Robinson." 

"  Captain  Robinson,  remember,  Andy ;  you  must 
call  me  captain,  in  the  hearing  of  these  Scotsmen." 
"  I'll  not  forget  that  neither,"  answered  Andrew. 
"  By  the  time  these  instructions  were  fully  im 
pressed  upon  the  boy,  our  adventurous  forlorn 
hope,  as  it  may  fitly  be  called,  had  arrived  at  the 
place  which  Horse  Shoe  had  designated  for  the 
commencement  of  active  operations.     They  had  a, 
clear  view  of  the  old  field ;  and  it  afforded  them  a 
strong  assurance  that  the  enemy  was  exactly  where 
they  wished  him  to  be,  when  they  discovered  smoke 
arising  from  the  chimney  of  the  hovel.     Andrew 
was  instantly  posted  behind  a  tree,  and  Robinson 
only  tarried  a  moment  to  make  the  boy  repeat  the 
signals  agreed  on,  in  order  to  ascertain  that  he  had 
them  correctly  in  his  memory.     Being  satisfied 
from  this  experiment  that  the  intelligence  of  young  ! 
Ramsay   might   be  depended    upon,  he  galloped 
across  the  intervening  space,  and,  in  a  few  seconds,  ! 
abruptly  reined  up  his  steed  in  the  very  doorway 
of  the  hut.     The  party  within  was  gathered  around  i 
a  fire  at  the  further  end ;  and,  in  the  corner  oppo-  j 
site  the  door,  were  four  muskets  thrown  together 
against   the   wall.     To   spring   from   his  saddle, 
thrust  himself  one  pace  inside  of  the  door,  and  to 
level  his  rifle  at  the  group  beside  the  fire,  was  a 
movement  which  the  sergeant  executed  in  an  in 
stant, — shouting  at  the  same  time — 

"  Surrender  to  Captain  Robinson  of  the  Free 
Will  Volunteers,  and  to  the  Continental  Congress, 
— or  you  are  all  dead  men  !  Halt,"  he  vociferated 
in  a  voice  of  thunder,  as  if  speaking  to  a  corps 
under  his  command ;  «  file  off,  cornet,  right  and 
left,  to  both  sides  of  the  house.  The  first  man 
that  budges  a  foot  from  that  there  fireplace,  shall 
have  fifty  balls  through  his  body." 

"  To  arms !"  cried  the  young  officer  who  com 
manded  the  squad  inside  of  the  house.  "  Leap  to 
your  arms,  men !  Why  do  you  stand,  you  vil 
lains]"  he  added,  as  he  perceived  his  men  hesitate 
to  move  toward  the  corner  where  the  muskets 
were  piled. 

"  I  don't  want  your  blood,  young  man,"  said 
Robinson,  coolly,  as  he  still  levelled  his  rifle  at  the 
officer,  «  nor  that  of  you:  people  : — but,  by  my  fa 
ther's  son,  I'll  not  leave  one  of  you  to  be  put  upon 
a  muster-roll,  if  you  move  an  inch  !" 

Both  parties  now  stood  for  a  brief  space  eyeing 
each  other,  in  a  fearful  suspense,  during  which 
there  was  an  expression  of  mixed  doubt  and  anger 


visible  on  the  countenances  of  the  soldiers,  as  they 
surveyed  the  broad  proportions,  and  met  the  stern 
glance  of  the  sergeant ;  whilst  the  delay,  also,  be 
gan  to  raise  an  apprehension  in  the  mind  of  Robin 
son  that  his  stratagem  would  be  discovered. 

"  Upon  him,  at  the  risk  of  your  lives  !"  cried  the 
I  officer :  and,  on  the  instant,  one  of  the  soldiers 
i  moved  rapidly  toward  the  farther  wall;  upon  which 
i  the  sergeant,  apprehending  the  seizure  of  the  wea- 
j  pons,  sprang  forward  in  such  a  manner  as  would 
have  brought  his  body  immediately  before  them, — 
but  a  decayed  plank  in  the  floor  caught  his  foot 
[   and  he  fell  to  his  knee.     It  was  a  lucky  accident, — 
for  the  discharge  of  a  pistol,  by  the  officer,  planted 
a  bullet  in  the  log  of  the  cabin,  which  would  have 
been  lodged  full  in  the  square  breast  of  the  gallant 
Horse  Shoe,  if  he  had  retained  his  perpendicular 
position.      His   footing,  however,  was   recovered 
almost  as  soon  as  it  was  lost,  and  the  next  moment 
found  him  bravely  posted  in  front  of  the  firearms, 
with  his  own  weapon  thrust  almost  into  the  face 
of  the  foremost  assailant.     The  hurry,  confusion, 
and  peril  of  the  crisis  did  not  take  awav  his  self- 
possession  ;  but  he  now  found  himself  unexpect 
edly  thrown  into  a  situation  of  infinite  difficulty, 
where  all  the  chances  of  the  fight  were  against  him. 
"  Back,  men,  and  guard  the  door,"  he  cried  out, 
as  if  again  addressing  his  troop.     "  Sir,  I  will  not 
be  answerable  for  consequences,   if  my  troopers 
once  come  into  this  house.     If  you  hope  for  quar 
ter,  give  up  on  the  spot." 

«  His  men  have  retreated,"  cried  one  of  the  sol 
diers.  "  Upon  him,  boys  !"  and  instantly  two  or 
three  pressed  upon  the  sergeant,  who,  seizing  his 
rifle  in  both  hands,  bore  them  back  by  main  force, 
until  he  had  thrown  them  prostrate  on  the  floor. 
He  then  leaped  toward  the  door  with  the  intention 
of  making  good  his  retreat. 

"  Shall  I  let  loose  upon  them,  captain  1"  said 
Andrew  Ramsay,  now  appearing,  most  unexpect 
edly  to  Robinson,  at  the  door  of  the  hut.  "  Come 
on,  my  brave  boys  !"  he  shouted  as  he  turned  his 
face  toward  the  field. 

"  Kecf)  them  outside  of  the  door — stand  fast," 
cried  the  doughty  sergeant  again,  with  admirable 
promptitude,  in  the  new  and  sudden  posture  of 
his  affairs  caused  by  this  opportune  appearance  of 
the  boy.  "  Sir,  you  see  that  you  are  beaten :  let 
me  warn  you  once  more  to  save  the  lives  of  your 
men — it's  oppossible  for  me  to  keep  my  people  off  a 
minute  longer.  What  signifies  fighting  five  to  one?" 
During  this  appeal  the  sergeant  was  ably  se 
conded  by  the  lad  outside,  who  was  calling  out 
first  on  one  name,  and  then  on  another,  as  if  in 
the  presence  of  a  troop.  The  device  succeeded, 
and  the  officer  within,  believing  the  forbearance  of 
Robinson  to  be  real,  at  length  said — 

"  Lower  your  rifle,  sir.     In  the  presence  of  a  su 
perior  force,  taken  by  surprise  and  without  arms,  it 
is  my  duty  to  save  bloodshed.     With  the  promise  of 
fair  usage  and  the  rights  of  prisoners  of  war,  I  sur 
render  this  little  foraging  party  under  my  command." 
"  I'll  make  the  terms  agreeable,"  replied  the  ser 
geant.     "  Never  doubt  me,  sir.     Right  hand  file, 
advance,  and  receive  the  arms  of  the  prisoners!" 
2G 


350 


JOHN    P.    KENNEDY. 


"  I'm  here,  captain,"  said  Andrew,  in  a  conceited 
tone,  as  if  it  were  a  mere  occasion  of  merriment; 
and  the  lad  quickly  entered  the  house  and  secured 
the  weapons,  retreating  with  them  some  paces 
from  the  door. 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  Horse  Shoe,  to  the  ensign, 
"  your  sword,  and  whatever  else  you  mought  have 
ahout  you  of  the  ammunitions  of  war  !" 

The  officer  delivered  up  his  sword  and  a  pair  of 
pocket  pistols. 

"  Your  name  1 — if  I  mought  take  the  freedom." 

"  Ensign  St.  Jermyn,  of  his  majesty's  seventy- 
first  regiment  of  light  infantry." 

"  Ensign,  your  sarvant,"  added  Horse  Shoe, 
aiming  at  an  unusual  exhibition  of  politeness. 
"  You  have  defended  your  post  like  an  old  sodger, 
although  you  ha'n't  much  beard  upon  your  chin  ; 
I'll  certify  for  you.  But,  seeing  you  have  given 
up,  you  shall  be  treated  like  a  man  who  has  done 
his  duty.  You  will  walk  out  now,  and  form  your 
selves  in  line  at  the  door,  I'll  engage  my  men  shall 
do  you  no  harm : — they  are  of  a  marciful  breed." 

When  the  little  squad  of  prisoners  submitted  to 
this  command,  and  came  to  the  door,  they  were 
stricken  with  the  most  profound  astonishment  to 
find,  in  place  of  the  detachment  of  cavalry  they 
expected  to  see,  nothing  but  one  horse,  one  man, 
and  one  boy.  Their  first  emotions  were  expressed 
in  curses,  which  were  even  succeeded  by  laughter 
from  one  or  two  of  the  number.  There  seemed 
to  be  a  disposition,  on  the  part  of  some,  to  resist 
the  authority  that  now  controlled  them ;  and  sun 
dry  glances  were  exchanged  which  indicated  a 
purpose  to  turn  upon  their  captors.  The  sergeant 
no  sooner  perceived  this  than  he  halted,  raised  his 
rifle  to  his  breast,  and,  at  the  same  instant,  gave 
Andrew  Ramsay  an  order  to  retire  a  few  paces, 
and  to  fire  one  of  the  captured  pieces  at  the  first 
man  who  opened  his  lips : 

<«  By  my  hand,"  he  said, « if  I  find  any  trouble  in 
taking  you,  all  five,  safe  away  from  this  here  house, 
I  will  thin  your  numbers  with  your  own  muskets ! 
And  that's  as  good  as  if  I  had  sworn  to  it." 

"  You  have  my  word,  sir,"  said  the  ensign. 
"  Lead  on — we'll  follow." 

"  By  your  leave,  my  pretty  gentleman,  you  will 
lead,  and  I'll  follow,"  replied  Horse  Shoe.  "  It 
may  be  a  new  piece  of  drill  to  you — but  the  cus 
tom  is  to  give  the  prisoners  the  post  of  honour, 
and  to  walk  them  in  front." 

"As  you  please,"  answered  the  ensign.  «  Where 
do  you  take  us]" 

"  You  will  march  back  the  road  you  came,"  said 
the  sergeant. 

Finding  the  conqueror  determined  to  execute 
summary  martial  law  upon  the  first  who  should 
mutiny,  the  prisoners  now  marched  in  double  files 
from  the  hut,  back  toward  Ramsay's, — Horse 
Shoe,  with  Captain  Peter's  bridle  dangling  over  his 
arm,  and  his  gallant  young  auxiliary  Andrew,  la 
den  with  double  the  burden  of  Robinson  Crusoe, 
(having  all  the  fire-arms  packed  upon  his  shoul 
ders,)  bringing  up  the  rear.  In  this  order  victors 
and  vanquished  returned  to  David  Ramsay's. 

"  Well,  I  have  brought  you  your  ducks  and 


chickens  back,  mistress,"  said  the  sergeant,  as  he 
halted  his  prisoners  at  the  door,  "  and  what's  more, 
I  have  brought  home  a  young  sodger  that's  worth 
his  weight  in  gold." 

"  Heaven  bless  my  child  !  my  boy,  my  brave 
boy !"  cried  the  mother,  seizing  the  lad  Andrew  in 
her  arms,  and  unheeding  any  thing  else  in  the  pre 
sent  perturbation  of  her  feelings.  "  I  feaied  ill 
would  come  of  it :  but  Heaven  has  preserved  him. 
Did  he  behave  handsomely,  Mr.  Robinson!  But 
I  am  sure  he  did." 

"  A  little  more  venturesome,  ma'am,  than  I 
wanted  him  to  be,"  replied  Horse  Shoe.  "  But 
he  did  excellent  sarvice.  These  are  his  prisoners, 
Mistress  Ramsay — I  should  never  have  got  them, 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  Andy,  fn  these  drumming 
and  fifing  times  the  babies  suck  in  quarrel  with 
their  mother's  milk.  Show  me  another  boy  in 
America  that's  made  more  prisoners  than  there  was 
men  to  fight  them  with — that's  all !  He's  a  first 
rate  chap,  Mistress  Ramsay — take  my  word  for  it." 


DAUNTREES  AND  MISTRESS  WEASEL. 

FROM   ROB   OF   THE   BOWL. 

"  MISTRESS  DOROTHY,"  said  Captain  Dauntrees, 
"  at  your  leisure,  pray  step  this  way." 

The  dame  tarried  no  longer  than  was  necessary 
to  complete  a  measure  she  was  filling  for  a  customer, 
and  then  went  into  the  room  to  which  she  had 
been  summoned.  This  was  a  little  parlour  where 
the  captain  of  musqueteers  had  been  regaling  him 
self  for  the  last  hour  over  a  jorum  of  ale,  in  solitary 
rumination.  An  open  window  gave  to  his  view 
the  full  expanse  of  the  river,  now  glowing  with 
the  rich  reflections  of  sunset ;  and  a  balmy  October 
breeze  played  through  the  apartment  and  refreshed 
without  chilling  the  frame  of  the  comfortable  cap 
tain.  He  was  seated  near  the  window  in  a  large 
easy  chair  when  the  hostess  entered. 

"  Welcome  dame,"  he  said,  without  rising  from 
his  seat,  at  the  same  time  offering  his  hand,  which 
was  readily  accepted  by  the  landlady. — "  By  St. 
Gregory  and  St.  Michael  both,  a  more  buxom  and 
tidy  piece  of  flesh  and  blood  hath  never  sailed  be 
tween  the  two  headlands  of  Potomac  than  thou 
art!  You  are  for  a  junketing,  Mistress  Dorothy; 
you  are  tricked  out  like  a  queen  this  evening !  I 
have  never  seen  thee  in  thy  new  suit  before.  Thou 
art  as  gay  as  a  marygold  :  and  I  wear  thy  colours, 
thou  laughing  mother  of  mischief!  Green  is  the 
livery  of  thy  true  knight.  Has  your  goodman, 
honest  Garret,  come  hcme  yet,  dame  !" 

"  What  would  you  with  my  husband.  Master 
Baldpate  ?  There  is  no  good  in  the  wind  when  you 
throw  yourself  into  the  big  chair  of  this  parlour." 

"  In  truth,  dame,  I  only  came  to  make  a  short 

night  of  it  with  you  and  your  worthy  spouse 

Tell  Matty  to  spread  jvp^er  for  me  in  this  parlour. 
. . .  and  if  the  veritable  and  most  authentic  head  of 
this  house — I  mean  yourself,  mistress — have  no 
need  of  Garret,  I  would  entreat  to  have  him  in 
company.  By  the  hand  of  thy  soldier,  Mistress 
Dorothy  !  I  am  glad  to  see  you  thrive  so  in  your 


JOHN    P.  KENNEDY. 


351 


calling.  You  will  spare  me  Garret,  darnel  Come, 
I  know  you  have  not  learnt  how  to  refuse  me  a  boon." 

*<  You  are  a  saucy  Jack,  Master  Captain,"  replied 
the  dame.  "  I  know  you  of  old  :  you  would  have 
a  rouse  with  that  thriftless  babe,  my  husband.  You 
sent  him  reeling  home  only  last  night.  How  can 
you  look  me  in  the  face,. knowing  him,  as  you  do, 
for  a  most  shallow  vessel,  Captain  Dauntrees]" 

"  Fie  on  thee,  dame  !  You  disgrace  your  own 
flesh  and  blood  by  such  speech.  Did  you  not 
choose  him  for  his  qualities'? — ay,  and  with  all 
circumspection,  as  a  woman  of  experience.  You 
had  two  husbands  before  Garret,  and  when  you 
took  him  for  a  third,  it  was  not  in  ignorance  of  the 
sex.  Look  thee  in  the  face !  I  dare, — yea,  and 
at  thy  whole  configuration.  Faith,  you  wear  most 
bravely,  Mistress  Weasel !  Stand  apart  and  let 
me  survey  :  turn  thy  shoulders  round,"  he  added, 
as  by  a  sleight  he  twirled  the  dame  upon  her  heel 
so  as  to  bring  her  back  to  his  view — «  thou  art  a 
woman  of  ten  thousand,  and  I  envy  Garret  such 
store  of  womanly  wealth." 

«  If  Garret  were  the  man  I  took  him  for,  Master 
Captain."  said  the  dame  with  a  saucy  smile, "  you 
would  have  borne  a  broken  head  long  since.  But 
he  has  his  virtues,  such  as  they  are, — though  they 
may  lie  in  an  egg-shell:  and  Garret  has  his  frailties, 
too,  like  other  men:  alack,  there  is  no  denying  it!" 

"  Frailties,  forsooth !  Which  of  us  has  not, 
dame  ?  Garret  is  an  honest  man  ; — somewhat 
old — a  shade  or  so :  yet  it  is  but  a  shade.  For  my 
sake,  pretty  hostess,  you  will  allow  him  to  sup 
with  us  1  Speak  it  kindly,  sweetheart — good  old 
Garret's  jolly,  young  wife  !" 

"  Thou  wheedling  devil !"  said  the  landlady ; 
"  Garret  is  no  older  than  thou  art.  But,  truly,  I 
may  say  he  is  of  little  account  in  the  tap-room ;  so 
he  shall  come  to  you,  captain.  But,  look  you,  he 
is  weak,  and  must  not  be  overcharged." 

"  He  shall  not,  mistress — you  have  a  soldier's 
word  for  that.  I  could  have  sworn  you  would  not 
deny  me.  Hark  you,  dame, — bring  thine  ear  to 
my  lips ; — a  word  in  secret." 

The  hostess  bent  her  head  down,  as  the  captain 
desired,  when  he  said  in  a  half-whisper,  "  Send  me 
a  flask  of  the  best, — you  understand  ]  And  there's 
for  thy  pains !"  he  added  as  he  saluted  her  cheek 
with  a  kiss. 

"And  there's  for  thy  impudence,  saucy  captain  !" 
retorted  the  spirited  landlady  as  she  bestowed  the 
palm  of  her  hand  on  the  side  of  his  head  and  fled 
out  of  the  apartment. 

Dauntrees  sprang  from  his  chair  and  chased  the 
retreating  dame  into  the  midst  of  the  crowd  of  the 
tap-room,  by  whose  aid  she  was  enabled  to  make 
her  escape.  Here  he  encountered  Garret  Weasel, 
with  whom  he  went  forth  in  quest  of  Arnold  and 
the  Indian,  who  were  to  be  his  guests  at  supper. 

In  the  course  of  the  next  half  hour  the  captain 
and  his  three  comrades  were  assembled  in  the  little 
parlour  around  the  table,  discussing  their  evening 
meal.  When  this  was  over,  Matty  was  ordered  to 
clear  the  board  and  to  place  a  bottle  of  wine  and 
glasses  before  the  party,  and  then  to  leave  the  room. 

"  You  must  know,  Garret,"  said  Dauntrees  when 


the  serving-maid  had  retired,  "  that  we  go  to-night 
to  visit  the  Wizard's  Chapel  by  his  lordship's  or 
der;  and  as  I  would  have  stout  fellows  with  me,  I 
have  come  down  here  on  purpose  to  take  you  along." 

"Heaven  bless  us,  Master  Jasper  Dauntrees!" 
exclaimed  Garret,  somewhat  confounded  with  this 
sudden  appeal  to  his  valour,  which  was  not  of  that 
prompt  complexion  to  stand  so  instant  a  demand, 
and  yet  which  the  publican  was  never  willing  to 
have  doubted — « truly  there  be  three  of  you,  and 
it  might  mar  the  matter  to  have  too  many  on  so 
secret  an  outgoing" 

"  Tush,  man, — that  has  been  considered.  His 
lordship  especially  looks  to  your  going :  you  can 
not  choose  but  go." 

"  But  my  wife,  Captain  Dauntrees" 

"  Leave  that  to  me,"  said  the  captain ;  "  I  will 
manage  it  as  handsomely  as  the  taking  of  Troy 
Worthy  Garret,  say  naught  against  it — you  must 
go,  and  take  with  you  a  few  bottles  of  canary  and 
a  good  luncheon  of  provender  in  the  basket.  You 
shall  be  our  commissary.  I  came  on  set  purpose 
to  procure  the  assistance  of  your  experience  and 
store  of  comfortable  sustenance.  Get  the  bottles, 
Garret, — his  lordship  pays  the  scot  to-night." 

"  I  should  have  my  nag,"  said  Garret,  «  and  the 
dame  keeps  the  key  of  the  stable,  and  will  in 
nowise  consent  to  let  me  have  it.  She  would 
suspect  us  for  a  rouse  if  I  but  asked  the  key." 

"I  will  engage  for  that,  good  Weasel,"  said 
Dauntrees :  « I  will  cozen  the  dame  with  some 
special  invention  which  shall  put  her  to  giving  the 
key  of  her  own  motion :  she  shall  be  coaxed  with 
a  device  that  shall  make  all  sure — only  say  you 
will  obey  his  lordship's  earnest  desire."  . . . 

"  My  heart  is  big  enough,"  said  Weasel,  "  for 
any  venture ;  but,  in  truth,  I  fear  the  dame.  It 
will  be  a  livelong  night  carouse,  and  she  is  mortal 
against  that.  What  will  she  sav  in  the  morning  1" 

"  What  can  she  say,  when  sill  is  come  and  gone, 
but,  perchance,  that  thou  wert  lash  and  hot-headed  1 
That  will  do  you  no  harm :  but  an  hour  ago  she 
swore  to  me  that  you  were  getting  old — and  sighed, 
too,  as  if  she  believed  her  words." 

"  Old,  did  she  say  ?  Ho,  mistress,  I  will  show 
you  my  infirmities !  A  fig  for  her  scruples  !  the 
heyday  blood  yerks  yet,  Master  Captain.  I  will 
go  with  thee,  comrades :  I  will  follow  you  to  any 
goblin's  chapel  twixt  St.  Mary's  and  Christina." 

"  Well  said,  brave  vintner !"  exclaimed  the  cap 
tain  ;  "  now  stir  thee  !  And  when  you  come  back 
to  the  parlour,  Master  Weasel,  you  shall  find  the 
dame  here.  Watch  my  eye  and  take  my  hint,  so 
that  you  play  into  my  hand  when  need  shall  be. 
I  will  get  the  nag  out  of  the  stable  if  he  were  co 
vered  with  bells.  Away  for  the  provender  !'' 

The  publican  went  about  his  preparations,  and 
had  no  sooner  left  the  room  than  the  captain  called 
the  landlady,  who  at  his  invitation  showed  herself 
at  the  door. 

«  Come  in,  sweetheart.  Good  Mistress  Daffo 
dil,"  he  said,  "  I  called  you  that  you  may  lend  us 
your  help  to  laugh  :  since  your  rufflers  are  dis 
persed,  your  smokers  obnubilated  in  their  own 
clouds,  your  tipplers  strewed  upon  the  benches, 


352 


JOHN   P.   KENNEDY. 


and  nothing  more  left  for  you  to  do  in  the  tap-room, 
we  would  have  your  worshipful  and  witty  company 
here  in  the  parlour.  So  come  in,  my  princess  of  plea 
sant  thoughts,  and  make  us  merry  with  thy  fancies." 

"  There  is  nothing  but  clinking  of  cans  and  swag 
gering  speeches  where  you  are,  Captain  Dauntrees," 
said  the  hostess.  "  An  honest  woman  had  best  be 
little  seen  in  your  company.  It  is  a  wonder  you 
ever  got  out  of  the  Low  Countries,  where,  what  with 
drinking  with  boors  and  quarrelling  with  belted  bul 
lies,  your  three  years'  service  was  enough  to  put  an 
end  to  a  thousand  fellows  of  your  humour." 

"  There's  destiny  in  it,  dame.  I  was  born  to  be 
the  delight  of  your  eyes.  It  was  found  in  my  ho 
roscope,  when  my  nativity  was  cast,  that  a  certain 
jolly  mistress  of  a  most-especially-to-be-commended 
inn,  situate  upon  a  delectable  point  of  land  in  the 
New  World,  was  to  be  greatly  indebted  to  me,  first, 
for  the  good  fame  of  her  wines  amongst  worshipful 
people;  and,  secondly, for  the  sufficient  and  decent 
praise  of  her  beauty.  So  was  it  read  to  my  mo 
ther  by  the  wise  astrologer. . . . 

At  this  moment  Garret  Weasel  returned  to  the 
room.  A  sign  from  him  informed  the  captain 
that  the  preparation  he  had  been  despatched  to 
make  was  accomplished. 

"  How  looks  the  night,  Garret  ]"  inquired  Daun 
trees:  "  when  have  we  the  moon1?" 

"  It  is  a  clear  starlight  and  calm,"  replied  the 
publican ;  "  the  moon  will  not  show  herself  till 
near  morning." 

"  Have  you  heard  the  news,  mistress]"  inquired 
the  captain,  with  an  expression  of  some  eagerness; 
"  there  is  pleasant  matter  current  concerning  the 
mercer's  wife  at  the  Blue  Triangle.  But  you 
must  have  heard  it  before  this  1" 

«  No,  truly,  not  I,"  replied  the  hostess. 

"  Indeed !"  said  Dauntrees,  "  then  there's  a 
month's  amusement  for  you.  You  owe  the  sly 
jade  a  grudge,  mistress." 

"  In  faith  I  do,"  said  the  dame,  smiling,  "  and 
would  gladly  pay  it." 

"  You  may  pay  it  off  with  usftry  now,"  added 
the  captain,  "  with  no  more  trouble  than  telling  the 
story.  It  is  a  rare  jest,  and  will  not  die  quickly." 

"  I  pray  you  tell  it  to  me,  good  captain — give 
me  all  of  it,"  exclaimed  the  dame,  eagerly. 

"  Peregrine  Cadger,  the  mercer,  you  know,"  said 
the  captain — "  but  it  is  a  long  story,  and  will  take 
time  to  rehearse  it.  Garret,  how  comes  it  that  you 
did  not  tell  this  matter  to  your  wife,  as  I  charged  you 
to  do]"  he  inquired,  with  a  wink  at  the  publican. 

• "  I  resolved  to  tell  it  to  her,"  said  Weasel,  "  but, 
I  know  not  how,  it  ran  out  of  my  mind — the  day 
being  a  busy  one" 

"  A  busy  day  to  thee  !"  exclaimed  the  spouse. 
"  Thou,  who  hast  no  more  to  do  than  a  stray  in 
the  pound,  what  are  you  fit  for,  if  it  be  not  to  do 
as  you  are  commanded  ]  But  go  on,  captain  ;  the 
story  would  only  be  marred  by  Garret's  telling — 
go  on  yourself — I  am  impatient  to  hear  it." 

"  I  pray  you,  what  o'clock  is  it,  mistress  ]"  asked 
the  captain. 

"It  is  only  near  nine.  It  matters  not  for  the 
hour — go  on." 


"  Nine  !"  exclaimed  Dauntrees ;  "  truly,  dame, 
I  must  leave  the  story  for  Master  Garret.  Nine, 
said  you  1  By  my  sword,  I  have  overstayed  my 
time !  I  have  business  with  the  Lord  Proprietary 
before  he  goes  to  his  bed.  There  are  papers  at 
the  fort  which  should  have  been  delivered  to  his 
lordship  before  this." 

"  Nay,  captain,"  said  the  hostess,  «  if  it  be  but 
the  delivery  of  a  packet,  it  may  be  done  by  some 
other  hand.  There  is  Driving  Dick  in  the  tap 
room:  he  shall  do  your  bidding  in  the  matter. 
Do  riot  let  so  light  a  business  as  that  take  you 
away." 

"  To-morrow,  dame,  and  I  will  tell  you  the  tale." 

«  To-night,  captain — to-night." 

«  Truly,  I  must  go ;  the  papers  should  be  deli 
vered  by  a  trusty  hand — I  may  not  leave  it  to  an 
ordinary  messenger.  Now,  if  Garret — but  I  will 
ask  no  such  service  from  the  good  man  at  this  time 
of  night ;  it  is  a  long  way.  No,  no,  I  must  do  my 
own  errand." 

"  There  is  no  reason  upon  earth,"  said  the  land 
lady,  "  why  Garret  should  not  do  it :  it  is  but  a 
step  to  the  fort  and  back." 

"  I  can  take  my  nag  and  ride  there  in  twenty 
minutes,"  said  Garret.  "I  warrant  you  his  lord 
ship  will  think  the  message  wisely  intrusted  to  me." 

"  Then  get  you  gone,  without  parley,"  exclaimed 
the  dame. 

"  The  key  of  the  stable,  wife,"  said  Garret. 

"  If  you  will  go,  Master  Garret,"  said  Dauntrees 

— "  and  it  is  very  obliging  of  you — do  it  quickly. 

Tell  Nicholas  Verbrack  to  look  in  my  scritoire  ;  he 

will  find   the    packet  addressed   to   his  lordship. 

!   Take  it,  and  see  it  safely  put  into  his  lordship's 

|  hands.     Say  to  Nicholas,  moreover,  that  I  will  be  at 

the  fort  before  ten  to-night.     You  comprehend]" 

"  I  comprehend,"  replied  Garret,  as  his  wife  gave 
him  the  key  of  the  stable,  and  he  departed  from  the 
room. 

"  Now,  captain." 

"  Well,  mistress:  you  must  know  that  Peregrine 
Cadger,  the  mercer,  who  in  the  main  is  a  discreet 
man" 

«  Yes." 

"  A  discreet  man — I  mean,  bating  some  follies 
!  which  you  wot  of;  for  this  trading  and  trafficking 
naturally  begets  foresight.  A  man  has  so  much  to 
do  with  the  world  in  that  vocation,  and  the  world, 
Mistress  Dorothy,  is  inclined  by  temper  to  be  some 
what  knavish,  so  that  they  who  have  much  to  do 
with  it  learn  cautions  which  other  folks  do  not. 
Now,  in  our  calling  of  soldiership,  caution  is  a 
sneaking  virtue  which  we  soon  send  to  the  devil ; 
and  thereby  you  may  see  how  it  is  that  we  aie 
more  honest  than  other  people.  Caution  and 
honesty  do  not  much  consort  together." 

"  But  of  the  mercer's  wife,  captain," 

"  Ay,  the  mercer's  wife — I  shall  come  to  her 
presently.  Well,  Peregrine,  as  you  have  often 
seen,  is  a  shade  or  so  jealous  of  that  fussock,  his 
wife,  who  looks,  when  she  is  tricked  out  in  her 
new  russet  grogram  cloak,  more  like  a  brown  hay 
cock  in  motion  than  a  living  woman." 

"  Yes,"  interrupted  the  dame,  laughing,  "  and 


JOHN    P.    KENNEDY 


353 


with  a  sunburnt  top.     Her  red  hair  on  her  shoul 
ders  is  no  better,  I  trow." 

"  Her  husband,  who  at  best  is  but  a  cotquean — 
one  of  those  fellows  who  has  a  dastardly  fear  of  his 
wife,  which,  you  know,  Mistress  Dorothy,  truly 
makes  both  man  and  wife  to  be  laughed  at.  A 
husband  should  have  his  own  way,  and  follow  his 
humour,  no  matter  whether  the  dame  rails  or  not. 
You  agree  with  me  in  this,  Mistress  Weasel  1" 

"  In  part,  captain.  I  am  not  for  stinting  a  hus 
band  in  his  lawful  walks;  but  the  wife  should 
have  an  eye  to  his  ways:  she  may  counsel  him." 

"  Oh,  in  reason,  I  grant;  but  she  should  not 
chide  him,  I  mean,  nor  look  too  narrowly  into  his 
hours,  that's  all.  Now  Peregrine's  dame  hath  a 
free  foot,  and  the  mercer  himself  somewhat  of  a 
sulky  brow.  Well,  Halfpenny,  the  chapman,  who 
is  a  mad  wag  for  mischief,  and  who  is  withal  a  sure 
customer  of  the  mercer's  in  small  wares,  comes 
yesternight  to  Peregrine  Cadger's  house,  bringing 
with  him  worshipful  Master  Lawrence  Hay,  the 
Viewer." 

At  this  moment  the  sound  of  horse's  feet  from 
the  court-yard  showed  that  Garret  Weasel  had  set 
forth  on  his  ride. 

"  Arnold,  I  am  keeping  you  waiting,"  said  Daun- 
trees.  "  Fill  up  another  cup  for  yourself  and  Pa- 
mesack,  and  go  your  ways.  Stay  not  for  me, 
friends ;  or  if  it  pleases  you,  wait  for  me  in  the  tap 
room.  I  will  be  ready  in  a  brief  space." 

The  ranger  and  the  Indian,  after  swallowing 
another  glass,  withdrew. 

"The  Viewer,"  continued  Dauntrees,  "is  a 
handsome  man, — and  a  merry  man  on  occasion, 
too.  I  had  heard  it  whispered  before — but  not 
liking  to  raise  a  scandal  upon  a  neighbour,  I  kept 
my  thoughts  to  myself— that  the  mercer's  wife  had 
rather  a  warm  side  for  the  viewer.  But  be  that 
as  it  may :  there  was  the  most  laughable  prank 
played  on  the  mercer  by  Halfpenny  and  the  viewer 
together,  last  night,  that  ever  was  heard  of.  It  was 
thus :  they  had  a  game  at  Hoodman  blind,  and 
when  it  fell  to  Lawrence  to  be  the  seeker,  some 
how  the  fat  termagant  was  caught  in  his  arms, 
and  so  the  hood  next  came  to  her.  Well,  she  was 
blindfolded ;  and  there  was  an  agreement  all  round 
that  no  one  should  speak  a  word." 

"  Ay,  I  understand — I  see  it,"  said  the  hostess, 
eagerly  drawing  her  chair  nearer  to  the  captain. 
'  «  No,  you  would  never  guess,"  replied  Daun 
trees,  "  if  you  cudgelled  your  brains  from  now  till 
Christmas.  But  I  can  show  you,  Mistress  Doro 
thy,  better  by  the  acting  of  the  scene.  Here,  get 
down  on  your  knees,  and  let  me  put  your  kerchief 
over  your  eyes." 

"  What  can  that  signify  ?"  inquired  the  dame. 

"  Do  it,  mistress — you  will  laugh  at  the  explo 
sion.  Give  me  the  handkerchief.  Down,  dame, 
upon  your  marrow-bones: — it  is  an  excellent  jest 
and  worth  the  learning." 

The  landlady  dropped  upon  her  knees,  and  the 
captain  secured  the  bandage  round  her  eyes. 

"  How  many  fingers,  dame  ?"  he  asked,  holding 
his  hand  before  her  face. 

"  Never  a  finger  can  I  see,  captain." 
45 


"  It  is  well.  Now  stand  up — forth  and  away  ! 
That  was  the  word  given  by  the  viewer.  Turn, 
Mistress  Dorothy,  and  grope  through  the  room. 
Oh,  you  shall  laugh  at  this  roundly.  Grope, 
grope,  dame." 

The  obedient  and  marvelling  landlady  began  to 
grope  through  the  apartment,  and  Dauntrees, 
quietly  opening  the  door,  stole  off  to  the  tap-room, 
where  being  joined  by  his  comrades,  they  hied 
with  all  speed  toward  the  fort,  leaving  the  credu 
lous  dame  floundering  after  a  jest,  at  least  until 
they  got  beyond  the  hail  of  her  voice. 


GREEN  MOUNT  CEMETERY. 

FROM   AN   ADDRESS   DELIVERED   AT  ITS  DEDICATION. 

I  KNOW  not  where  the  eye  may  find  more  pleas 
ing  landscapes  than  those  which  surround  us. 
Here,  within  our  enclosures,  how  aptly  do  these 
sylvan  embellishments  harmonize  with  the  design 
of  the  place  ! — this  venerable  grove  of  ancient  fo 
rest;  this  lawn  shaded  with  choicest  trees;  that 
green  meadow,  where  the  brook  creeps  through  the 
tangled  thicket  begemmed  with  wild  flowers ;  these 
embowered  alleys  and  pathways  hidden  in  shrub 
bery,  and  that  grassy  knoll  studded  with  evergreens 
and  sloping  to  the  cool  dell  where  the  fountain  rip 
ples  over  its  pebbly  bed : — all  hemmed  in  by  yon 
natural  screen  of  foliage  which  seems  to  separate 
this  beautiful  spot  from  the  world  and  devote  it  to 
the  tranquil  uses  to  which  it  is  now  to  be  applied. 
Beyond  the  gate  that  guards  these  precincts  we 
gaze  upon  a  landscape  rife  with  all  the  charms  that 
hill  and  dale,  forest-clad  heights,  and  cultivated 
fields  may  contribute  to  enchant  the  eye.  That 
stream  which  northward  cleaves  the  woody  hills, 
comes  murmuring  to  our  feet,  rich  with  the  reflec 
tions  of  the  bright  heaven  and  the  green  earth ; 
thence  leaping  along  between  its  granite  banks, 
hastens  toward  the  city  whose  varied  outline  of 
tower,  steeple,  and  dome,  gilded  by  the  evening 
sun  and  softened  by  the  haze,  seems  to  sleep  in 
perspective  against  the  southern  sky:  and  there, 
fitly  stationed  within  our  view,  that  noble  column, 
destined  to  immortality  from  the  name  it  bears,  lifts 
high  above  the  ancient  oaks  that  crown  the  hill,  the 
venerable  form  of  the  Father  of  his  Country,  a 
majestic  image  of  the  deathlessness  of  virtue. 

Though  scarce  an  half  hour's  walk  from  yon 
living  mart,  where  one  hundred  thousand  human 
beings  toil  in  their  noisy  crafts,  here  the  deep  quiet 
of  the  country  reigns,  broken  by  no  ruder  voice 
than  such  as  marks  the  tranquillity  of  rural  life, — 
the  voice  of  "  birds  on  branches  warbling," — the 
lowing  of  distant  cattle,  and  the  whetting  of  the 
mower's  scythe^.  Yet  tidings  of  the  city  not  unplea 
santly  reach  the  ear  in  the  faint  murmur  which  at 
intervals  is  borne  hither  upon  the  freshening 
breeze,  and  more  gratefully  still  in  the  deep  tones 
of  that  cathedral  bell, 

Swinging  slow,  with  sullen  roar, 
as  morning  and  noon,  and  richer  at  eventide,  it  flings 
its  pealing  melody  across  these  shades  with  an  invoca 
tion  that  might  charm  the  lingering  visiter  to  prayer 
2G2 


GEORGE  BUSH. 


[Born  1796.    Died  1859.J 


GEORGE  BUSH,  one  of  the  most  profound 
and  ingenious  scholars  of  the  present  age. 
was  born  at  Norwich,  in  the  eastern  part  of 
Vermont,  on  the  twelfth  of  June,  1796,  and 
entered  Dartmouth  College  in  the  eighteenth 
year  of  his  age,  far  advanced  in  classical 
learning,  and  distinguished  for  graces  of  style 
in  literary  composition  at  that  time  unusual 
even  among  the  veterans  of  the  pulpit  and  the 
press.  Among  his  classmates  of  Dartmouth 
were  the  late  Dr.  Marsh,  of  the  University 
of  Vermont,  so  eminent  as  a  scholar,  a  philo 
sopher,  and  a  Christian;  Thomas  C.  Upham, 
who  has  won  an  enviable  reputation  by  his 
metaphysical  writings  ;*  and  Rufus  Choate, 
who  at  the  bar  and  in  the  senate  has  been 
among  the  most  conspicuous  for  learning, 
wisdom,  and  fervid  eloquence.  Mr.  Choate 
was  his  "chum,"  and  at  this  time  their  pur 
suits  as  well  as  their  tastes  were  congenial ; 
but  religious  influences  changed  the  intentions 
of  Mr.  Bush,  and  after  graduating,  with  the 
highest  honours,  in  1818,  he  entered  the  The 
ological  Seminary,  at  Princeton,  to  prepare 
himself  for  the  ministry.  In  due  time  he  re 
ceived  ordination  in  the  Presbyterian  church, 
and  having  passed  a  year  as  tutor  in  Princeton 
College,  he  in  1824  went  to  Indiana,  under 
the  auspices  of  the  Home  Missionary  Society, 
and  settled  at  Indianapolis.  In  the  follow 
ing  year  he  was  married  to  a  daughter  of  the 
Honourable  Lewis  Condict  of  Morristown,  in 
New  Jersey.  He  acquired  f. rms i (\ e.  rabje,  r/ap* - 
tation  as  a  preacher,  professorships  were  of 
fered  him  in  several  colleges,  and  prospects 
of  the  satisfaction  of  all  his  ambition  seemed 
opening  before  him ;  but  in  1827,  when  he 
had  been  four  years  in  Indiana,  his  wife  died, 
and  he  returned  to  the  East. 

He  had  already  written  occasionally  for  the 
literary  and  theological  journals,  but  now  he 
determined  to  consecrate  his  life  to  letters  and 


"The  Elements  of  Mental   Philosophy,  Treatise  on 
the  Will,  Outlines  of  Imperfect  and  Disordered  Men 
tal  Action,  Principles  of  the  Interior  or  Hidden  Life,  and 
other  philosophical  and  religious  works,  in  which  he  has 
bited  sound  learning,  good  j  udgment,  and  candour. 
354 


learning ;  and  in  the  various  departments  of 
dogmatical  and  ethical  theology,  general  com 
mentary,  biblical  antiquities,  hermeneutics  and 
criticism,  the  fruits  of  his  industrious  pen 
have  ever  since  engaged  the  attention  of  scho 
lars  and  thinking  men.  His  election  to  the 
professorship  of  Hebrew  and  Oriental  Litera 
ture  in  the  University  of  the  city  of  New  York, 
in  1831,  may  have  had  some  influence  on  the 
direction  of  his  studies,  but  the  field  upon 
which  he  entered  would  under  any  circum 
stances  have  been  preferred  by  him,  and  is 
the  one  in  which  he  was  fitted  to  acquire  the 
greatest  influence  and  reputation. 

The  first  work  of  Professor  Bush  was  his 
Life  of  Mohammed,  published  in  1 832.*  This 
was  followed  in  the  next  year  by  his  cele 
brated  Treatise  on  the  Millennium,  in  which 
he  has  assumed  the  position  that  the  millen 
nium,  strictly  so  called,  is  past.  But  by  the 
millennium  he  does  not  understand  the  golden 
age  of  the  church,  which,  in  common  with 
nearly  all  good  men,  he  regards  as  a  future 
era.  He  contends  that  as  the  memorable  pe 
riod  of  the  thousand  years  of  the  apocalypse 
is  distinguished  mainly  by  the  binding  of  the 
symbolical  dragon,  we  must  determine  by  the 
legitimate  canons  of  interpretation  what  is 
shadowed  forth  by  this  mystic  personage,  be 
fore  we  can  assure  ourselves  of  the  true  cha 
racter  of  the  millennial  age.  The  dragon,  he 
supposes,  is  the  grand  hieroglyphic  of  pagan 
ism  ;  the  "  binding  of  the  dragon,"  but  a 
figurative  phrase  for  the  suppression  of  pa 
ganism  within  the  limits  of  the  Roman  empire, 
a  fulfilment  which  he  contends  commenced 
in  the  reign  of  Constantine,  and  was  consum 
mated  in  that  of  Theodosius,  his  successor. 
He  draws  largely  on  the  pages  of  Gibbon  in 
support  of  his  theory,  assuming  all  along  the 
great  foundation  principle  that  the  apocalypse 
of  John  is  but  a  series  of  pictured  emblems, 
shadowing  forth  the  ecclesiastical  and  civil 
history  of  the  world.  As  a  merely  literary 
performance,  this  work  received  the  highest 

*  The  tenth  volume  of  Harpers'  Family  Library 


GEORGE    BUSH. 


355 


commendations  of  the  critics ;  and  though  not 
generally  assented  to,  it  has  never  been  dis 
proved. 

In  1835  he  published  his  Hebrew  Grammar, 
of  which  a  second  edition  appeared  in  1838. 
It  has  been  highly  approved  wherever  used. 
It  is  better  adapted  than  any  other  to  elemen 
tary  instruction. 

In  1840  he  commenced  the  publication  of 
his  commentaries  on  the  Old  Testament,  of 
which  eight  volumes,  Genesis,  Exodus,  Leviti 
cus,  Numbers,  Joshua,  and  Judges,  have 
been  completed.  His  careful  study,  his  scru 
pulous  fidelity  in  eliciting  the  exact  meaning 
of  the  original,  and  his  peculiar  tact  in  ex 
plaining  it,  have  made  his  commentaries  every 
where  popular,  so  that  before  the  completion 
of  the  series  some  of  the  volumes  have  passed 
through  many  editions.  In  all  of  them  will 
be  found  discussions  on  the  most  important 
points  of  biblical  science,  extending  far  be 
yond  the  ordinary  dimensions  of  expository 
notes,  and  amounting,  indeed,  to  elaborate 
dissertations  of  great  value.  Among  the  sub 
jects  thus  treated  are,  in  Genesis,  the  tempta 
tion  and  the  fall,  the  dispersion  from  Babel, 
the  prophecies  of  Noah,  the  character  of  Mel- 
chizedec,  the  destruction  of  Sodom  and  Go 
morrah,  the  history  of  Joseph,  and  the  pro 
phetical  benedictions  of  Jacob ;  in  Exodus, 
the  hardening  of  the  heart  of  Pharaoh,  the 
miracles  of  the  magicians,  the  pillar  of  cloud 
as  the  seat  of  the  Shekinah,  the  decalogue,  and 
the  Hebrew  theocracy ;  in  Leviticus,  a  clear 
and  minute  specification  of  the  different  sacri 
fices,  the  law  of  marriage,  including  the  case 
of  marriage  with  a  deceased  wife's  sister,  very 
largely  considered,  and  a  full  account  of  the 
Jewish  festivals.  The  sixth  volume  contains 
an  ample  and  erudite  exposition  of  the  Song 
of  Deborah,  and  an  extended  discussion  on  the 
subject  of  Jephthah's  vow,  with  a  view  to 
determine  whether  the  Jewish  warrior  really 
sacrificed  his  daughter. 

In  1844  he  published  the  Hierophant,  a 
monthly  magazine,  in  which  he  enters  elabo 
rately  into  the  nature  of  the  prophetic  sym 
bols,  and  in  one  of  the  numbers  brings  out 
some  grand  results  as  to  the  physical  destiny 
of  the  globe.  He  assumes  that  a  fair  con 
struction  of  the  language  of  the  prophets  is 
far  from  countenancing  the  common  opinions 
respecting  the  literal  conflagration  of  the  hea-  ! 
vens  and  the  earth,  and  does  not  even  teach 


that  such  a  catastrophe  is  ever  to  take  place. 
He  denies  not  that  this  may  possibly  be  the 
finale  which  awaits  our  planet  and  the  solar 
system,  but  contends  that  if  so,  it  is  to  be  ga 
thered  rather  from  astronomy  than  revelation, 
from  the  apocalypse  of  Newton,  Laplace  and 
Herschel,  than  from  that  of  John.  The  Let 
ters  in  The  Hierophant  to  Professor  Stuart,  on 
the  Double  Sense  of  Prophecy,  have  been  re 
garded  as  among  the  finest  specimens  of  criti 
cal  discussion. 

The  next  work  of  Professor  Bush,  and  the 
one  which  has  excited  the  most  attention  and 
controversy,  was  Anastasis,  or  the  Doctrine 
of  the  Resurrection  of  the  Body  Rationally 
and  Spiritually  Considered,  published  in  1844. 
There  is  a  true  and  perceptible  progress  in 
our  knowledge  of  nature,  with  which  our 
knowledge  of  the  revelation  also  advances. 
The  discoveries  of  the  geologists  have  made 
necessary  a  new  interpretation  of  the  scrip 
tural  genesis  of  the  earth,  and  the  astronomers 
have  taught  us  that  the  old  opinions  of  the 
miraculous  suspension  of  the  sun  are  erro 
neous  ;  but  while  science  thus  modifies  ideas 
in  regard  to  things  physical,  the  great  moral 
truths  of  the  Bible  are  not  affected  by  it,  and 
the  law  of  conscience  remains  immutable. 
Professor  Bush  contends  that  the  commonly 
received  doctrine  of  the  resurrection  of  the 
dead,  which  implies  a  reunion  of  the  identical 
particles  of  matter  which  in  our  present  state 
compose  the  human  body,  and  that,  however 
widely  scattered,  and  however  diverse  the 
forms  in  which  they  may  exist,  these  particles 
shall  mysteriously  be  made  again  to  live  in 
connection  with  the  soul,  is  sanctioned  by  nei 
ther  reason  nor  revelation.  "  The  ancient  and 
accredited  technicalities  of  religion,  hallowed 
as  they  are  by  long  usage,  and  wedded  to  the 
heart  by  early  association,"  are  clung  to  how 
ever  with  unyielding  tenacity,  and  the  more  spi 
ritual  and  reasonable  view  of  the  resurrection 
was  assailed,  in  a  manner  scarcely  consistent 
with  Christian  courtesy,  in  many  of  the  lead 
ing  religious  journals,  and  in  various  tracts  and 
volumes,  to  which  Professor  Bush  replied  in 
his  work  entitled  The  Resurrection  of  Christ, 
in  Answer  to  the  Question  whether  he  rose  in 
a  Spiritual  and  Celestial, or  in  a  Material  and 
Earthly  Body,  and  in  The  Soul,  or  an  Inquiry 
into  Scriptural  Psychology,  as  developed  in 
the  use  of  the  terms  Soul,  Spirit,  Life,  ice., 
viewed  in  its  bearings  on  the  Doctrine  of  the 


356 


GEORGE    BUSH. 


Resurrection.  Very  few  theological  writings 
have  been  more  read  in  so  short  a  period, 
either  by  the  laity  or  the  clergy,  and  it  is  not 
to  be  denied  that  with  the  former  at  least  his 
reasonings  have  been  very  generally  convinc 
ing. 

In  1845  Professor  Bush  avowed  a  full  be 
lief  and  candid  adoption  of  the  doctrines  and 
disclosures  of  Emanuel  Swedenborg,  and  he 
has  since  devoted  himself  almost  exclusively 
to  their  exposition  and  defence.  He  has  trans 
lated  Swedenborg's  Diary,  from  the  Latin; 
published  most  of  his  other  works,  with  copi 
ous  original  notes ;  made  a  Statement  of  Rea 
sons  for  joining  .he  "  new  church,"  and  his  new 
church  Miscellanies  maintained  with  an  elo 
quence  and  earnestness  with  which  they  were 
never  maintained  before,  the  principles  of  the 
"inspired  philosopher"  of  Upsal. 

The  last  work  of  Professor  Bush  is  on  the 
higher  phenomena  of  Mesmerism,  in  which 
also  he  is  a  believer,  and  is  designed  to  show 
that  the  laws  of  spiritual  intercourse  developed 
in  the  magnetic  state  afford  a  striking  con 
firmation  of  the  truths  of  Swedenborg's  reve 
lations  on  the  same  subject :  so  much  so,  that 
if  the  asserted  mental  phenomena  of  Mesmer 
ism  be  facts,  Swedenborg's  claim  to  commu 
nion  with  spirits  is  established. 

In  185*7  appeared  his  work,  Priesthood  and 
Clergy  unknown  to  Christianity,  or  the  Church 
a  community  of  co-equal  Brethren  ;  and  later, 
an  Exposition  of  the  Four  Gospels  according 
the  Internal  rfense;but  this  work  was  never 
finished. 

"  The  inquiry  after  truth,  which  is  the  love- 
making  or  wooing  of  it;  the  knowledge  of 
truth,  which  is  the  presence  of  it,  and  the  be 
lief  of  truth,  which  is  the  enjoying  of  it," 
Lord  Bacon  says,  "is  the  sovereign  good  of 
human  nature."  There  was  never  a  more 
sincere  lover  of  truth  than  George  Bush;  few 
have  sought  it  with  more  earnestness  and 
humbleness ;  and  that  he  has  discovered  it  he 
seems  to  have  the  evidence  of  a  profound  sa 
tisfaction.  He  looks  for  the  grandest  moral, 
political,  and  intellectual  movements  that  man 
has  ever  seen;  indeed  thinks  they  are  now 
taking  place ;  that  the  race  is  swinging  loose 
from  its  ancie'nt  moorings,  and  is  launching 
upon  an  unexplored  sea,  where  are  no  charts 


for  its  guidance,  where  the  azimuth  must  be 
often  plied  and  the  plummet  often  thrown  into 
the  wide  ocean,  on  which  floats  the  vessel 
freighted  with  the  weal  of  the  world ;  but  the 
age,  with  all  its  voices,  bids  him  hope ;  the 
wide  reprehension  of  wrong,  the  deep-seated 
feeling  of  right,  the  diffusion  of  learning  and 
religion,  the  giving  way  of  barbarous  usages 
to  order  and  law,  the  extension  of  man's  do 
minion  over  the  elements,  by  which  space  and 
time  are  removed  from  between  nations,  all 
give  promise  to  him  of  the  last  and  most  glo 
rious  act  in  the  drama  of  the  earth,  and  while 
he  labours  he  sings,  Eureka  ! 

The  extent  and  variety  of  his  learning,  his 
rare  courage,  the  unpretending  simplicity  and 
the  kindness  of  his  manners,  his  fervent  and 
trustful  piety,  insure  for  him  respect  and  af 
fection,  and  render  him  the  fittest  instrument 
for  the  propagation  of  a  new  faith,  that  has 
appeared,  perhaps,  in  the  nineteenth  century. 

Professor  Bush  appears  to  "see  darkly" 
something  beyond  the  limits  of  the  old  doc 
trines,  but  his  new  ideas  want  solidity  and  co 
herence.  The  world  will  hardly  believe  that 
Emanuel  Swedenborg  was  a  divinely  commis 
sioned  destroyer  and  recreator,  though  a  man 
of  extraordinary  genius,  who  may  have  per 
ceived  some  grand  truths  in  physics  and  phi 
losophy  by  a  sort  of  spiritual  sight,  the  nature 
of  which  he  did  not  himself  understand,  and 
made  such  wise  report  as  by  some  discreet 
and  cautious  men  to  be  regarded  as  a  pro 
phet..  Mesmerism,  in  its  lower  phenomena 
practised  much  by  charlatans,  who  have  given 
abundant  excuse  for  unbelief,  embraces  sub 
stantial  and  mysterious  truth;  and  since  it 
has  been  seen  that  its  wonders  may  explain 
those  of  Swedenborg,  without  a  necessity  of 
acknowledging  any  supernaturalism,  the  new 
creed  has  been  progressive ;  and  for  the  same 
causes  and  in  the  same  ratio  the  importance 
of  its  author  has  diminished. 

Much  study  impaired  his  health,  and  he  died 
at  Rochester,  Sept.  19,  1859.  In  1860,  was 
published  at  Boston,  Memoirs  and  Reminis 
cences  of  the  late  Prof.  Geo.  Bush ;  being  for 
the  most  part,  voluntary  contributions  from 
different  friends.  His  fine  library,  rich  in  bib 
lical,  classic,  and  oriental  literature,  was  sold 
at  auction,  in  New  York. 


CATHARINE  M.  SEDGWICK 


CATHERINE  M.   SEDGWICK. 

[Born  1789.    Died  1867.] 


Miss  SEDGWICK  was  one  of  the  first  Ame 
ricans  of  her  sex  who  were  distinguished  in 
the  republic  of  letters,  and  in  the  generous 
rivalry  of  women  of  genius  which  marks  the 
present  age  she  continues  to  occupy  a  con 
spicuous  and  most  honourable  position.  She 
is  of  a  family  which  has  contributed  some  of 
its  brightest  names  to  Massachusetts.  Her 
father,  who  was  descended  from  one  of  the 
major-generals  in  the  service  of  Cromwell, 
enjoyed  a  high  reputation  as  a  statesman  and 
a  jurist,  and  was  successively  an  officer  in  the 
revolutionary  army,  a  representative  and  se 
nator  in  Congress,  and  a  judge  of  the  supreme 
court  of  his  state.  Her  brother  Henry,  who 
died  in  1831,  was  an  able  lawyer  and  political 
writer,  and  another  brother,  the  late  Theodore 
Sedgwick,  was  also  distinguished  as  a  states 
man  and  an  author.* 

Miss  Sedgwick  was  born  in  the  beautiful 
rural  village  of  Stockbridge,  on  the  river 
Housatonic,  to  which  her  father  had  removed 
in  1787.  Judge  Sedgwick  died  in  1813,  be 
fore  his  daughter  had  given  any  indications  of 
literary  ability,  but  her  brother  Theodore,  who 
had  been  among  the  first  to  appreciate  the 
genius  of  Bryant, f  soon  discovered  and  en 
couraged  the  development  of  her  dormant 
powers.  The  earliest  of  her  published  works 
was  the  New  England  Tale,  originally  intended 
to  appear  as  a  religious  tract,  but  which  grew 
beyond  the  limits  of  such  a  design,  and  was 
given  to  the  world  in  a  volume,  in  1822.  This 
was  followed,  in  1824,  by  Redwood,  a  novel 
which  was  immediately  and  widely  popular; 
in  1827  by  Hope  Leslie  or  Early  Times  in 
Massachusetts,  by  which  her  reputation  was 
yet  more  extended;  in  1830  by  Clarence,  a 
Tale  of  our  own  Times,  which  was  inferior 
in  merit,  though  received  with  equal  favour ; 

*  The  most  considerable  work  of  Mr.  Sedgwick  is  his 
Public  and  Private  Economy,  in  three  volumes,  pub 
lished  by  Harpers. 

t  It  was  chiefly  through  the  influence  of  Theodore 
Sedgwick's  persuasions  that  Mr.  Bryant  was  induced  to 
remove  to  New  York,  from  the  neighbouring  village  of 
Great  Harrington,  where  he  was  engaged  in  the  uncon 
genial  pursuits  of  a  country  lawyer;  and  it  was  through 
Mr  Sedgwick's  means  that  he  first  became  connected 
with  the  Evening  Post. 


in  1832  by  Le  Bossu,  one  of  the  Tales  of 
Glauber  Spa,  and  in  1835  by  The  Linwoods, 
or  "  Sixty  Years  Since"  in  America,  the  last 
and  in  some  respects  the  best  of  her  novels. 
In  the  same  year  she  also  published  a  collec 
tion  of  tales  and  sketches  which  had  previ 
ously  appeared  in  various  periodicals. 

In  1836  Miss  Sedgwick  gave  the  public  the 
first  of  a  new  and  admirable  series  of  illustra 
tions  of  common  life,  Home,  18mo.,  and  The 
Poor  Rich  Man  and  the  Rich  Poor  Man,  which 
was  followed  in  1837  by  Live  and  Let  Live,  and 
subsequently  by  Means  and  Ends  or  Self 
Training,  A  Love  Token  for  Children,  Stories 
for  Young  Persons,  and  Wilton  Harvey. 

In  the  spring  of  1839,  she  went  to  Europe, 
and  in  the  year  which  she  spent  in  travelling 
wrote  her  Letters  from  Abroad  to  Kindred  at 
Home,  which  were  published  in  two  volumes. 

She  also  wrote  Morals  of  Manners  ;  Mt.  Rhigi 
Boy ;  The  Irish  Girl ;  Married  or  Single,  2  vols. ; 
Memoir  of  Joseph  Curtis  ;  A  Life  of  Lucretia 
M.  Davidson ;  and  many  contributions  to  an 
nuals  and  literary  magazines. 

Miss  Sedgwick  has  marked  individuality. 
She  commands  as  much  respect  by  her  virtues 
as  she  does  admiration  by  her  talents.  In 
deed  the  rare  endowments  of  her  mind  depend 
in  an  unusual  degree  upon  the  moral  qualities 
with  which  they  are  united  for  their  value. 
She  writes  with  a  higher  object  than  merely 
to  amuse.  Animated  by  a  cheerful  philoso 
phy,  and  anxious  to  pour  its  sunshine  into 
every  place  where  there  is  lurking  care  or 
suffering,  she  selects  for  illustration  the  scenes 
of  everyday  experience,  paints  them  with  ex 
act  fidelity,  and  seeks  to  diffuse  over  the 
mind  a  delicious  serenity,  and  in  the  heart 
kind  feelings  and  sympathies,  and  wise  am 
bition,  and  steady  hope.  A  truly  American 
spirit  pervades  her  works.  She  speaks  of  our 
country  as  one  "  where  the  government  and 
institutions  are  based  on  the  gospel  principle 
of  equal  rights  and  equal  privileges  to  all," 
and  denies  that  honour  and  shame  depend 
upon  condition.  She  is  the  champion  of  the 

virtuous  poor,  and  selecting  her  heroes  and 

357 


358 


CATHERINE   M.   SEDGWICK. 


heroines  from  humble  life,  does  not  deem  it 
necessary  that  by  tricks  upon  them  in  the 
cradle  they  have  been  only  temporarily  ba 
nished  from  a  patrician  caste  and  estate  to 
which  they  were  born. 

Her  style  is  colloquial,  picturesque,  and 
marked  by  a  facile  grace  which  is  evidently 
a  gift  of  nature.  Her  characters  are  nicely 


THE  SABBATH  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

FROM   HOPE   LESLIE. 

THE  observance  of  the  Sabbath  began  with  the 
Puritans,  as  it  still  does  with  a  great  portion  of 
their  descendants,  on  Saturday  night.  At  the  go 
ing  down  of  the  sun  on  Saturday?  all  temporal 
affairs  were  suspended;  and  so  zealously  did  our 
fathers  maintain  the  letter,  as  well  as  the  spirit  of 
the  law,  that,  according  to  a  vulgar  tradition  in 
Connecticut,  no  beer  was  brewed  in  the  latter  part 
of  the  week,  lest  it  should  presume  to  work  on 
Sunday. 

It  must  be  confessed,  that  the  tendency  of  the 
age  is  to  laxity ;  and  so  rapidly  is  the  wholesome 
strictness  of  primitive  times  abating,  that,  should 
some  antiquary,  fifty  years  hence,  in  exploring  his 
garret  rubbish,  chance  to  cast  his  eye  on  our  hum 
ble  pages,  he  may  be  surprised  to  learn,  that,  even 
now,  the  Sabbath  is  observed,  in  the  interior  of 
New  England,  with  an  almost  Judaical  severity. 

On  Saturday  afternoon  an  uncommon  bustle  is 
apparent.  The  great  class  of  procrastinators  are 
hurrying  to  and  fro  to  complete  the  lagging  business 
of  the  week.  The  good  mothers,  like  Burns'  ma 
tron,  are  plying  their  needles,  making  "  auld  claes 
look  amaist  as  weel's  the  new;"  while  the  domes 
tics,  or  help,  (we  prefer  the  national  descriptive 
term,)  are  wielding,  with  might  and  main,  their 
brooms  and  mops,  to  make  all  tidy  for  the  Sabbath. 

As  the  day  declines,  the  hum  of  labour  dies 
away,  and,  after  the  sun  is  set,  perfect  stillness 
reigns  in  every  well-ordered  household,  and  not  a 
foot-fall  is  heard  in  the  village  street.  It  cannot 
be  denied,  that  even  the  most  scriptural,  missing 
the  excitement  of  their  ordinary  occupations,  anti 
cipate  their  usual  bed-time.  The  obvious  inference 
from  this  fact  is  skilfully  avoided  by  certain  inge 
nious  reasoners,  who  allege,  that  the  constitution 
was  originally  so  organized  as  to  require  an  extra 
quantity  of  sleep  on  every  seventh  night.  We 
recommend  it  to  the  curious  to  inquire,  how  this 
peculiarity  was  adjusted,  when  the  first  day  of  the 
week  was  changed  from  Saturday  to  Sunday. 

The  Sabbath  morning  is  as  peaceful  as  the  first 
hallowed  day.  Not  a  human  sound  is  heard  with 
out  the  dwellings,  and,  but  for  the  lowing  of  the 
herds,  the  crowing  of  the  cocks,  and  the  gossiping 
of  the  birds,  animal  life  would  seem  to  be  extinct, 
till,  at  the  bidding  of  the  church-going  bell,  the 
old  and  young  issue  from  their  habitations,  and, 
with  solemn  demeanor,  bend  their  measured  steps 
to  the  meeting-house ; — the  families  of  the  minis- 


drawn  and  delicately  contrasted.  Her  Debo 
rah  Lenox  has  remarkable  merit  as  a  creation 
and  as  an  impersonation,  and  it  is  perfectly 
indigenous.  The  same  can  be  said  of  several 
others.  Miss  Sedgwick's  delineations  of  New 
England  manners  are  decidedly  the  best  that 
have  appeared,  and  show  both  a  careful  study 
and  a  just  appreciation.  Died  July  31,  186T. 


ter,  the  squire,  the  doctor,  the  merchant,  the  modest 
gentry  of  the  village,  and  the  mechanic  and  la 
bourer,  all  arrayed  in  their  best,  all  meeting  on 
even  ground,  and  all  with  that  consciousness  of 
independence  and  equality,  which  breaks  down  the 
pride  of  the  rich,  and  rescues  the  poor  from  ser 
vility,  envy,  and  discontent.  If  a  morning  saluta 
tion  is  reciprocated,  it  is  in  a  suppressed  voice ; 
and  if,  perchance,  nature,  in  some  reckless  urchin, 
burst  forth  in  laughter — «  My  dear,  you  forget  it's 
Sunday,"  is  the  ever  ready  reproof. 

Though  every  face  wears  a  solemn  aspect,  yet 
we  once  chanced  to  see  even  a  deacon's  muscles 
relaxed  by  the  wit  of  a  neighbour,  and  heard 
him  allege,  in  a  half-deprecating,  half-laughing 
voice,  "  The  squire  is  so  droll,  that  a  body  must 
laugh,  though  it  be  Sabbath-day." 

The  farmer's  ample  wagon,  and  the  little  one- 
horse  vehicle,  bring  in  all  who  reside  at  an  incon 
venient  walking  distance, — that  is  to  say,  in  our 
riding  community,  half  a  mile  from  the  church. 
It  is  a  pleasing  sight,  to  those  who  love  to  note 
the  happy  peculiarities  of  their  own  land,  to  see 
the  farmers'  daughters,  blooming,  intelligent,  well- 
bred,  pouring  out  of  these  homely  coaches,  with 
their  nice  white  gowns,  prunel  shoes,  Leghorn 
hats,  fans  and  parasols,  and  the  spruce  young  men, 
with  their  plaited  ruffles,  blue  coats,  and  yellow 
buttons.  The  whole  community  meet  as  one  re 
ligious  family,  to  offer  their  devotions  at  the  com 
mon  altar.  If  there  is  an  outlaw  from  the  society, 
— a  luckless  wight,  whose  vagrant  taste  has  never 
been  subdued, — he  may  be  seen  stealing  along  the 
margin  of  some  little  brook,  far  away  from  the 
condemning  observation  and  troublesome  admoni 
tions  of  his  fellows. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  day,  (or  to  borrow  a 
phrase  descriptive  of  his  feelings,  who  first  used 
it,)  « when  the  Sabbath  begins  to  abate"  the  chil 
dren  cluster  about  the  windows.  Their  eyes  wan 
der  from  their  catechism  to  the  western  sky,  and, 
though  it  seems  to  them  as  if  the  sun  would  never 
disappear,  his  broad  disk  does  slowly  sink  behind 
the  mountain ;  and,  while  his  last  ray  still  lingers 
on  the  eastern  summits,  merry  voices  break  forth, 
and  the  ground  resounds  with  bounding  footsteps. 
The  village  belle  arrays  herself  for  her  twilight 
walk ;  the  boys  gather  on  « the  green ;"  the  lads 
and  girls  throng  to  the  "  singing  school ;"  while 
some  coy  maiden  lingers  at  home,  awaiting  her 
expected  suitor ;  and  all  enter  upon  the  pleasures 
of  the  evening  with  as  keen  a  relish  as  if  the  day 
had  been  a  preparatory  penance. 


CATHERINE    M.   SEDGWICK. 


359 


BESSIE  LEE. 

FROM  THE  LINWOODS. 

[Ar  the  beginning  of  the  Revolution  a  widow  named 
Lee  resides  with  her  children  in  a  rural  village  of  Con 
necticut.  Her  son,  a  thoughtful  and  chivalrous  youth, 
enters  the  army,  distinguishes  himself,  and  becomes  a 
captain;  her  daughter,  a  beautiful,  gentle,  and  affec 
tionate  girl,  deserted  by  her  lover,  Jasper  Meredith, 
passes  from  trusting  hope  through  anxiety,  doubt,  and 
melancholy  to  a  touching  madness,  and  escapes  from 
her  friends  to  find  her  way  alone  to  New  York,  with  the 
object  of  restoring  to  him  some  tokens  he  had  given  of 
his  love,  an  act  which  her  disordered  fancy  assures  her 
will  effect  her  disenthralment  from  passion.  The  fol 
lowing  extracts  are  from  the  account  of  the  fulfilment 
of  her  mission,  which  is  conceived  and  executed  with 
singular  felicity,  though  much  of  its  effect  will  be  lost 
by  Us  separation  from  the  context.] 

COMMENCEMENT  OF  THE  JOURNEY. 

IT  was  long  before  the  dawn  of  one  of  the  few 
soft  days  of  October,  1779,  that  Bessie  Lee  left 
her  safe  home  to  begin  a  perilous  journey.  The 
light  of  reason  was  not  quite  extinct,  and  with 
some  forecast  she  took  a  few  coins,  keepsakes,  that 
had  long  lain  idly  in  a  drawer,  and  transferred 
them  to  her  pocket ;  then  placing  in  her  bosom 
the  little  ivory  box  containing,  as  she  wildly  fan 
cied,  the  charms  that  bound  her  to  Jasper  Mere 
dith,  she  equipped  herself  for  her  journey.  A 
regard  to  dress  is  an  innate  idea  in  woman  that 
no  philosopher  can  deny  to  the  sex.  In  all  her 
mutations,  that  remains 

Bessie,  after  looking  over  her  moderate  ward 
robe,  selected  the  only  gala  dress  it  contained — a 
white  silk  petticoat  and  blue  bodice;  but  after 
dressing  herself  in  them,  either  from  the  instinct 
of  neatness  or  from  the  glimmering  of  the  unfit- 
ness  of  such  travelling  apparel,  she  took  off  the 
silk  petticoat,  and  after  tying  it  in  a  handkerchief 
with  some  more  essential  articles,  she  laced  the 
bodice  over  a  dimity  skirt,  and  put  over  that  a 
long  linen  nightgown.  Delighted  with  her  own 
provident  sagacity  in  arraying  herself  for  day  and 
night,  she  threw  over  the  whole  a  brown  silk  car 
dinal,  and  a  chip  gipsy  hat  tied  down  with  a  blue 
gauze  handkerchief.  «  He  always  told  me  I  had 
inspiration  in  dress,"  she  said,  as  she  gave  a  pleased, 
parting  glance  at  the  glass.  In  passing  her  mo 
ther's  door,  she  paused :  "  I  have  heard  it  was  a 
bad  sign,"  thought  she,  "  to  leave  home  without 
your  parent's  blessing,  but  I  go  forth  with  Hea 
ven's,  and  hers  must  follow."  She  then  proceeded 
to  equip  her  horse,  and  set  out  on  the  New  York 
road,  which  she  pursued  unerringly.  She  fancied 
that  the  same  providential  exemption  from  the 
necessity  of  sustenance  vouchsafed  to  her  was 
extended  to  her  horse  Steady,  and  the  animal, 
happening  to  be  full-fed,  sturdy  and  of  hard-work 
ing  habits,  seemed  to  acquiesce  in  his  supposed 
destiny,  save  no^  and  then,  when  he  resolutely 
halted  at  a  stream  of  water  to  slake  his  thirst. 
The  part  of  New  England  through  which  Bessie's 
route  lay  was  sterile  and  sparsely  settled.  She 
was  unmolested,  and  for  the  most  part  unobserved. 
She  would  sometimes  pass  a  house  where  the  chil 
dren  would  pause  from  their  play,  stare,  and  ask, 
one  of  the  other,  who  that  pretty  lady  could  be  ] 
and  wonder,  that  with  such  a  nice  cloak,  she  should 


ride  without  gloves !  Once  a  kind-hearted  farmer 
stopped  her,  and  after  asking  her  numberless  ques 
tions  to  which  he  received  no  satisfactory  replies, 
he  earnestly  begged  her  to  stop  at  his  house  for 
some  refreshment.  She  declined  his  hospitality 
with  the  assurance  that  she  did  not  need  it,  and  a 
smile  that  so  little  harmonized  with  her  blanched 
cheek,  and  wild  and  melancholy  eye,  that  the  good 
man  said  her  looks  haunted  him.  In  truth,  so 
unearthly  was  her  appearance,  that  two  gossips, 
whom  she  passed  on  the  road,  stopped,  drew  nearer 
to  each  other,  and  without  speaking,  gazed  after 
her  till  she  was  out  of  sight ;  and  then,  with  femi 
nine  particularity,  compared  their  observations. 

"  She's  master  beautiful !"  exclaimed  one  of 
them. 

"  Call  you  that  beautiful !"  replied  her  com 
panion  ;  "  why,  she  has  neither  flesh  nor  blood — I 
felt  a  chill  when  I  looked  at  her." 

«  And  I  felt  my  blood  rush  to  my  heart,  as  if  I 
had  seen  something  out  of  nature.  I  might  have 
taken  her  for  an  angel  but  for  her  silk  cardinal, 
and  her  horse,  that  looked  more  like  our  old  roan 
than  like  the  horses  in  Revelations." 

Nancy  was  less  imaginative.  "  I  did  not  see 
nothing  mysterious,"  she  said,  "  but  her  pale  little 
hands,  that  looked  as  if  they  could  hardly  hold  a 
thread  of  silk." 

"  My  !  did  not  you  see  those  long  curls  that 
streamed  down  below  the  hood  of  her  cloak,  looking 
as  bright  and  as  soft  as  Judith's  baby  when  we  laid 
it  out — poor  thing !  and  the  colour  of  her  cheeks, 
that  were  as  white  as  my  poor  man's  fresh  tomb 
stone — and  her  eyes,  that  shone  like  stars  of  a 
frosty  night!  don't  tell  me,  Nancy  !  we  must  ex 
pect  to  see  visions,  and  dream  dreams  when  there's 
war  in  the  land  and  famine  at  the  door !"  The 
unconscious  subject  of  this  colloquy  went  on,  her 
innocent  heart  dilating  with  a  hope  as  assured  and 
buoyant  as  that  of  a  penitent  on  her  way  to  a  shrine 
where  absolution  and  peace  await  her. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when,  emerging 
from  a  wood,  she  observed  that  at  a  short  distance 
before  her  the  road  forked 

Bessie's  horse  fortunately  selected  the  right  direc 
tion,  and  obeyed  his  mistress's  signals  to  hasten 
onward.  These  signals  she  reiterated  from  an  im 
pression  of  some  indefinite  danger  pursuing  her. 
By  degrees,  however,  a  languor  stole  over  her  that 
prevented  her  from  observing  Steady's  motions. 
From  a  fast  trot  he  had  slackened  to  a  walk,  and 
after  thus  creeping  on  for  a  mile  or  two,  he  stood 
stock  still. 

Bessie  sat  for  a  while  as  it  waiting  his  pleasure, 
and  then  looking  at  the  setting  sun,  she  said, 
«  Well,  Steady,  you  have  done  your  day's  duty, 
and  I'll  not  be  unmerciful  to  you.  I  too  have  a 
tired  feeling,"  and  she  passed  her  hand  over  her 
throbbing  temples ;  "  but,  Steady,  we  will  not  stay 
here  by  the  roadside,  for  I  think  there  be  bad  peo 
ple  on  this  road,  and  besides,  it  is  better  to  be  alone 
where  only  God  is." 

The  country  through  which  Bessie  was  now 
passing  was  rocky,  hilly,  and  woody,  excepting 
narrow  intervals  and  some  few  cleared  and  culti- 


360 


CATHERINE    M.    SEDGWICK. 


vated  slopes.  She  had  just  passed  a  brook,  that 
glided  quietly  through  a  very  green  little  meadow 
on  her  left,  but  which  on  her  right,  though  screened 
from  sight,  sounded  its  approach  as  in  the  glad 
spirit  of  its  young  life  it  came  leaping  and  danc 
ing  down  a  rocky  gorge.  Bessie,  as  it  would  seem, 
from  the  instinct  of  humanity,  let  down  some  bars 
to  allow  her  hungry  steed  admittance  to  the  mea 
dow,  saying  as  she  did  so,  «  You  shall  have  the 
green  pastures  and  still  waters,  Steady,  where 
those  home-looking  willows  are  turning  up  their 
silvery  leaves  as  if  to  kiss  the  parting  sunbeams, 
and  the  sunflower  and  the  golden-rod  are  still 
flaunting  in  their  pride — poor  things !  but  I  will 
go  on  the  other  side,  where  the  trees  stand  bravely 
up,  to  screen  and  guard  me — and  the  waterfall 
will  sing  me  to  sleep." 

She  crossed  the  road  and  plunged  into  the  wood, 
and,  without  even  a  footpath  to  guide  her,  she 
scrambled  along  the  irregular  margin  of  the  brook; 
sometimes  she  swung  herself  round  the  trunk  of 
a  tree  by  grasping  the  tough  vines  encircling  it ; 
sometimes,  when  a  bald  perpendicular  rock  pro 
jected  over  the  water,  she  surmounted  it  as  if  the 
danger  of  wetting  her  feet  must  be  avoided  at  all 
pains  and  risks ;  then,  a  moss-covered  rock  im 
bedded  in  the  stream  attracting  her  eye,  she  would 
spring  on  to  it,  drop  her  feet  into  the  water,  doff 
her  little  chip  hat,  and  bathe  her  burning  temples 
in  the  cold  stream :  and  when  she  again  raised 
her  head,  shook  back  her  curls  and  turned  her 
face  heavenward,  her  eye  glowing  with  preterna 
tural  brightness,  she  might  have  been  mistaken  for 
a  wanderer  from  the  celestial  sphere  gazing  home 
ward.  After  ascending  the  stream  for  about  a 
hundred  yards,  she  came  to  a  spot  which  seemed 
to  her  excited  imagination  to  have  been  most  graced 

"By  the  sovereign  planter  when  he  formed 
All  things  for  man's  delightful  use  ;" 

and,  in  truth,  it  was  a  resting-place  for  the  troubled 
spirit,  far  more  difficult  to  find  than  a  bed  of  down 
for  the  wearied  body. 

The  thicket  here  expanded  and  spread  its  encir 
cling  arms  around  a  basin  worn  into  the  earth  by 
the  force  of  the  stream,  which  leaped  into  it  over 
a  rock  some  thirty  feet  in  height.  Here  and  there 
a  rill  straggled  away  from  the  slender  column  of 
water,  and  as  it  caught  the  sun's  slant  ray,  dropped 
down  the  rock  in  sparkling  gems.  The  trees  were 
wreathed  with  grape-vines,  whose  clusters  peeped 
through  the  brown  leaves  into  the  mirror  below. 
The  leaves  of  the  topmost  branches  of  the  trees 
were  touched  with  the  hues  of  autumn,  and  hung 
over  the  verdant  tresses  below  them  like  a  wreath 
of  gorgeous  flowers.  The  sky  was  clear,  and  the 
last  rays  of  the  setting  sun  stole  in  obliquely,  sweet 
and  sad,  as  the  parting  smile  of  a  friend,  glancing 
along  the  stems  of  the  trees  and  flashing  athwart 
the  waterfall. 

"  Here  will  I  lay  me  down  and  rest,"  said  Bes 
sie,  rolling  up  with  her  foot  a  pillow  of  crisp  crim 
son  leaves,  that  had  fallen  from  a  young  delicate 
tree,  fit  emblem  of  herself,  stricken  by  the  first 
touch  of  adversity.  "  But  first  I  will  say  my 
prayers,  for  I  think  this  is  one  of  God's  temples." 


She  knelt  and  murmured  forth  the  broken  aspira 
tions  of  her  pure  heart,  and  then  laying  herself 
down,  she  said,  "I  wish  mother  and  Eliot  could 
see  me  now — they  would  be  so  satisfied !" 

Once  she  raised  her  head,  gazed  at  the  soft  mist 
that  was  curling  up  from  the  water,  and  seemed 
intently  listening.  «  I  have  somewhere  read,"  she 
said,  "that 

'Millions  of  spiritual  creatures  walk  the  earth. 
Unseen,  both  when  we  wake  and  when  we  sleep.' 

I  believe  it !"  again  her  head  fell  back  on  its  sylvan 
pillow,  and  utterly  incapable  of  farther  motion  or 
thought,  she  sank  to  deep  repose.  Night  came 
on,  the  watchful  stars  shone  down  upon  her,  the 
planets  performed  their  nightly  course,  the  moon 
rose  and  set,  and  still  the  unconscious  sufferer 
slept  on 

BESSIE'S    ARRIVAL    IX    THE    CITY. 

Isabelle  Linwood,  at  her  aunt's  summons,  had 
gone  to  her  house.  She  met  Mrs.  Archer  at  her 
street  door.  Her  face  spoke  of  startling  intelli 
gence  before  she  uttered  it.  "My  dear  Belle," 
she  said,  "  I  have  the  strangest  news  for  you.  I 
went  to  your  father's  while  you  were  out;  and 
just  as  my  foot  was  on  your  door-step,  a  man  drove 
up  in  a  wagon  with  a. girl  as  pale  as  death — such 
a  face  !  The  moment  he  stopped  she  sprang  from 
the  wagon.  At  once  I  knew  her,  and  exclaimed, 
'  Bessie  Lee  !'  " 

"  Bessie  Lee !  Gracious  Heaven !" 

"  Yes ;  she  asked  eagerly  if  you  were  at  home. 
I  perceived  the  inconvenience — the  impossibility 
of  your  taking  care  of  her  in  the  present  state  of 
your  family.  I  felt  anxious  to  do  any  thing  and 
every  thing  for  the  sister  of  young  Lee ;  I  there 
fore  told  her  you  were  not  at  home,  but  she  could 
see  you  at  my  house  ;  and  I  persuaded  her  to  come 
home  with  me." 

"  Dear  Bessie !  can  it  be  possible  that  she  is 
here  1" 

"  Yes,  I  have  left  her  in  that  room.  Her  at 
tendant  told  me  that  she  arrived  this  morning  at 
Kingsbridge,  with  a  decent  man  and  woman,  who 
had  passports  from  La  Fayette,  and  a  letter  from 
him  to  the  commander  of  that  post,  commending 
the  unfortunate  person  to  his  humanity,  and  en 
treating  him  to  convey  her,  under  a  proper  escort, 
to  Mr.  Linwood's." 

"  Poor  Bessie  !  Heaven  has  miraculously  guided 
her  into  the  best  hands.  How  does  she  appear1?" 

"  With  scarcely  enough  mortality  to  shield  her 
troubled  spirit;  fluttering  and  gentle  as  a  stricken 
dove — pale,  unnaturally,  deadly  pale — a  startling 
brightness  in  her  deep  blue  eye — her  cheeks  sunken ; 
but  still  her  features  preserve  the  exquisite  sym 
metry  we  used  to  think  so  beautiful,  when  a  pen 
sive,  quiet  little  girl,  she  stole  round  after  you  like 
a  shadow.  And  her  voice,  oh  Belle,  you  cannot 
hear  it  without  tears.  She  is  mild  and  submissive ; 
but  restless,  and  excessively  impatient  to  see  you 
and  Jasper  Meredith.  Twice  she  has  come  to  the 
door  to  go  out  in  search  of  him.  I  have  ordered 
the  blinds  to  be  closed,  and  the  candles  lighted, 
to  make  it  appear  darker  without  than  it  really  is. 


CATHERINE    M.  SEDGWICK. 


361 


I  could  only  quiet  her  by  the  assurance  that  I 
would  send  for  him  immediately." 

"  Have  you  done  so?" 

"  No ;  I  have  waited  to  consult  you." 

The  house  Mrs.  Archer  occupied  was  of  the 
common  construction  of  the  best  houses  of  that 
day,  being  double,  the  two  front  apartments  sepa 
rated  by  a  wTide  hall,  a  drawing-room  in  the  rear, 
and  a  narrow  cross-passage  opening  into  a  car 
riage-way  to  the  yard.  A  few  moments  before 
Isabella  arrived,  a  person  had  knocked  at  the  door 
and  asked  to  see  Mrs.  Archer ;  and  being  told  that 
she  was  particularly  engaged,  he  asked  to  be  shown 
to  a  room  where  he  might  await  her  convenience, 
as  he  had  business  of  importance  with  her.  He 
was  accordingly  shown  into  an  apartment  opposite 
to  that  occupied  at  the  moment  by  Mrs.  Archer 
and  Bessie. 

There  he  found  the  blind  children,  Ned  and 
Lizzy,  so  absorbed  in  a  game  of  chess,  that  al 
though  he  went  near  them,  and  overlooked  them, 
they  seemed  just  conscious  of  his  presence,  but  not 
in  the  least  disturbed  by  it.  They  went  on  play 
ing  and  managing  their  game  with  almost  as  much 
facility  as  if  they  had  their  eyesight,  till  after  a 
closely-fought  battle  Lizzy  declared  a  checkmate. 
Ned  was  nettled  by  his  unexpected  defeat,  and 
gave  vent  to  his  vexation  by  saying,  "Anyhow, 
Miss  Lizzy,  you  would  not  have  beaten  if  I  had 
not  thought  it  was  my  knight,  instead  of  yours,  on 
number  four." 

"Oh,  Ned!" 

"  You  would  not;  you  know  I  always  get  puzzled 
about  the  knights — I  always  said  it  was  the  only 
fault  in  the  chessmen — I  always  said  I  wished 
Captain  Lee  had  made  them  more  different." 

"  That  fault  is  easily  rectified,"  said  the  looker- 
on. 

"  Captain  Lee !"  exclaimed  Ned,  whose  memory 
was  true  to  a  voice  once  heard,  and  who  never,  in 
any  circumstances,  could  have  forgotten  the  sound 
of  Eliot's  voice. 

"  Hush,  my  dear  little  fellow,  for  Heaven's  sake, 
hush !"  cried  Eliot,  aware  of  the  imprudence  he 
had  committed ;  but  it  was  too  late. 

Ned's  feelings  were  as  susceptible  as  his  hear 
ing.  He  impetuously  sprang  forward,  and  open 
ing  the  door  into  the  entry,  where  Mrs.  Archer  had 
just  uttered  the  last  sentence  we  reported  of  her 
conversation  with  Isabella,  he  cried  out,  "Oh, 
mamma,  Captain  Lee  is  here  !" 

Eliot  involuntarily  doffed  his  fox-skin  cap.  and 
advanced  to  them.  Both  ladies  most  cordially 
gave  him  their  hands  at  the  same  moment,  while 
their  brows  clouded  with  the  thought  of  the  sad 
tidings  they  had  to  communicate.  Conscious  of 
the  precarious  position  he  occupied,  he  naturally 
interpreted  the  concern  so  evident  on  their  faces 
as  the  expression  of  a  benevolent  interest  in  his 
safety.  «  Do  not  be  alarmed,  ladies,"  he  said ;  "  I 
have  nothing  to  fear  if  my  little  friends  here  be 
quiet ;  and  that  I  am  certain  they  will  be,  when 
they  know  my  life  depends  on  my  remaining  un 
known." 

'  Oh,  what  have  I  done  ?"  exclaimed  Ned, 
46 


bursting  into  tears ;  but  he  was  soon  soothed  by 
Eliot's  assurances  that  no  harm  as  yet  was  done. 

Mrs.  Archer  withdrew  the  children,  while  Miss 
Linwood  communicated  to  Eliot,  as  briefly  as  pos 
sible,  the  arrival  and  condition  of  his  sister ;  and 
he,  rather  relieved  than  distressed  by  the  informa 
tion,  told  her  that  his  deepest  interest  in  coming  to 
the  city  was  the  hope  of  obtaining  some  tidings  of 
the,  poor  wanderer.  They  then  consulted  how  and 
when  they  had  best  present  themselves  before  her; 
and  it  was  decided  that  Miss  Linwood  should  first 
go  into  the  apartment,  and  prepare  her  to  see  Eliot. 

Eliot  retreated,  and  stood  still  and  breathless  to 
catch  the  first  sound  of  Bessie's  voic§;  but  he 
heard  nothing  but  the  exclamation,  "  She  is  not 
here  !"  Eliot  sprang  forward.  The  door  of  the 
apartment  which  led  into  the  side  passage  and  the 
outer  door  were  both  open,  and  Eliot,  forgetful  of 
every  thing  but  his  sister,  was  rushing  into  the 
street,  when  Bessie  entered  the  street  door  with 
Jasper  Meredith.  Impelled  by  her  ruling  purpose 
to  see  Meredith,  she  had,  on  her  first  discovery  of 
the  side  passage,  escaped  into  the  street,  where  the 
first  person  she  encountered  was  he  whose  image 
had  so  long  been  present  to  her,  that  seeing  him 
with  her  bodily  organ  seemed  to  make  no  new 
impression,  nor  even  to  increase  the  vividness  of 
the  image  stamped  on  her  memory.  She  had 
thrown  on  her  cloak,  but  had  nothing  on  her  head ; 
and  her  hair  fell  in  its  natural  fair  curls  over  her 
face  and  neck.  Singular  as  it  was  for  the  delicate, 
timid  Bessie  to  appear  in  this  guise  in  the  public 
street,  or  to  appear  there  at  all,  and  much  as  he 
was  startled  by  her  faded,  stricken  form,  the  truth 
did  not  at  once  occur  to  Meredith.  The  wildness 
of  her  eye  was  subdued  in  the  dim  twilight;  she 
spoke  in  her  accustomed  quiet  manner ;  and  after 
answering  to  his  first  inquiry  that  she  was  per 
fectly  well  now,  she  begged  him  to  go  into  Mrs. 
Archer's  with  her,  as  she  had  something  there  to 
restore  to  him.  He  endeavoured  to  put  her  off* 
with  a  commonplace  evasion — «  he  was  engaged 
now,  would  come  some  other  time,"  &c.,  but  she 
was  not  to  be  deluded  ;  and  seeing  some  acquaint 
ances  approaching,  whose  observation  he  did  not 
care  to  encounter,  he  ascended  Mrs.  Archer's  steps, 
and  found  himself  in  the  presence  of  those  whom 
he  would  have  wished  most  to  avoid ;  but  there 
was  no  retreat. 

THE    INTERVIEW. 

Bessie  now  acted  with  an  irresistible  energy. 
"  This  way,"  said  she,  leading  Meredith  into  the 
room  she  had  quitted — "  come  all  of  you  in  here," 
glancing  her  eye  from  Meredith  to  Isabella  and 
Eliot,  but  without  manifesting  the  slightest  sur 
prise  or  emotion  of  any  sort  at  seeing  them,  but 
simply  saying,  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction,  as  she 
shut  the  door  and  threw  off  her  cloak,  "  I  expected 
this — I  knew  it  would  be  so.  In  visions  by  day 
and  dreams  by  night,  I  always  saw  you  together." 

It  was  a  minute  before  Eliot  could  command 
his  voice  for  utterance.  He  f»lded  his  arms 
around  Bessie,  and  murmured,  "  My  sister  ! — my 
dear  sister !" 

She  drew  back,  and  placing  her  hands  on  his 
2H 


362 


CATHERINE    M.    SEDGWICK. 


shoulders  and  smiling,  said,  «  Tears,  Eliot,  tears ! 
Oh,  shame,  when  this  is  the  proudest,  happiest 
moment  of  your  sister's  life  !" 

"  Is  she  mad  1"  asked  Meredith  of  Isabella. 

Bessie's  ear  caught  his  last  word.  "  Mad !" 
she  repeated — « I  think  all  the  world  is  mad ;  but 
I  alone  am  not !  I  have  heard  that  whom  the 
gods  would  destroy  they  first  make  mad ;  men 
and  angels  have  been  employed  to  save  me  from 
destruction." 

"  It  is  idle  to  stay  here  to  listen  to  these  ravings," 
said  Meredith,  in  a  low  voice,  to  Miss  Linwood ; 
and  he  was  about  to  make  his  escape,  when  Isa 
bella  inte»posed:  "Stay  for  a  moment,  I  entreat 
you,"  she  said ;  "  she  has  been  very  eager  to  see 
you,  and  it  is  sometimes  of  use  to  gratify  these 
humours." 

In  the  mean  time  Eliot,  his  heart  burning  within 
him  at  his  sister's  being  gazed  at  as  a  spectacle  by 
that  man  of  all  the  world  from  whose  eye  he 
would  have  sheltered  her,  was  persuading  her,  as 
he  would  a  wayward  child,  to  leave  the  apartment. 
She  resisted  his  importunities  with  a  sort  of  gentle 
pity  for  his  blindness,  and  a  perfect  assurance  that 
she  was  guided  by  light  from  Heaven.  «  Dear 
Eliot,"  she  said,  "  you  know  not  what  you  ask  of 
me.  For  this  hour  my  life  has  been  prolonged, 
my  strength  miraculously  sustained.  You  have 
all  been  assembled  here — you,  Eliot,  because  a 
brother  should  sustain  his  sister,  share  her  honour, 
and  partake  her  happiness;  Jasper  Meredith  to 
receive  back  those  charms  and  spells  by  which  my 
too  willing  spirit  was  bound;  and  you,  Isabella 
Linwood,  to  see  how,  in  my  better  mind,  I  yield 
him  to  you." 

She  took  from  her  bosom  a  small  ivory  box,  and 
opening  it,  she  said,  advancing  to  Meredith,  and 
showing  him  a  withered  rose-bud,  "  Do  you  re 
member  this  7  You  plucked  it  from  a  little  bush 
that  almost  dipped  its  leaves  in  that  cold  spring 
on  the  hill-side — do  you  remember  7  It  was  a  hot 
summer's  afternoon,  and  you  had  been  reading- 
poetry  to  me ;  you  said  there  was  a  delicate  praise 
in  the  sweet  breath  of  flowers  that  suited  me,  and 
some  silly  thing  you  said,  Jasper,  that  you  should 
not,  of  wishing  yourself  a  flower  that  you  might 
breathe  the  incense  that  you  were  not  at  liberty  to 
speak ;  and  then  you  taught  me  the  Persian  lan 
guage  of  flowers.  I  kept  this  little  bud  :  it  faded, 
but  was  still  sweetp  Alas ! — alas !  I  cherished  it 
for  its  Persian  meaning."  Her  reminiscence 
seemed  too  vivid,  her  voice  faltered,  and  her  eye 
fell  from  its  fixed  gaze  on  Meredith  ;  but  suddenly 
her  countenance  brightened,  and  she  turned  to 
Isabella,  who  stood  by  the  mantelpiece  resting  her 
throbbing  head  on  her  hand,  and  added,  «  Take  it, 
Isabella,  it  is  a  true  symbol  to  you." 

Eliot  for  the  first  time  turned  his  eye  from  his 
sister,  and  even  at  that  moment  of  anguish  a  thrill 
of  joy  shot  through  every  vein  when  he  saw  Isa 
bella  take  the  bud,  pull  apart  its  shrivelled  leaves, 
and  throw  them  from  her.  Meredith  stood  lean 
ing  against  the  wall,  his  arms  folded,  and  his  lips 
curled  into  a  smile  that  was  intended  to  express 
scornful  unconcern.  He  might  have  expressed  it, 


he  might  possibly  have  felt  it  towards  Bessie  Lee; 
but  when  he  saw  Isabella  throw  away  the  bud, 
when  he  met  the  indignant  glance  of  her  eye 
flashing  through  the  tears  that  suffused  it,  a  livid 
paleness  spread  around  his  mouth,  and  that  feature, 
the  most  expressive  and  truest  organ  of  the  soul, 
betrayed  his  inward  conflict.  He  snatched  his 
hat  to  leave  the  room  ;  Bessie  laid  her  hand  on  his 
arm :  "  Oh,  do  not  go ;  I  shall  be  cast  back  into 
my  former  wretchedness  if  you  go  now." 

"  Stay,  sir,"  said  Eliot ;  "  my  sister  shall  not  be 
crossed." 

"  With  all  my  heart ;  I  have  not  the  slightest 
objection  to  playing  out  my  dumb  show  between 
vapouring  and  craziness." 

«  Villain  !"  exclaimed  Eliot — the  young  men 
exchanged  glances  of  fire.  Bessie  placed  herself 
between  them,  and  stretching  out  her  arms,  laid  a 
hand  on  the  breast  of  each,  as  if  to  keep  them 
apart. — "Now  this  is  unkind — unkind  in  both  of 
you.  I  have  come  such  a  long  and  wearisome 
journey  to  make  peace  for  all  of  us ;  and  if  you 
will  but  let  me  finish  my  task,  I  shall  lay  me  down 
and  sleep — for  ever,  I  think." 

Eliot  pressed  her  burning  hand  to  his  lips.  "  My 
poor,  dear  sister,"  he  said,  « I  will  not  speak  an 
other  word,  if  I  die  in  the  effort  to  keep  silence." 

"  Thanks,  dear  Eliot,"  she  replied ;  and  putting 
both  her  arms  around  his  neck,  she  added,  in  a 
whisper,  "  do  not  be  angry  if  he  again  call  me  crazy 
there  be  many  that  have  called  me  so — they  mis 
take  inspiration  for  madness,  you  know."  Never 
was  Eliot's  self-command  so  tested;  and  retiring  to 
the  farthest  part  of  the  room,  he  stood  with  knit 
brows  and  compressed  lips,  looking  and  feeling  like 
a  man  stretched  on  the  rock,  while  Bessie  pursued 
her  fancied  mission.  "  Do  you  remember  this 
chain  7"  she  asked,  as  she  opened  a  bit  of  paper, 
and  let  fall  a  gold  chain  over  Meredith's  arm.  He 
startled  as  if  he  were  stung.  "  It  cannot  harm 
you,"  she  said,  faintly  smiling,  as  she  noticed  his 
recoiling.  "  This  was  the  charrn."  She  smoothed 
the  paper  envelope.  "  As  often  as  I  looked  at  it, 
the  feeling  with  which  I  first  read  it  shot  through 
my  heart — strange,  for  there  does  not  seem  much 
in  it."  She  murmured  the  words  pencilled  by 
Meredith  on  the  envelope, 

'' '  Can  she  who  weaves  electric  chains  to  bind  the  heart, 
Refuse  the  golden  links  that  boast  no  mystic  art  ?' 

"  Oh,  well  do  I  remember,"  she  cast  up  her  eyes 
as  one  does  who  is  retracing  the  past,  "  the  night 
you  gave  me  this ;  Eliot  was  in  Boston  ;  mother 
was — I  don't  remember  where,  and  we  had  been 
all  the  evening  sitting  on  the  porch.  The  honey 
suckles  and  white  roses  were  in  bloom,  and  the 
moon  shone  in  through  their  leaves.  It  was  then 
you  first  spoke  of  your  mother  in  England,  and 
you  said  much  of  the  happy  destiny  of  those  who 
were  not  shackled  by  pride  and  avarice ;  and  when 
you  went  away,  you  pressed  my  hand  to  your 
heart,  and  put  this  little  packet  in  it.  Yet"  (turn 
ing  to  Isabella)  «  he  never  said  he  loved  me.  It 
was  only  my  over-credulous  fancy.  Take  it,  Isa 
bella ;  it  belongs  to  you,  who  really  weave  the 
chain  that  binds  the  heart." 


CATHERINE   M.    SEDGWICK. 


363 


Meredith  seized  the  chain  as  she  stretched  out 
her  hand,  and  crushed  it  under  his  foot.  Bessie 
looked  from  him  to  Isabella,  and  seemed  for  a  mo 
ment  puzzled  ;  then  said,  acquiescingly,  "  Ah,  it's 
all  well ;  symbols  do  not  make  our  change  reali 
ties.  This  little  brooch,"  she  continued,  steadily 
pursuing  her  purpose,  and  taking  from  the  box  an 
old-fashioned  brooch,  in  the  shape  of  a  forget-me- 
not,  "  I  think  was  powerless.  What  need  had  I 
of  a  forget-me-not,  when  memory  devoured  every 
faculty  of  my  being  ]  No,  there  was  no  charm  in 
the  forget-me-not ;  but  oh,  this  little  pencil,"  she 
took  from  the  box  the  end  of  a  lead  pencil,  "  with 
which  we  copied  and  scribbled  poetry  together. 
How  many  thoughts  has  this  little  instrument  un 
locked — what  feelings  has  it  touched — what  affec 
tions  have  hovered  over  its  point,  and  gone  thrilling 
back  through  the  heart !  You  must  certainly  take 
this,  Isabella,  for  there  is  yet  a  wonderful  power 
in  this  magical  little  pencil — it  can  make  such  re 
velations." 

"  Dear  Bessie,  I  have  no  revelations  to  make." 

"Is  my  task  finished  1"  asked  Meredith. 

«  Not  yet — not  quite  yet — be  patient — patience 
is  a  great  help ;  I  have  found  it  so.  Do  you  re 
member  this?"  She  held  up  before  Meredith  a 
tress  of  her  own  fair  hair,  tied  with  a  raven  lock 
of  his  in  a  true-love  knot.  «  Ah,  Isabella,  I  know 
very  well  it  was  not  maidenly  of  me  to  tie  this ;  I 
knew  it  then,  and  I  begged  it  of  him  with  many 
tears,  did  I  not,  Jasper  1  but  I  kept  it — that  was 
wrong  too.  Now,  Mr.  Meredith,  you  will  help  me 
to  untie  it !" 

«  Pardon  me ;  I  have  no  skill  in  such  matters." 

"  Ah,  is  it  easier  to  tie  than  to  untie  a  true-love 
knot?  Alas,  alas!  I  have  found  it  so.  But  you 
must  help  me.  My  head  is  growing  dizzy,  and  I 
am  so  faint  here !"  She  laid  her  hand  on  her  heart. 
« It  must  be  parted — dear  Isabella,  you  will  help 
me — you  can  untie  a  true-love's  not !" 

"  I  can  sever  it,"  said  Isabella,  with  an  emphasis 
that  went  to  the  heart  of  more  than  one  that  heard 
her.  She  took  a  pair  of  scissors  from  the  table, 
and  cut  the  knot.  The  black  lock  fell  on  the  floor ; 
the  pretty  tress  of  Bessie's  hair  curled  around  her 
finger: — "I  will  keep  this  for  ever,  my  sweet 
Bessie,"  she  said ;  "  the  memorial  of  innocence, 
and  purity,  and  much-abused  trust." 

"  Oh,  I  did  not  mean  that — I  did  not  mean  that, 
Isabella.  Surely  I  have  not  accused  him ;  I  told 
you  he  never  said  he  loved  me.  I  am  not  angry 
with  him — you  must  not  be.  Fou  cannot  be  long 
if  you  love  him ;  and  surely  you  do  love  him." 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  I  do  not." 

«  Isabella  Linwood  !  you  have  loved  him."  She 
threw  one  arm  around  Isabella's  neck,  and  looked 
with  a  piercing  gaze  in  her  face.  Isabella  would 
at  this  moment  have  given  worlds  to  have  answered 
with  truth — "No,  never!"  She  would  have  given 
her  life  to  have  repressed  the  treacherous  blood, 
that,  rushing  to  her  neck,  cheeks,  and  temples,  an 
swered  unequivocally  Bessie's  ill-timed  question. 

Meredith's  eye  was  riveted  to  her  face,  and  the 
transition  from  the  humiliation,  the  utter  abase 
ment  of  the  moment  before,  to  the  undeniable  and 


manifested  certainty  that  he  had  been  loved  by  the 
all-exacting,  the  unattainable  Isabella  Linwood, 
was  more  than  he  could  bear,  without  expressing 
his  exultation.  "I  thank  you,  Bessie  Lee,"  he 
cried ;  « this  triumph  is  worth  all  I  have  endured 
from  your  raving  and  silly  drivelling.  Your  silent 
confession,  Miss  Linwood,  is  satisfactory,  full,  and 
plain  enough ;  but  it  has  come  a  thought  too  late. 
Good-evening  to  you — a  fair  good-night  to  you,  sir. 
I  advise  you  to  take  care  that  your  sister  sleep 
more  and  dream  less." 

There  is  undoubtedly  a  pleasure,  transient  it 
may  be,  but  real  it  is,  in  the  gratification  of  the 
baser  passions.  Meredith  was  a  self-idolater ;  and 
at  the  very  moment  when  his  divinity  was  pros 
trate,  it  had  been  revived  by  the  sweetest,  the  most 
unexpected  incense.  No  wonder  he  was  intoxi 
cated.  How  long  his  delirium  lasted,  and  what 
were  its  effects,  are  still  to  be  seen.  His  parting 
taunt  was  lost  on  those  he  left  behind. 

Bessie  believed  that  her  mission  was  fulfilled 
and  ended.  The  artificial  strength  which,  while 
she  received  it  as  the  direct  gift  of  Heaven,  her 
highly-wrought  imagination  had  supplied,  was  ex 
hausted.  As  Meredith  closed  the  door,  she  turned 
to  Eliot,  and  locking  her  arms  around  him,  gazed 
at  him  with  an  expression  of  natural  tenderness, 
that  can  only  be  imagined  by  those  who  have  been 
so  fortunate  as  to  see  Fanny  Kemble's  exquisite 
personation  of  Ophelia ;  and  who  remember  (who 
could  forget  it  ?)  her  action  at  the  end  of  the  flower- 
scene,  when  reason  and  nature  seeming  to  over 
power  her  wild  fancies,  she  throws  her  arms  around 
Laertes's  neck,  and  with  one  flash  of  her  all-speak 
ing  eyes,  makes  every  chord  of  the  heart  vibrate. 

The  light  soon  faded  from  Bessie's  face,  and  she 
lay  as  helpless  as  an  infant  in  her  brother's  arms. 
Isabella  hastened  to  Mrs.  Archer;  and  Eliot,  left 
alone  and  quite  unmanned,  poured  out  his  heart 
over  this  victim  of  vanity  and  heartlessness. 

Mrs.  Archer  was  prompt  and  efficient  in  her 
kindness.  Bessie  was  conveyed  to  bed,  and  Eliot 
assured  that  every  thing  should  be  done  for  her 
that  human  tenderness  and  vigilance  could  do. 
After  obtaining  a  promise  from  Mrs.  Archer  that 
she  would  write  a  letter  to  his  mother,  and  forward 
it  with  some  despatches  which  he  knew  were  to  be 
sent  to  Boston  on  the  following  day;  and  after  hav 
ing  arranged  matters  for  secret  visits  to  his  sister, 
he  left  her,  fervently  thanking  God  for  the  kind 
care  that  watched  over  her  flickering  lamp  of  life. 

THREE    TEAKS    AFTER. 

Bessie  Lee,  restored  to  her  excellent  mother,  and 
to  her  peaceful  and  now  most  happy  home  at  West- 
brook,  was  enjoying  her  renovated  health  and  «<  rec 
tified  spirit."  She  lived  for  others,  and  chiefly  to 
minister  to  the  sick  and  sorrowful.  She  no  longer 
suffered  herself;  but  the  chord  of  suffering  had 
been  so  strained  that  it  was  weakened,  and  vibrated 
at  the  least  touch  of  the  miseries  of  others.  Her 
pilgrimage  was  not  a  long  one;  and  when  it 
ended,  the  transition  was  gentle  from  the  heaven 
she  made  on  earth  to  that  which  awaited  her  in 
the  bosom  of  the  Father. 


FKANCIS  WAYLAND. 

[Born  1796.    Died  1865.] 


FRANCIS  WAYLAND  was  born  in  the  city  of 
New  York  on  the  eleventh  of  March,  1796, 
and  in  the  seventeenth  year  of  his  age  was 
graduated  at  Union  College  in  Schenectady. 
After  spending  three  years  in  the  study  of  me 
dicine,  at  Troy,  a  change  of  his  views  in  regard 
to  a  profession  led  him  in  1817  to  enter  the 
Theological  Seminary  at  Andover,  which  he 
left  at  the  end  of  a  year,  to  become  a  tutor 
in  Union  College.  In  1821  he  accepted  a 
call  to  the  pastoral  care  of  the  First  Baptist 
Church  in  Boston,  which  situation  he  held  for 
five  years.  In  1826  he  returned  to  Schenec 
tady  as  professor  of  mathematics  and  natural 
philosophy,  and  before  the  close  of  the  year 
removed  to  Providence,  having  been  elected 
to  the  presidency  of  Brown  University,  into 
which  office  he  was  inducted  in  February,  1827. 

The  first  publication  of  President  Wayland 
was  a  Sermon  on  the  Moral  Dignity  of  the 
Missionary  Enterprise,  delivered  in  Boston,  in 
1823.  To  this  succeeded  in  1825  Two  Dis 
courses  on  the  Duties  of  an  American  Citizen; 
in  1830  a  Discourse  before  the  American  In 
stitute  of  Instruction ;  in  1831  a  Discourse  on 
the  Philosophy  of  Analogy,  and  a  Sermon  at 
the  Installation  of  William  Hague;  in  1833 
Occasional  Discourses,  and  a  Sermon  at  the 
Ordination  of  William  R.Williams;  in  1834 
The  Moral  Conditions  of  Success  in  the  Pro 
mulgation  of  the  Gospel ;  in  1835  a  Discourse  at 
the  Dedication  of  Manning  Hall,  Brown  Uni 
versity,  and  The  Elements  of  Moral  Science 
(of  which  an  abridgment,  for  the  use  of 
schools,  was  issued  in  the  following  year;)  in 
1837  Discourses  on  the  Moral  Law  of  Accu 
mulation,  and. The  Elements  of  Political  Eco 
nomy,  (of  which  an  abridgment  appeared  in 
1840;)  in  1838  a  Discourse  at  the  Opening 
of  the  Providence  Athenaeum,  and  The  Limita 
tions  of  Human  Responsibility;  in  1841  an 
Address  before  the  Rhode  Island  Society  for 
the  Encouragement  of  Domestic  Industry,  and  i 
a  Discourse  on  the  Life  and  Character  of  j 
the  Honourable  Nicholas  Brown;  in  1842  ! 
Thoughts  on  the  Present  Collegiate  System 
in  the  United  States,  a  Sermon  on  the  Affairs 

364 


of  Rhode  Island,  and  a  Thanksgiving  Dis 
course;  in  1843  The  Claims  of  Whalemen  on 
Christian  Benevolence;  in  1845  Domestic 
Slavery  considered  as  a  Scriptural  Institution, 
in  a  Correspondence  with  the  Reverend  Rich 
ard  Fuller,  D.D.  of  South  Carolina;  and  in 
1846  a  Discourse  on  the  Life  and  Services  of 
William  C.  Goddard.  Besides  these  works, 
and  his  Intellectual  Philosophy,  he  published 
in  1853,  his  Life  of  the  Missionary,  Dr.  Judson, 
2  vols. ;  Notes  on  the  Principles  and  Practices 
of  the  Baptists  ;  and  Sermons  to  the  Churches, 
(1858.)  Several  of  his  discourses  have  pas 
sed  through  many  editions  both  at  home  and 
abroad,  and  of  his  Political  Economy  many 
thousand,  and  of  his  Moral  Science,  nearly 
ninety  thousand  copies  have  been  sold. 

The  characteristic  of  Dr.  Wayland's  philo 
sophical  system  consists  in  the  harmonizing 
of  the  intellectual  with  the  moral :  it  is  logic 
applied  to  the  theory  of  duty.  That  subject 
which  by  some  writers  is  treated  as  a  myste 
rious  impulse  of  the  sentiments,  and  by  others 
as  a  transcendent  law,  to  be  obeyed  but  not 
understood,  becomes  in  his  pages  a  great 
scheme  of  reason.  Sympathy  is  disciplined 
and  enlightened,  and  understanding  is  warmed 
into  superior  sensibility,  till  the  two  are  made 
one  in  the  completeness  of  rational  virtue.  In 
this  reduction  into  unity  of  processes  before 
always  distinct  and  sometimes  conflicting,  the 
popular  morality  undergoes  some  important 
rectifications.  I  think  Dr.  Wayland  entitled 
to  the  name  of  a  creator  in  moral  science :  not 
that  he  has  suggested  new  principles  or  dis 
closed  new  motives,  but  that  he  has  defined 
the  limits  and  positions  of  subjects  in  which 
indistinctness  is  practically  equivalent  to  un 
certainty.  By  making  the  standard  conve 
nient  he  has  made  the  obligation  cogent,  and 
in  showing  that  we  need  not  go  beyond  the 
line  of  practicability,  has  left  no  excuse  for  not 
coming  up  to  it.  When  the  philosophy  of  so 
cial  relations  shall  reassume  that  importance  in 
the  public  attention,  which  in  the  prevailing 
anarchy  of  opinions  it  cannot  assert,  I  think 
that  his  Treatise  on  Human  Responsibility 


FRANCIS    WAYLAND. 


365 


will  be  looked  upon  as  one  of  the  great  guid 
ing-  monuments  of  human  thought  in  the  de 
partment  to  which  it  refers. 

The  same  combination  of  analytical  with 
moral  perception  explains  the  peculiarity  of 
his  genius  and  determines  the  estimate  of  his 
literary  character.  His  productions  exhibit  as 
much  brilliancy  as  vigour ;  but  it  is  not  the 
brilliancy  of  fancy,  or  sentiment,  or  rhetorical 
art.  He  inherits  none  of  that  efflorescent  ima 
gination  which  clustered  around  the  under 
standing  of  Bacon  with  gorgeous  beauty ;  his 
argumentation  is  almost  as  severe  and  single 
as  Locke's.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  intellec 
tual  processes  of  his  mind  are  saved  from  hard 
ness  and  aridity  by  the  interfused  energy  of 
moral  susceptibility ;  that  they  glow  with  a 
living  and  sympathetic  interest  because  they 
are  charged  with  the  ardours  of  conscience,  and 
are  instinct  with  a  spiritual  life.  That  rich 
ness  of  lustre  which  in  a  critical  point  of  view 
invests  his  productions,  arises  from  two  paral 
lel  rays  of  intelligence  being  refracted  into  one, 
and  thrown  in  their  blended  splendour  over 
the  subject. 

Few  works  which  have  so  little  ornament 


are  as  attractive  and  agreeable  as  those  of  this 
able  thinker.  They  have  the  natural  charm 
which  belongs  to  the  display  of  active,  various 
and  ready  strength.  Every  thing  that  proceeds 
from  his  pen  has  a  character  of  originality ; 
not  because  he  deals  in  novelty  or  is  inclined 
to  paradox,  for  there  never  was  a  more  loyal 
servant  of  the  truth  ;  but  because  all  that  he 
produces  shows  the  mould  and  stamp  of  his 
own  peculiar  and  capacious  mind. 

In  1850,  he  inaugurated  an  important  reform 
in  the  distribution  of  the  coll'ege  studies,  extend 
ing  the  benefits  of  the  college,  by  introducing 
a  partial  course  to  be  pursued  by  such  as  were 
not  intended  for  professional  life,  and  conferring 
degrees  according  to  the  attainments  made. 
He  also  identified  himself  with  the  advocacy 
of  lay  preaching,  and  a  better  adaptation  of 
the  training  of  candidates  to  the  work  of  the 
ministry.  The  college  was  eminently  success 
ful  under  his  presidency,  but  wearied  with  his 
long  care  of  it,  he  resigned  in  1855,  and  resided 
in  Providence  until  his  death  on  Saturday  Sep. 
30,  1865.  His  life  was  written  by  his  son  in 
2  vols. 


THE   OBJECT   OF   MISSIONS. 

FROM  THE  MORAL  DIGNITY  OF  THE  MISSIONARY  ENTERPRISE. 

OUR  object  will  not  have  been  accomplished  till 
the  tomahawk  shall  be  buried  for  ever,  and  the  tree 
of  peace  spread  its  broad  branches  from  the  At 
lantic  to  the  Pacific;  until  a  thousand  smiling  vil 
lages  shall  be  reflected  from  the  waves  of  the  Mis 
souri,  and  the  distant  valleys  of  the  West  echo  with 
the  song  of  the  reaper ;  till  the  wilderness  and  the 
solitary  place  shall  have  been  glad  for  us,  and  the 
desert  has  rejoiced,  and  blossomed  as  the  rose. 

Our  labours  are  not  to  cease,  until  the  last  slave- 
ship  shall  have  visited  the  coast  of  Africa,  and,  the 
nations  of  Europe  and  America  having  long  since 
redressed  her  aggravated  wrongs,  Ethiopia,  from 
the  Mediterranean  to  the  Cape,  shall  have  stretched 
forth  her  hand  unto  God. 

How  changed  will  then  be  the  face  of  Asia! 
Bramins,  and  sooders,  and  castes,  and  shasters, 
will  have  passed  away,  like  the  mist  which  rolls 
up  the  mountain's  side  before  the  rising  glories  of 
a  summer's  morning,  while  the  land  on  which  it 
rested,  shining  forth  in  all  its  loveliness,  shall,  from 
its  numberless  habitations,  send  forth  the  high 
praises  of  God  and  the  Lamb.  The  Hindoo  mo 
ther  will  gaze  upon  her  infant  with  the  same  ten 
derness  which  throbs  in  the  breast  of  any  one  of 
you  who  now  hears  me,  and  the  Hindoo  son  will 
pour  into  the  wounded  bosom  of  his  widowed  pa 
rent  the  oil  of  peace  and  consolation. 


In  a  word,  point  us  to  the  loveliest  village  that 
smiles  upon  a  Scottish  or  New  England  landscape, 
and  compare  it  with  the  filthiness  and  brutality  of 
a  Caffrarian  kraal,  and  we  tell  you,  that  our  ob 
ject  is  to  render  that  Caffrarian  kraal  as  happy  and 
as  gladsome  as  that  Scottish 'or  New  England  vil 
lage.  Point  us  to  the  spot  on  the  face  of  the  earth, 
where  liberty  is  best  understood  and  most  perfectly 
enjoyed,  where  intellect  shoots  forth  in  its  richest 
luxuriance,  and  where  all  the  kindlier  feelings  of 
the  heart  are  constantly  seen  in  their  most  grace 
ful  exercise;  point  us  to  the  loveliest,  an^  happiest 
neighbourhood  in  the  world  on  which  we  dwell, 
and  we  tell  you,  that  our  object  is  to  render  this 
whole  earth,  with  all  its  nations,  and  kindreds,  and 
tongues,  and  people,  as  happy,  nay,  happier  than 
that  neighbourhood. 

We  do  believe,  that  God  so  loved  the  world, 
that  he  gave  his  only  begotten  Son,  that  whoso 
ever  believeth  in  him  should  not  perish,  but  have 
everlasting  life.  Our  object  is  to  convey  to  those 
who  are  perishing  the  news  of  this  salvation.  It 
is  to  furnish  every  family  upon  the  face  of  the 
whole  earth  with  the  word  of  God  written  in  its 
own  language,  and  to  send  to  every  neighbour 
hood  a  preacher  of  the  cross  of  Christ.  Our  ob 
ject  will  not  be  accomplished  until  every  idol  '.em- 
pie  shall  have  been  utterly  abolished,  and  a  temple 
of  Jehovah  erected  in  its  room ;  until  this  earth, 
instead  of  being  a  theatre,  on  which  immortal  be 
ings  are  preparing  by  crime  for  eternal  condemna- 
2n2 


366 


FRANCIS    WAYLAND. 


tion,  shall  become  one  universal  temple,  in  which 
the  children  of  men  are  learning  the  anthems  of 
the  blessed  above,  and  becoming  meet  to  join  the 
general  assembly  and  church  of  the  first  born, 
whose  names  are  written  in  heaven.  Our  design 
will  not  be  completed  until 

"  One  song  employs  all  nations,  and  all  cry, 
<  Worthy  the  Lamb,  for  he  was  slain  for  us;' 
The  dwellers  in  the  vales  and  on  the  rocks 
Shout  to  each  other;  and  the  mountain  tops 
From  distant  mountains  catch  the  flying  joy; 
Till,  nation  after  nation  taught  the  strain, 
Earth  rolls  the  rapturous  hosanna  round." 

The  object  of  the  missionary  enterprise  em 
braces  every  child  of  Adam.  It  is  vast  as  the  race 
to  whom  its  operations  are  of  necessity  limited.  It 
would  confer  upon  every  individual  on  earth  all 
that  intellectual  or  moral  cultivation  can  bestow. 
It  would  rescue  the  world  from  the  indignation  and 
wrath,  tribulation  and  anguish,  reserved  for  every 
son  of  man  that  doeth  evil,  and  give  it  a  title  to 
glory,  honour,  and  immortality.  You  see,  then, 
that  our  object  is,  not  only  to  affect  every  indivi 
dual  of  the  species,  but  to  affect  him  in  the  mo 
mentous  extremes  of  infinite  happiness  and  infinite 
wo.  And  now,  we  ask,  what  object,  ever  under 
taken  by  man,  can  compare  with  this  same  design 
of  evangelizing  the  world  ]  Patriotism  itself  fades 
away  before  it,  and  acknowledges  the  supremacy 
of  an  enterprise,  which  seizes,  with  so  strong  a 
grasp,  upon  both  the  temporal  and  eternal  desti 
nies  of  the  whole  family  of  man. 

And  now,  my  hearers,  deliberately  consider  the 
nature  of  the  missionary  enterprise.  Reflect  upon 
the  dignity  of  its  object ;  the  high  moral  and  intel 
lectual  powers  which  are  to  be  called  forth  in  its 
execution;  the  simplicity, benevolence, and  efficacy, 
of  the  means  by  which  all  this  is  to  be  achieved ; 
and  we  ask  you,  Does  not  every  other  enterprise 
to  which  man  ever  put  forth  his  strength,  dwindle 
into  insignificance  before  that  of  preaching  Christ 
crucified  to  a  lost  and  perishing  world  1 


THE  IDEA   O*    THE    SUBLIME. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 


PHILOSOPHERS  have  speculated  much  concern 
ing  a  process  of  sensation,  which  has  commonly 
been  denominated  the  emotion  of  sublimity.  Aware 
that,  like  any  other  simple  feeling,  it  must  be  in 
capable  of  definition,  they  have  seldom  attempted 
to  define  it ;  but,  content  with  remarking  the  oc 
casions  on  which  it  is  excited,  have  told  us  that  it 
arises  in  general  from  the  contemplation  of  what 
ever  is  vast  in  Mature,  splendid  in  intellect,  or  lofty 
in  morals :  or,  to  express  the  same  idea  somewhat 
varied,  in  the  language  of  a  critic  of  antiquity, «  That 
alone  is  truly  sublime,  of  which  the  conception  is 
vast,  the  effect  irresistible,  and  the  remembrance 
scarcely,  if  ever,  to  be  erased." 

But,  although  philosophers  alone  have  written 
about  this  emotion,  they  are  far  from  being  the 
only  men  who  have  felt  it.  The  untutored  pea 
sant,  when  he  has  seen  the  autumnal  tempest  col 
lecting  between  the  hills,  and,  as  it  advanced,  en 
veloping  in  misty  obscurity  village  and  hamlet, 


forest  and  meadow,  has  tasted  the  sublime  in  all 
its  reality ;  and,  whilst  the  thunder  has  rolled  and 
the  lightning  flashed  around  him,  has  exulted  in 
the  view  of  nature  moving  forth  in  her  majesty. 
The  untaught  sailor  boy,  listlessly  hearkening  to 
the  idle  ripple  of  the  moonlight  wave,  when  oh  a 
sudden  he  has  thought  upon  the  unfathomable 
abyss  beneath  him,  and  the  wide  waste  of  waters 
around  him,  and  the  infinite  expanse  above  him, 
has  enjoyed  to  the  full  the  emotion  of  sublimity, 
whilst  his  inmost  soul  has  trembled  at  the  vastness 
of  its  own  conceptions.  But  why  need  I  multiply 
illustrations  from  nature  1  Who  does  not  recollect 
the  emotion  he  has  felt  while  surveying  aught,  in 
the  material  world,  of  terror  or  of  vastness  1 

And  this  sensation  is  not  produced  by  grandeur 
in  material  objects  alone.  It  is  also  excited  on 
most  of  those  occasions  in  which  we  see  man  task 
ing  to  the  uttermost  the  energies  of  his  intellectual 
or  moral  nature.  Through  the  long  lapse  of  cen 
turies,  who,  without  emotion,  has  read  of  Leonidas 
and  his  three  hundred's  throwing  themselves  as  a 
barrier  before  the  myriads  of  Xerxes,  and  contend 
ing  unto  death  for  the  liberties  of  Greece? 

But  we  need  not  turn  to  classic  story  to  find  all 
that  is  great  in  human  action  ;  we  find  it  in  our 
own  times,  and  in  the  history  of  our  own  country. 
Who  is  there  of  us  that,  even  in  the  nursery,  has 
not  felt  his  spirit  stir  within  him,  when,  with  child 
like  wonder,  he  has  listened  to  the  story  of  Wash 
ington  1  And  although  the  terms  of  the  narrative 
were  scarcely  intelligible,  yet  the  young  soul  kindled 
at  the  thought  of  one  man's  working  out  the  de 
livery  of  a  nation.  And  as  our  understanding, 
strengthened  by  age,  was  at  last  able  to  grasp  the 
detail  of  this  transaction,  we  saw  that  our  infantile 
conceptions  had  fallen  far  short  of  its  grandeur. 
Oh !  if  an  American  citizen  ever  exults  in  the  con 
templation  of  all  that  is  sublime  in  human  enter 
prise,  it  is  when,  bringing  to  mind  the  men  who 
first  conceived  the  idea  of  this  nation's  independ 
ence,  he  beholds  them  estimating  the  power  of  her 
oppressor,  the  resources  of  her  citizens,  deciding  in 
their  collected  might  that  this  nation  should  be  free, 
and,  through  the  long  years  of  trial  that  ensued, 
never  blenching  from  their  purpose,  but  freely  re 
deeming  the  pledge  they  had  given,  to  consecrate 
to  it  "  their  lives,  their  fortunes,  and  their  sacred 
honour." 

"Patriots  have  toiled,  and,  in  their  country's  cause, 
Bled  nobly,  and  their  deeds,  as  they  deserve, 
Receive  proud  recompense.  We  give  in  charge 
Their  names  to  the  sweet  lyre.  The  historic  Muse, 
Proud  of  her  treasure,  marches  with  it  down 
To  latest  times:  and  Sculpture  in  her  turn 
Gives  bond,  in  stone  and  ever-during  brass, 
To  guard  them,  and  immortali/e  her  trust." 

It  is  not  in  the  field  of  patriotism  alone  that  deeds 
have  been  achieved,  to  which  history  has  awarded 
the  palm  of  moral  sublimity.  There  have  lived 
men,  in  whom  the  name  of  patriot  has  been  merged 
in  that  of  philanthropist,  who,  looking  with  an  eye 
of  compassion  over  the  face  of  the  earth,  have  felt 
for  the  miseries  of  our  race,  and  have  put  forth 
their  calm  might  to  wipe  off  one  blot  from  the 
marred  and  stained  escutcheon  of  human  nature, 
to  strike  off  one  form  of  suffering  from  the  catalogue 


FRANCIS    WAYLAND. 


367 


of  human  wo.  Such  a  man  was  Howard.  Sur 
veying  our  world  like  a  spirit  of  the  blessed,  he 
beheld  the  misery  of  the  captive — he  heard  the 
groaning  of  the  prisoner.  His  determination  was 
fixed.  He  resolved,  single-handed,  to  gauge  and 
to  measure  one  form  of  unpitied,  unheeded  wretch 
edness,  and,  bringing  it  out  to  the  sunshine  of  pub 
lic  observation,  to  work  its  utter  extermination. 
And  he  well  knew  what  this  undertaking  would 
cost  him.  He  knew  what  he  had  to  hazard  from 
the  infection  of  dungeons,  to  endure  from  the  fa 
tigues  of  inhospitable  travel,  and  to  brook  from  the 
insolence  of  legalized  oppression.  He  knew  that 
he  was  devoting  himself  to  the  altar  of  philanthro 
py,  and  he  willingly  devoted  himself.  He  had 
marked  out  his  destiny,  and  he  hasted  forward  to 
its  accomplishment,  with  an  intensity,  "  which  the 
nature  of  the  human  mind  forbade  to  be  more,  and 
the  character  of  the  individual  forbade  to  be  less." 
Thus  he  commenced  a  new  era  in  the  history  of 
benevolence.  And  hence,  the  name  of  Howard 
will  be  associated  with  all  that  is  sublime  in  mercy, 
until  the  final  consummation  of  all  things. 

Such  a  man  is  Clarkson,  who,  looking  abroad, 
beheld  the  miseries  of  Africa,  and,  looking  at  home, 
saw  his  country  stained  with  her  blood.  We  have 
seen  him,  laying  aside  the  vestments  of  the  priest 
hood,  consecrate  himself  to  the  holy  purpose  of  res 
cuing  a  continent  from  rapine  and  murder,  and  of 
erasing  this  one  sin  from  the  book  of  his  nation's 
iniquities.  We  have  seen  him  and  his  fellow  phi 
lanthropists,  for  twenty  years,  never  waver  from 
their  purpose.  We  have  seen  them  persevere 
amidst  neglect  and  obloquy,  and  contempt,  and  perse 
cution,  until,  the  cry  of  the  oppressed  having  roused 
the  sensibilities  of  the  nation,  the  "  Island  Empress" 
rose  in  her  might,  and  said  to  this  foul  traffic  in 
human  flesh,  Thus  far  shalt  thou  go,  and  no  farther. 


THE  BIBLE  AND  THE  ILIAD. 

FROM  DISCOURSES  ON  THE  DUTIES  OF  AN  AMERICAN  CITIZEN. 

As  to  the  powerful,  I  had  almost  said  miracu 
lous,  effect  of  the  Sacred  Scriptures,  there  can  no 
longer  be  a  doubt  in  the  mind  of  any  one  on  whom 
fact  can  make  an  impression.  That  the  truths  of 
the  Bible  have  the  power  of  awakening  an  intense 
moral  feeling  in  man  under  every  variety  of  cha 
racter,  learned  or  ignorant,  civilized  or  savage ; 
that  they  make  bad  men  good,  and  send  a  pulse 
of  healthful  feeling  through  all  the  domestic,  civil, 
and  social  relations;  that  they  teach  men  to  love 
right,  to  hate  wrong,  and  to  seek  each  other's  wel 
fare,  as  the  children  of  one  common  parent ;  that 
they  control  the  baleful  passions  of  the  human 
heart,  and  thus  make  men  proficients  in  the 
science  of  self-government;  and,  finally,  that  they 
teach  him  to  aspire  after  a  conformity  to  a  Being 
of  infinite  holiness,  and  fill  him  with  hopes  infi 
nitely  more  purifying,  more  exalted,  more  suited 
to  his  nature,  than  any  other  which  this  world 
has  ever  known, — are  facts  incontrovertible  as  the 
laws  of  philosophy,  or  the  demonstrations  of  ma 


thematics.  Evidence  in  support  of  all  this  can  be 
brought  from  every  age,  in  the  history  of  man, 
since  there  has  been  a  revelation  from  God  on 
earth.  We  see  the  proof  of  it  everywhere  around 
us.  There  is  scarcely  a  neighbourhood  in  our 
country,  where  the  Bible  is  circulated,  in  -Which 
we  cannot  point  you  to  a  very  considerable  por 
tion  of  its  population,  whom  its  truths  have  re 
claimed  from  the  practice  of  vice,  and  taught  the 
practice  of  whatsoever  things  are  pure,  and  honest, 
and  just,  and  of  good  report. 

That  this  distinctive  and  peculiar  effect  is  pro 
duced  upon  every  man  to  whom  the  gospel  is  an 
nounced,  we  pretend  not  to  affirm.  But  we  do 
affirm,  that,  besides  producing  this  special  renova 
tion,  to  which  we  have  alluded,  upon  a  part,  it,  in 
a  most  remarkable  degree,  elevates  the  tone  of 
moral  feeling  throughout  the  whole  community. 
Wherever  the  Bible  is  freely  circulated,  and  its 
doctrines  carried  home  to  the  understandings  of 
men,  the  aspect  of  society  is  altered  ;  the  frequency 
of  crime  is  diminished  ;  men  begin  to  love  justice, 
and  to  administer  it  by  law  ;  and  a  virtuous  public 
opinion,  that  strongest  safeguard  of  right,  spreads 
over  a  nation  the  shield  of  its  invisible  protection. 
Wherever  it  has  faithfully  been  brought  to  bear 
upon  the  human  heart,  even  under  most  unpromis 
ing  circumstances,  it  has,  within  a  single  genera 
tion,  revolutionized  the  whole  structure  of  society ; 
and  thus,  within  a  few  years,  done  more  for  man 
than  all  other  means  have  for  ages  accomplished 
without  it.  For  proof  of  all  this,  I  need  only  refer 
you  to  the  effects  of  the  gospel  in  Greenland,  or  in 
South  Africa,  in  the  Society  Islands,  or  even  among 
the  aborigines  of  our  own  country. 

But  before  we  leave  this  part  of  the  subject,  it 
may  be  well  to  pause  for  a  moment,  and  inquire 
whether,  in  addition  to  its  moral  efficacy,  the  Bible 
may  not  exert  a  powerful  influence  upon  the  intel 
lectual  character  of  man. 

And  here  it  is  scarcely  necessary  that  I  should 
remark,  that,  of  all  the  books  with  which,  since  the 
invention  of  writing,  this  world  has  been  deluged, 
the  number  of  those  is  very  small  which  have  pro 
duced  any  perceptible  effect  on  the  mass  of  human 
character.  By  far  the  greater  part  have  been,  even 
by  their  cotemporaries,  unnoticed  and  unknown. 
Not  many  a  one  has  made  its  little  mark  upon  the 
generation  that  produced  it,  though  it  sunk  with 
that  generation  to  utter  forgetfulness.  But,  after 
the  ceaseless  toil  of  six  thousand  years,  how  few 
have  been  the  works,  the  adamantine  basis  of  whose 
reputation  has  stood  unhurt  amid  the  fluctuations 
of  time,  and  whose  impression  can  be  traced  through 
successive  centuries,  on  the  history  of  our  species. 

When,  however,  such  a  work  appears,  its  effects 
are  absolutely  incalculable  ;  and  such  a  work,  you 
are  aware,  is  the  Iliad  of  Homer.  Who  can  esti 
mate  the  results  produced  by  the  incomparable 
efforts  of  a  single  mind  ;  who  can  tell  what  Greece 
owes  to  this  first-born  of  song  1  Her  breathing 
marbles,  her  solemn  temples,  her  unrivalled  elo 
quence,  and  her  matchless  verse,  all  point  us  to 
that  transcendant  genius,  who,  by  the  very  splen 
dour  of  his  own  effulgence,  woke  the  human  intel- 


368 


FRANCIS    WAYLAND. 


lect  from  the  slumber  of  ages.  It  was  Homer  who 
gave  laws  to  the  artist ;  it  was  Homer  who  inspired 
the  poet ;  it  was  Homer  who  thundered  in  the  se 
nate  ;  and,  more  than  all,  it  was  Homer  who  was 
sung  hy  the  people ;  and  hence  a  nation  was  cast 
into  the  mould  of  one  mighty  mind,  and  the  land 
of  the  Iliad  became  the  region  of  taste,  the  birth 
place  of  the  arts. 

Nor  was  this  influence  confined  within  the  limits 
of  Greece.  Long  after  the  sceptre  of  empire  had 
passed  westward,  genius  still  held  her  court  on  the 
banks  of  the  Ilyssus,  and  from  the  country  of  Ho 
mer  gave  laws  to  the  world.  The  light,  which  the 
blind  old  man  of  Scio  had  kindled  in  Greece,  shed 
its  radiance  over  Italy ;  and  thus  did  he  awaken  a 
second  nation  into  intellectual  existence.  And  we 
may  form  some  idea  of  the  power  which  this  one 
work  has  to  the  present  day  exerted  over  the  mind 
of  man,  by  remarking,  that  "  nation  after  nation, 
and  century  after  century,  has  been  able  to  do  little 
more  than  transpose  his  incidents,  new-name  his 
characters,  and  paraphrase  his  sentiments." 

But,  considered  simply  as  an  intellectual  pro 
duction,  who  will  compare  the  poems  of  Homer 
with  the  Holy  Scriptures  of  the  Old  and  New  Tes 
tament  1  Where  in  the  Iliad  shall  we  find  sim 
plicity  and  pathos  which  shall  vie  with  the  narra 
tive  of  Moses,  or  maxims  of  conduct  to  equal  in 
wisdom  the  Proverbs  of  Solomon,  or  sublimity 
which  does  not  fade  away  before  the  conceptions 
of  Job,  or  David,  of  Isaiah  or  St.  John  !  But  I 
cannot  pursue  this  comparison.  I  feel  that  it  is 
doing  wrong  to  the  mind  which  dictated  the  Iliad, 
and  to  those  other  mighty  intellects  on  whom  the 
light  of  the  holy  oracles  never  shined.  Who  that 
has  read  his  poem  has  not  observed  how  he  strove 
in  vain  to  give  dignity  to  the  mythology  of  his 
time  1  Who  has  not  seen  how  the  religion  of  his 
country,  unable  to  support  the  flight  of  his  ima 
gination,  sunk  powerless  beneath  him  1  It  is  the 
unseen  world,  where  the  master  spirits  of  our  race 
breathe  freely,  and  are  at  home ;  and  it  is  mourn 
ful  to  behold  the  intellect  of  Homer  striving  to  free 
itself  from  the  conceptions  of  materialism,  and  then 
sinking  down  in  hopeless  despair,  to  weave  idle 
tales  about  Jupiter  and  Juno,  Apollo  and  Diana. 
But  the  difficulties  under  which  he  laboured  are 
abundantly  illustrated  by  the  fact,  that  the  light 
which  poured  upon  the  human  intellect  taught  other 
ages  how  unworthy  was  the  religion  of  his  day  of 
the  man  who  was  compelled  to  use  it.  « It  seems 
to  me,"  says  Longinus,  "  that  Homer,  when  he  de 
scribes  dissensions,  jealousies,  tears,  imprisonments, 
and  other  afflictions  to  his  deities,  hath,  as  much  as 
was  in  his  power,  made  the  men  of  the  Iliad  gods, 
and  the  gods  men.  To  men,  when  afflicted,  death  is 
the  termination  of  evils ;  but  he  hath  made  not  only 
the  nature,  but  the  miseries,  of  the  gods  eternal." 

If,  then,  so  great  results  have  flowed  from  this 
one  effort  of  a  single  mind,  what'  may  we  not  ex 
pect  from  the  combined  efforts  of  several,  at  least 
his  equals  in  power  over  the  human  heart1?  If 
that  one  genius,  though  groping  in  the  thick  dark 
ness  of  absurd  idolatry,  wrought  so  glorious  a  trans 
formation  in  the  character  of  his  countrymen,  what 


may  we  not  look  for  from  the  universal  dissemina 
tion  of  those  writings,  on  whose  authors  was  poured 
the  full  splendour  of  eternal  truth]  If  unassisted 
human  nature,  spell-bound  by  a  childish  mytholo 
gy,  have  done  so  much,  what  may  we  not  hope  for 
from  the  supernatural  efforts  of  pre-eminent  genius, 
which  spake  as  it  was  moved  by  the  Holy  Ghost  1 


GLORY. 

FROM  A  DISCOURSE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  NICHOLAS  BROWN. 

THE  crumbling  tombstone  and  the  gorgeous  mau 
soleum,  the  sculptured  marble,  and  the  venerable 
cathedral,  all  bear  witness  to  the  instinctive  desire 
within  us  to  be  remembered  by  coming  generations. 
But  how  short-lived  is  the  immortality  which  the 
works  of  our  hands  can  confer !  The  noblest  mo 
numents  of  art  that  the  world  has  ever  seen  are  co 
vered  with  the  soil  of  twenty  centuries.  The  works 
of  the  age  of  Pericles  lie  at  the  foot  of  the  Acropolis 
in  indiscriminate  ruin.  The  ploughshare  turns  up 
the  marble  which  the  hand  of  Phidias  had  chiselled 
into  beauty,  and  the  Mussulman  has  folded  his  flock 
beneath  the  falling  columns  of  the  temple  of  Mi 
nerva.  But  even  the  works  of  our  hands  too  fre 
quently  survive  the  memory  of  those  who  have 
created  them.  And  were  it  otherwise,  could  we  thus 
carry  down  to  distant  ages  the  recollection  of  our 
existence,  it  were  surely  childish  to  waste  the  ener 
gies  of  an  immortal  spirit  in  the  effort  to  make  it 
known  to  other  times,  that  a  being  whose  name  was 
written  with  certain  letters  of  the  alphabet,  once 
lived,  and  flourished,  and  died.  Neither  sculptured 
marble,  nor  stately  column,  can  reveal  to  other  ages 
the  lineaments  of  the  spirit ;  and  these  alone  can 
embalm  our  memory  in  the  hearts  of  a  grateful  pos 
terity.  As  the  stranger  stands  beneath  the  dome 
of  St.  Paul's,  or  treads,  with  religious  awe,  the  silent 
aisles  of  Westminster  Abbey,  the  sentiment,  which 
is  breathed  from  every  object  around  him,  is,  the 

utter  emptiness  of  sublunary  glory The  fine  arts, 

obedient  to  private  affection  or  public  gratitude,  have 
here  imbodied,  in  every  form,  the  finest  conceptions 
of  which  their  age  was  capable.  Each  one  of  these 
monuments  has  been  watered  by  the  tears  of  the 
widow,  the  orphan,  or  the  patriot.  But  generations 
have  passed  away,  and  mourners  and  mourned  have 
sunk  together  into  forgetfulness.  The  aged  crone, 
or  the  smooth-tongued  beadle,  as  now  he  hurries  you 
through  aisles  arid  chapel,  utters,  with  measured  ca 
dence  and  unmeaning  tone,  for  the  thousandth  time, 
the  name  and  lineage  of  the  once  honoured  dead ; 
and  then  gladly  dismisses  you,  to  repeat  again  his 
well-conned  lesson  to  another  group  of  idle  passers- 
by.  Such,  in  its  most  august  form,  is  all  the  immor 
tality  that  matter  can  confer It  is  by  what  we  our 
selves  have  done,  and  not  by  what  others  have  done 
for  us,  that  we  shall  be  remembered  by  after  ages. 
It  is  by  thought  that  has  aroused  my  intellect  from 
its  slumbers,  which  has  "  given  lustre  to  virtue,  and 
dignity  to  truth,"  or  by  those  examples  which  have 
inflamed  my  soul  with  the  love  of  goodness,  and  not 
by  means  of  sculptured  marble,  that  I  hold  commu 
nion  with  Shakspeare  and  Milton,  with  Johnson  and 
Burke,  with  Howard  and  Wilberforce. 


Paontei  by  Ames 


WILLIAM  H.  PRESCOTT. 


[Born  1796.    Died  1859.] 


THIS  eminent  historian  was  born  in  Salem, 
Massachusetts,  on  the  fourth  of  May,  1796. 
His  father,  William  Prescott,  LL.  D.,  who 
died  at  the  good  old  age  of  eighty -two,  in  the 
last  month  of  1844,  was  a  lawyer,  and  ranked 
among  the  noblest  ornaments  of  his  profes 
sion;  and  the  general  grief  of  the  community 
at  his  loss,  when  he  had  so  long  been  with 
drawn  from  business  and  public  life,  afforded 
the  most  touching  and  honourable  tribute  to 
his  intellectual  and  moral  worth.*  His  grand 
father  was  Colonel  William  Prescott,  who 
commanded  the  American  forces  stationed  in 
the  redoubt  at  the  memorable  Battle  of  Bunker 
Hill,  on  the  seventeenth  of  June,  1775,  and 
with  the  undisciplined  New  England  militia 
twice  broke  the  ranks  of  the  British  grena 
diers  and  light  infantry,  and  drove  them  in 
confusion  and  dismay  to  their  boats.f  His 
great-grandfather  was  also  a  man  of  much 
consideration,  and  was  chosen  the  agent  of 
the  province  to  the  English  court  in  1738,  but 
declined  the  office,  which  was  subsequently 
filled  by  Edmund  Quincy.  Few  men  have 
more  reason  to  take  an  honest  pride  in  their 
descent. 

In  his  twelfth  year  Mr.  Prescott  removed 
with  his  family  to  Boston,  and  was  there 
placed  under  the  care  of  the  Reverend  Dr. 
Gardiner,  one  of  the  pupils  of  the  celebrated 
Dr.  Parr,  by  whom  he  was  carefully  instructed 
in  the  ancient  classics,  and  carried  through  a 
range  of  study  in  the  Latin  and  Greek  authors, 
quite  beyond  the  limits  usually  reached  at  that 
time  in  our  public  seminaries.  After  entering 
Harvard  University,  which  he  did  in  1811, 
one  year  in  advance,  he  continued  his  predi- 


*The  late  William  Prescott  presented  to  his  asso 
ciates,  throughout  a  long  life,  whether  at  the  bar,  or  on 
the  bench,  or  in  the  dignified  retirement  of  his  late  years, 
such  an  eminent  example  of  modest  talent,  substantial 
learning,  and  upretending  wisdom,  with  aflable  manners, 
strong  social  affections,  absolute  fidelity  in  every  rela 
tion  of  life,  and  probity  beyond  the  slightest  suspicion  of 
reproach,  as  rarely  adorns  even  the  highest  walks  of 
professional  excellence.  Concerning  wnom  may  it  be 
more  appropriately  asked  than  of  him, 

"  Cui  Pudor,  et  Justitise  soror, 

Incorrupta  Fides,  nudaque  Veritas, 

Quandoullum  invenientparem?" — Daniel  Webster. 

t  Dr.  Young's  Discourse,  occasioned  by  the  Death  of 
the  Honourable  William  Prescott,  LL.D 
47 


lections  for  the  ancient  masters ;  and  while 
he  gave  little  attention  to  the  mathematics 
and  the  sister  sciences,  he  employed  his  lei 
sure  hours,  especially  in  the  latter  portion  of 
his  college  life,  exclusively  in  the  study  of 
his  favourite  authors.  It  was  a  matter  of  taste 
with  him,  but  considering  his  subsequent  oc 
cupations,  he  has  not  had  reason  to  repent  it. 
The  chaste  richness  of  his  style  could  have 
resulted  only  from  the  happiest  union  of  learn 
ing  with  genius. 

On  his  leaving  the  university,  in  1814,  he 
embraced  the  study  of  the  law,  but  prepared 
to  give  a  preliminary  year  to  more  general 
reading.  He  had  already  made  good  progress 
in  a  course  of  historical  study,  when  he  was 
stopped  by  a  violent  rheumatic  inflammation  of 
the  eye,  occasioned  probably  by  a  too  free  use  of 
it,  especially  at  night,  in  the  study  of  the  Greek 
historians,  with  which  he  chiefly  occupied  him 
self.  An  accidental  blow  in  college  had  pre 
viously  deprived  him  of  the  sight  of  one  of 
his  eyes,  though  this  is  not  apparent  from  any 
change  in  the  appearance  of  it.  This  threw 
the  whole  burden  of  study  on  the  remaining 
eye,  which  gave  way  more  easily  on  that  ac 
count.  After  a  severe  illness,  in  which,  for 
a  while,  he  was  perfectly  blind,  he  recovered 
his  vision,  but  so  much  enfeebled  that  he  was 
compelled  to  abandon  his  profession  and  read 
ing  altogether. 

In  the  autumn  of  1815  he  went  to  Europe, 
and  passed  two  years  in  England,  France,  and  ( 
Italy;  too  young  to  derive  a  lasting  profit 
from  his  travels,  but  yet,  probably,  enjoying 
the  novel  scenes  opened  to  him  with  higher 
relish  than  he  would  at  a  later  period.  On 
the  classic  ground  of  Italy  he  revelled  as  in  a  I 
land  of  enchantment.  But  his  associations 
were  wholly  with  the  ancient  people,  who 
had  passed  away,  and  he  felt  an  enthusiasm 
which  might  have  cooled  under  the  criticism 
of  a  riper  age,  as  he  trod  the  soil  of  Cicero 
and  the  Caesars.  After  a  gay  dream  of  two 
years  in  the  transatlantic  countries,  he  returned 
to  Boston,  but  not  to  resume  his  studies,  or 

even  to  open  a  volume,  for  his  eye  was  still 

301 


370 


WILLIAM    H.    PRESCOTT. 


too  susceptible  of  inflammati  on.  In  the  course 
of  a  few  years  he  was  married  to  a  lady  of  his 
own  city,  and  he  remarks  in  a  letter  before 
me,  that  "  contrary  to  the  assertion  of  La 
Bruyere,  who  somewhere  says  that  '  the  most 
fortunate  husband  finds  reason  to  regret  his 
condition,  at  least  once  in  every  twenty-four 
hours,'  I  may  truly  say  that  I  have  found  no 
such  day  in  the  quarter  of  a  century  that  Pro 
vidence  has  spared  us  to  each  other." 

In  the  beautiful  library  of  Mr.  Prescott  at 
Boston,  so  richly  stored  with  the  rare  printed 
works  and  manuscripts  used  in  the  composi 
tion  of  his  histories,  with  portraits  of  the  Ca 
tholic  sovereigns  and  their  servants  who  are 
his  heroes,  and  with  trophies  more  glorious 
than  have  been  won  in  the  tented  fields  of 
war  which  have  been  sent  him  by  admiring 
scholars  in  foreign  nations,  I  observed  sus 
pended  over  one  of  the  book-cases  two  swords, 
crossed  with  an  Indian  calumet,  and  was  told 
that  they  were  worn  at  Bunker  Hill  by  the 
great-grand  sires  of  his  children,  one  in  the 
people's  service,  the  other  in  the  king's. 
Would  that  the  two  countries  might  for  ever 
be  united  in  as  firm  a  bond  of  peace  as  that 
which  binds  these  descendants  of  their. two 
champions  on  that  memorable  day. 

As  Mr.  Prescott  grew  older  the  inflamma 
tory  tendency  of  the  system  diminished,  and 
his  eye  became  less  sensible  to  the  fatigue  of 
study.  At  first  he  used  it  sparingly,  but  in  a 
few  years  he  so  far  recovered  it  that  he  was 
enabled  to  indulge  his  taste  for  books  to  a 
very  reasonable  extent,  and  the  deficiency 
was  made  up  by  a  reader.  He  now  devoted 
himself  to  the  study  of  the  continental  lan 
guages  and  literatures,  taking  copious  notes, 
and  exercising  his  pen  very  freely  in  critical 
and  miscellaneous  essays,  chiefly  in  the  North 
American  Review.  A  selection  of  thirteen  of 
the  papers  written  in  this  period  has  recently 
been  published,  and  they  are  remarkable  for 
the  sustained  ease  and  felicity  of  expression, 
the  fine  enthusiasm  and  natural  brilliancy, 
which  in  a  still  more  eminent  degree  distin 
guish  his  later  productions.  The  first  arti 
cle  is  a  memoir  of  Charles  Brockden  Brown, 
to  which  I  have  been  indebted  in  preparing 
the  notice  of  that  novelist  in  the  present  vo 
lume.  Mr.  Prescott  does  full  justice  to  the 
remarkable  series  of  fictions  which  "  consti 
tute  an  epoch  in  the  ornamental  literature  of 
America,"  though  I  disagree  with  him,  as  I 


have  elsewhere  intimated,  upon  some  points 
in  his  criticism  of  Wieland.  The  subjects  of 
the  olher  papers  are  the  Asylum  for  the  Blind, 
Irving's  Conquest  of  Granada,  Cervantes,  Mo- 
liere,  Chateaubriand's  English  Literature,  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  Scottish  Song,  Bancroft's  United 
States,  Italian  Narrative  Poetry,  Poetry  and 
Romance  of  the  Italians,  and  Da  Ponte's  Ob 
servations  on  Italian  Literature.  They  but 
imperfectly  indicate  the  range  of  his  studies 
and  attainments  in  literary  and  social  history, 
as  I  find  by  consulting  some  of  his  other  con 
tributions  to  the  Review ;  but  they  show  that 
he  was  always  equal  to  his  theme  in  research, 
hearty  appreciation,  and  acute  critical  judg 
ment.  The  book  is  "  affectionately  dedicated" 
to  George  Ticknor,  to  "remind  him  of  studies 
pursued  together  in  earlier  days."* 

Mr.  Prescott  kept  before  his  dreaming  vision 
the  hopes  of  one  day  entering  the  arena  of 
history,  and  achieving  something  that  poste 
rity  might  not  willingly  let  die.  Aspirations 
to  this  effect  are  in  his  diary  as  far  back  as 
1819.  He  there  allows  ten  years  for  prelimi 
nary  studies,  and  ten  more  for  the  investiga 
tion  and  preparation  of  some  specific  historical 
work.  The  event  nearly  corresponded  with 
this  preconceived  arrangement,  and  consider 
ing  the  lapse  of  time  embraced  by  it,  it  is 
singular. 

The  subject  which  he  selected  for  his  first 
performance,  the  reign  of  the  sovereigns  un 
der  whose  auspices  the  existence  of  this  conti 
nent  was  first  revealed  to  Europe,  was  a  suit 
able  one  for  an  American.  The  period  in 
which  lived  Isabella  of  Castile,  the  statesman 
Ximenes,  the  soldier  Cordova,  and  the  navi 
gator  Columbus ;  in  which  the  empire  of  the 
Moors  was  subdued,  the  Inquisition  was  esta 
blished,  the  Jews  were  driven  from  Spain,  and 
a  new  world  was  discovered  and  colonized, 
was  not  lacking  in  interest  or  importance, 
indeed,  to  tempt  the  most  eminent  historians 
to  its  illustration:  yet  the  ground  may  be 
said  to  have  been  untrodden,  since  the  only 


*  I  should  do  my  self  injustice  if  I  neglected  to  pay  some 
tribute  of  respect  to  this  gentleman,  whose  extraordinary 
erudition  and  elegant  taste  are  so  well  known  among 
contemporary  scholars.  He  haa  published  little,  but  that 
little  makes  us  anxious  for  the  appearance  of  some  com 
positions  upon  which  he  is  understood  to  have  been 
many  years  engaged,  among  which  is  an  elaborate 
History  of  the  Spanish  Language  and  Literature.  His 
eminent  qualifications,  and  the  fulness  of  his  resources, 
warrant  the  belief  that  this  will  be  one  of  the  most  ad 
mirable  works  in  our  literature. 


WILLIAM    H.   PRESCOTT. 


371 


lives  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  that  had  ap 
peared  are  the  meagre  and  unsatisfactory  ones 
of  the  Abbe  Mignot  and  Rupert  Becker,  one 
published  in  Paris  in  1766,  and  the  other  in 
Prague  in  1790. 

Mr.  Alexander  H.  Everett  was  our  minister 
at  the  court  of  Spain  when  Mr.  Prescott  de 
cided  upon  the  choice  of  his  subject,  and 
through  his  aid  and  that  of  two  other  Ameri 
can  gentlemen  residing  at  the  time  in  the 
Peninsula,  he  succeeded  in  obtaining  what 
ever  was  known  to  exist  that  could  not  be 
supplied  by  the  public  and  private  libraries  of 
his  own  city.  Among  the  works  thus  pro 
cured  were  some  brought  to  light  by  the 
researches  of  recent  Spanish  scholars,  in  the 
peculiar  freedom  of  inquiry  they  have  enjoyed, 
which  gave  him  a  great  advantage  over  pre 
vious  historians.  In  his  preface  he  refers 
particularly  to  Llorente's  History  of  the  In 
quisition,  the  analysis  of  the  political  institu 
tions  of  the  kingdom  by  such  writers  as  Ma 
rina,  Sempere,  and  Capmany ;  the  version  of 
the  Spanish-Arab  chronicles  by  Conde ;  the 
collections  of  Navarette,  and  the  illustrations 
of  the  reign  of  Isabella  by  Clemencin,  the 
Secretary  of  the  Royal  Academy  of  History ; 
besides  which  he  succeeded  in  obtaining  va 
rious  contemporary  manuscripts,  covering  the 
whole  ground  of  the  narrative,  none  of  which 
had  been  printed,  and  some  of  which  were  but 
little  known  to  Spanish  scholars. 

When  these  literary  treasures  reached  him, 
Mr.  Prescott  was  not  able  to  read  even  the 
title-pages  of  the  volumes.  He  had  strained 
the  nerve  of  his  eye  by  careless  use  of  it,  and 
it  was  several  years  before  it  recovered  so  far 
as  to  allow  him  to  tax  it  again.  By  the  sight 
of  his  Spanish  treasures  lying  unexplored  be 
fore  him,  he  was  filled  with  despair.  He  de 
termined  to  try  whether  he  could  make  the 
ears  do  the  work  of  the  eyes.  He  taught  his 
reader,  unacquainted  with  any  language  but 
his  own,  to  pronounce  the  Spanish,  though 
not  exactly  in  the  accent  of  the  Court  of  Ma 
drid.  He  read  at  a  slow  and  stumbling  pace, 
while  the  historian  listened  with  painful  atten 
tion.  Practice  at  length  made  the  work  easier 
for  both,  though  the  reader  never  understood 
a  word  of  his  author.  In  this  way  they  j 
ploughed  along  patiently  through  seven  Spa-  j 
nish  quartos.  He  found  at  last  he  could  go 
over  about  two-thirds  as  much  in  an  hour  as  ! 
he  could  when  read  to  in  English.  The  ex-  j 


periment  was  made,  and  he  became  convinced 
of  the  practicability  of  substituting  the  ear  for 
the  eye.  He  was  overjoyed,  for  his  library 
was  no  longer  to  consist  of  sealed  volumes. 

He  now  obtained  the  services  of  a  secretary 
acquainted  with  the  different  ancient  and  mo 
dern  languages.  Still  there  were  many  impe 
diments  to  overcome.  His  eye,  however, 
gradually  improved,  and  he  could  use  it  by 
daylight,  (never  again  in  the  evening,)  a  few 
hours ;  though  this  was  not  till  after  some 
years,  and  then  with  repeated  intervals  of 
weeks,  and  sometimes  months  of  debility. 
Many  a  chapter,  and  some  of  the  severest,  in 
Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  were  written  almost 
wholly  with  the  aid  of  the  eyes  of  his  se 
cretary.  His  modus  operandi  was  necessa 
rily  peculiar.  He  selected,  first,  all  the  au 
thorities  in  the  different  languages  that  could 
bear  on  the  topic  to  be  discussed.  He  then 
listened  to  the  reading  of  them,  one  after  an 
other,  dictating  very  copious  notes  on  each. 
When  the  survey  was  completed,  a  large  pile 
of  notes  was  amassed,  which  were  read  to 
him  over  and  over  again,  until  the  whole  had 
been  embraced  by  his  mind,  when  they  were 
fused  down  into  the  consecutive  contents  of 
a  chapter.  When  the  subject  was  complex, 
and  not  pure  narrative,  requiring  a  great  va 
riety  of  reference,  and  sifting  of  contradictory 
authorities,  the  work  must  have  been  very 
difficult.  But  it  strengthened  memory,  kept 
his  faculties  wide  awake,  and  taught  him  to 
generalize ;  for  the  little  details  slipped  through 
the  holes  in  the  memory. 

His  labour  did  not  end  with  this  piocess. 
He  found  it  as  difficult  to  write  as  to  read,  and 
procured  in  London  a  writing-case  for  the 
blind.  This  he  could  use  in  the  dark  as  well 
as  in  the  light.  The  characters,  indeed,  might 
pass  for  hieroglyphics,  but  they  were  deci 
phered  by  his  secretary,  and  transferred  by 
him  to  a  legible  form  in  a  fair  copy.  Yet  I 
have  heard  him  say  his  hair  sometimes  stood 
on  end  at  the  woful  blunders  and  misconcep 
tions  of  the  original,  which  every  now  and 
then,  escaping  detection,  found  their  way  into 
the  first  proof  of  the  printer. 

Amid  such  difficulties  was  the  composition 
of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  heroically  com 
pleted,  at  the  end  of  something  less  than  ten 
years  from  its  commencement.  He  remem 
bered  that  Johnson  says  Milton  gave  up  his 
History  of  England  because  it  was  scarcely 


372 


WILLIAM    H.    PRESCOTT. 


possible  to  write  history  with  the  eyes  of 
others;*  and  was  stimulated  in  the  midst  of 
his  embarrassments  to  overcome  them.  Well 
might  he  feel  a  proud  satisfaction  in  conquer 
ing  the  obstacles  of  nature. 

Mr.  Prescott  had  four  copies  of  the  History 
first  printed  for  himself,  and  had  so  little  con 
fidence  in  its  immediate  success,  that  he  had 
thought  of  postponing  the  publication  till  after 
his  death,  but  his  father  told  him  "tb^  man 
who  writes  a  book  which  he  is  afraid  to  pub 
lish  is  a  coward."  This  decided  him.  The 
work  was  published  in  the  beginning  of  1838. 
Its  reception  in  his  own  country  and  in  all 
parts  of  Europe  was  such  as  to  repay  him,  if 
any  thing  could,  for  the  long  night  of  toil  by 
which  it  had  been  produced.  It  quickly  made 
its  appearance  in  London.  It  was  praised  in 
the  Quarterly  and  Edinburgh  Reviews,  and 
in  the  leading  journals,  and  has  since  gone 
through  many  editions  in  England,  and  twenty 
in  the  United  States.  It  was  republished  in 
Paris,  and  translated  into  Spanish,  German, 
and  Italian.  It  was  everywhere  recognised 
at  once  as  a  great  history.  The  voice  of  pos 
terity  was  anticipated :  by  the  unanimous  judg 
ment  of  the  learned  it  was  admitted  without 
probation  into  the  circle  of  immortal  works. 

Mr.  Prescott  allowed  himself  but  short  re 
pose.  He  was  not  content  to  rest  upon  his 
laurels,  nor  fearful  of  endangering  his  great 
reputation  by  a  second  effort.  The  success 
of  his  first  work  gave  him  advantages  he  had 
not  before  possessed  of  collecting  materials. 
He  was  made  a  member  of  the  Royal  Academy 
of  Madrid,  and  its  rich  collections  by  Mufioz, 
the  historiographer  of  the  Indies,  by  Ponge, 
from  the  archives  at  Seville,  and  by  Navarette, 
its  president,  were  thrown  open  to  him,  with 
permission  to  have  copies  of  whatever  he 
desired.  From  these  collections,  the  results 
of  half  a  century's  diligent  and  intelligent 
researches,  he  obtained  a  mass  of  authentic 
and  original  documents  relating  to  the  con 
quest  and  settlement  of  Mexico  and  Peru, 
comprising  altogether  about  eight  thousand 
folio  pages,  some  of  whicft  were  of  the  high 
est  interest  and  importance.  The  descendant 
and  representative  of  Cortes,  also,  the  Duke 


*The  words  of  Johnson  are,  "To  compile  a  history 
from  various  authors,  when  they  can  only  be  consulted 
by  other  eyes,  is  not  easy,  nor  possible,  but  with  more 
skilful  and  attentive  help  than  can  be  commonly  ob 
tained."—  Ltfeof  Milton,  quoted  in  preface  to  Ferdinand  and 
Isabella. 


of  Monteleone,  of  Sicily,  opened  to  him  the 
archives  of  his  family,  from  which  were  ob 
tained  some  interesting  particulars  respecting 
the  conquestador's  biography.  His  friend, 
the  accomplished  and  highly  respected  Don 
Calderon  de  la  Barca,  now  resident  minister 
at  Washington  from  the  court  of  Madrid,  was 
at  that  time  in  the  same  capacity  in  Mexico, 
where  his  estimable  qualities  had  their  natural 
effect  in  securing  to  him  every  privilege  he 
desired,  and  through  him  he  obtained  such 
materials  illustrative  of  his  subject  as  were 
existing  in  the  country  itself.  The  manu 
scripts  of  the  Tezcucan  historian  Ixtlilxochitl, 
described  as  the  "  Livy  of  Anahuac ;"  the 
works  of  Veytia,  Sahagun,  Boturini,  and  Ca- 
margo ;  with  the  splendid  pictorial  works  of 
Dupaix  and  Kingsborough,  and  whatever  else 
was  published,  were  also  gathered  round  him 
before  he  entered  fully  upon  his  studies. 

The  History  of  the  Conquest  of  Mexico 
was  written  under  much  greater  advantages 
of  eyesight,  which  had  been  so  far  improved 
that  he  was  enabled  to  do  most  of  the  reading 
himself,  restricting  always  this  part  of  labour 
to  the  day.  His  writing  was  still  conducted 
in  the  same  manner  as  has  been  already  de 
scribed,  for  he  had  ever  found  the  process  of 
writing  a  severe  tax  on  the  eye. 

Mr.  Prescott's  second  historical  work  was 
even  more  successful  than  the  first.  Messrs. 
Harpers  of  New  York  sold  nearly  seven  thou 
sand  copies  of  it  in  a  single  year.  It  was 
published  at  the  same  time  in  London,  where 
it  quickly  passed  to  a  second  edition.  It  was 
reprinted  in  Paris,  and  was  translated  there, 
as  well  as  in  Berlin,  Rome,  Madrid,  and 
Mexico.  The  Mexican  translator,  a  person 
of  some  consideration  in  that  country,  adver 
tised  that  he  should  accommodate  the  offen 
sive  opinions  in  religion  and  politics  to  the 
more  received  ideas  of  the  Mexicans !  But 
the  version  which  appeared  in  Madrid  being 
faithful,  the  Spanish  Americans  have  perhaps 
had  an  opportunity  to  see  the  work  in  an  un- 
mutilated  form.  Among  the  evidences  of  its 
success  abroad  was  the  election  of  Mr.  Pres 
cott  into  the  Institute  of  France. 

The  death  of  the  venerable  father  of  the  his 
torian  for  a  time  interrupted  his  studies,  or 
The  Conquest  of  Peru,  upon  which  he  was 
engaged  when  that  event  occured,  was  pub 
lished  in  184t.  In  1850,  Mr.  Prescott  visited 
England,  Scotland  and  the  Continent. 


WILLIAM    H.  PRESCOTT. 


373 


In  December,  1855,  appeared  vols.  1  and  2  of 
his  History  of  Philip  the  Second,  and  in  Decem 
ber,  1858,  vol.  3d.  For  this  work  he  had  assem 
bled  the  largest  mass  of  materials,  and  upon  it  he 
proposed  to  employ  the  last  ten  years  of  his  his 
torical  life,  but  which  he  never  lived  to  com 
plete.  The  Life  of  Charles  the  V.,  after  his 
Abdication,  being  a  supplement  to  the  work 
of  Robertson,  was  published  with  the  original 
work  in  3  vols.,  8vo.,  in  185V.  Early  in  1858, 
Mr.  Prescott  had  a  slight  stroke  of  paralysis 
from  the  effect  of  which  he  never  entirely  re 
covered.  On  the  28th  of  January,  1859,  he 
rose  apparently  well  |  a  few  hours  afterward 
he  was  seized  with  a  second  stroke  of  paralysis, 
and  expired  about  2  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
leaving  a  widow,  two  sons,  and  a  daughter. 

Mr.  Prescott  is  undoubtedly  entitled  to  a 
prominent  place  in  the  first  rank  of  historians. 
With  extraordinary  industry  he  explores  every 
source  of  information  relating  to  his  subjects, 
and  with  sagacity  as  remarkable  decides  be 
tween  conflicting  authorities  and  rejects  im 
probable  relations.  His  judgment  of  character 
is  calm,  comprehensive,  and  profoundly  just. 
He  enters  into  the  midst  of  an  age,  and  with 
all  its  influences  about  him,  estimates  its  ac 
tors  and  its  deeds.  His  arrangement  of  facts 
is  always  effective,  and  his  style  flowing, 
familiar,  singularly  transparent,  and  marked 
throughout  with  the  most  felicitous  expres 
sions. 

-Whatever  may  be  the  comparative  merits 
of  the  four  great  histories  he  has  already  pub 
lished,  as  intellectual  efforts,  there  is  little 
room  to  doubt  that  The  Conquest  of  Mexico 
will  continue  to  be  the  most  popular.  It  is 
justly  remarked  in  the  Edinburgh  Review, 
that,  considered  merely  as  a  work  of  amuse 
ment,  it  will  bear  a  favourable  comparison 
with  the  best  romances  in  the  language.  The 
careful,  judicious,  and  comprehensive  essay 
on  the  Aztec  civilization,  with  which  it  opens, 
is  not  inferior  in  interest  to  the  wonderful  dra 
ma  to  which  it  is  an  epilogue.  The  scenery, 
which  is  sketched  with  remarkable  vividness 
and  accuracy,  is  wonderful,  beautiful,  and  pe 
culiar.  The  characters  are  various,  strongly 
marked,  and  not  more  numerous  than  is  ne 
cessary  for  the  purposes  of  art.  Cortez  him 
self  is  a  knight  errant,  "  filled  with  the  spirit 
of  romantic  enterprise,"  yet  a  skilful  general, 
fruitful  of  resources,  and  of  almost  superhu 


man  energies  ;  of  extraordinary  cunning,  but 
without  any  rectitude  of  judgment;  a  bigoted 
churchman,  yet  having  no  sympathy  with  vir 
tue  ;  of  kind  manners,  but  remorseless  in  his 
cruelties.  His  associates,  Valasquez,  Ordaz, 
Sandoval,  Alvarado,  the  priest  Olmedo,  the 
heroine  Dona  Marina,  and  others  of  whom 
we  have  glimpses  more  or  less  distinct,  seem 
to  have  been  formed  as  well  to  fill  their  places 
in  the  written  history,  as  to  act  their  parts  in 
the  crusade.  And  the  philosophical  king  of 
Tezcuco,  and  Montezuma,  whose  character 
and  misfortunes  are  reflected  in  his  mild  and 
melancholy  face,  and  Guatemozin,  the  last  of 
the  emperors,  and  other  Aztecs,  in  many  of 
the  higher  qualities  of  civilization  superior  to 
their  invaders,  and  inferior  in  scarcely  any 
thing  but  a  knowledge  of  the  art  of  war,  are 
grouped  and  contrasted  most  effectively  with 
such  characters  as  are  more  familiar  in  the 
scenes  of  history. 

The  biographical  and  bibliographical  infor 
mation  and  criticism  contained  in  notes  and 
addenda  to  the  different  books  of  Ferdinand 
and  Isabella  and  The  Conquest  of  Mexico, 
form  one  of  the  most  attractive  of  their  fea 
tures,  and  would  alone  sustain  a  high  reputa 
tion  for  learning  and  judgment. 

Mr.  Prescott  perhaps  excels  most  in  descrip 
tion  and  narration,  but  his  histories  combine 
in  a  high  degree  almost  every  merit  that  can 
belong  to  such  works.  They  are  pervaded  by 
a  truly  and  profoundly  philosophical  spirit,  the 
more  deserving  of  recognition  because  it  is 
natural  and  unobtrusive,  and  are  distinguished 
above  all  others  for  their  uniform  candour,  a 
quality  which  might  reasonably  be  demanded 
of  an  American  writing  of  early  European 
policy  and  adventure. 

In  private  life  I  may  be  permitted  to  add  to 
this  account,  no  man  was  more  admired  and  be 
loved  than  Mr.  Prescott.  He  was  not  more  re 
markable  for  his  abilities  and  acquirements  than 
for  his  amiability,  simplicity,  and  highbred 
courtesy.  He  was  one  of  those  men  who  are  a 
blessing  as  well  as  an  honour  to  the  commu 
nity  in  which  they  live.  I  deem  it  not  impro 
per  thus  to  state  what  every  Bostonian  feels 
to  be  true,  because  it  adds  very  greatly  in  my 
opinion  to  the  value  of  any  work  of  history, 
to  know  that  its  author,  to  research,  discrimi 
nation,  and  love  of  his  subject,  adds  a  truly 
conscientious  spirit. 

21 


374 


WILLIAM   H.   PRESCOTT. 


ISABELLA  OF  SPAIN  AND  ELIZABETH 
OF  ENGLAND. 

FROM   FERDINAND   AND  ISABELLA. 


IT  is  in  the  amiable  qualities  of  her  sex  that  Isa 
bella's  superiority  becomes  most  apparent  over  her 
illustrious  namesake,  Elizabeth  of  England,*  whose 
history  presents  some  features  parallel  to  her  own. 
Both  were  disciplined  in  early  life  by  the  teachings 
of  that  stern  nurse  of  wisdom,  adversity.  Both 
were  made  to  experience  the  deepest  humiliation 
at  the  hands  of  their  nearest  relative,  who  should 
have  cherished  and  protected  them.  Both  suc 
ceeded  in  establishing  themselves  on  the  throne 
after  the  most  precarious  vicissitudes.  Each  con 
ducted  her  kingdom,  through  a  long  and  triumph 
ant  reign,  to  a  height  of  glory  which  it  had  never 
before  reached.  Both  lived  to  see  the  vanity  of 
all  earthly  grandeur,  and  to  fall  the  victims  of  an 
inconsolable  melancholy ;  and  both  left  behind  an 
illustrious  name,  unrivalled  in  the  subsequent  an 
nals  of  the  country. 

But  with  these  few  circumstances  of  their  his 
tory,  the  resemblance  ceases.  Their  characters 
afford  scarcely  a  point  of  contact.  Elizabeth,  in 
heriting  a  large  share  of  the  bold  and  bluff  King 
Harry's  temperament,  was  haughty,  arrogant, 
coarse,  and  irascible;  while  with  these  fiercer 
qualities  she  mingled  deep  dissimulation  and 
strange  irresolution.  Isabella,  on  the  other  hand, 
tempered  the  dignity  of  royal  station  with  the  most 
bland  and  courteous  manners.  Once  resolved,  she 
was  constant  in  her  purposes;  and  her  conduct  in 
public  and  private  life  was  characterized  by  can 
dour  and  integrity.  Both)  may  be  said  to  have 
shown  that  magnanimity  which  is  implied  by  the 
accomplishment  of  great  objects  in  the  face  of  great 
obstacles.  But  Elizabeth  was  desperately  selfish; 
she  was  incapable  of  forgiving,  not  merely  a  real 
injury,  but  the  slightest  affront  to  her  vanity;  and 
she  was  merciless  in  exacting  retribution.  Isa 
bella,  on  the  other  hand,  lived  only  for  others, — 
was  ready  at  all  times  to  sacrifice  self  to  considera 
tions  of  public  duty  ;  and,  far  from  personal  resent 
ments,  showed  the  greatest  condescension  and 
kindness  to  those  who  had  most  sensibly  injured 
her;  while  her  benevolent  heart  sought  every 
means  to  mitigate  the  authorized  severities  of  the 
law,  even  toward  the  guilty. 

Both  possessed  rare  fortitude.  Isabella,  indeed, 
was  placed  in  situations  which  demanded  more 
frequent  and  higher  displays  of  it  than  her  rival ; 
but  no  one  will  doubt  a  full  measure  of  this  quality 
in  the  daughter  of  Henry  the  Eighth.  Elizabeth 
was  better  educated,  and  every  way  more  highly 
accomplished  than  Isabella.  But  the  latter  knew 
enough  to  maintain  her  station  with  dignity ;  and 
she  encouraged  learning  by  a  munificent  patron 
age.  The  masculine  powers  and  passions  of  Eli 
zabeth  seemcvl  to  divorce  her  in  a  great  measure 
from  the  peculiar  attributes  of  her  sex ;  at  least 
from  those  which  constitute  its  peculiar  charm ; 
for  she  had  abundance  of  its  foibles — a  coquetry 

*  Isabel,  the  name  of  the  Catholic  queen,  is  correctly 
rendered  into  English  by  that  of  Elizabeth. 


and  love  of  admiration  which  age  could  not  chill ; 
a  levity  most  careless,  if  not  criminal ;  and  a  fond 
ness  for  dress  and  tawdry  magnificence  of  orna 
ment,  which  was  ridiculous,  or  disgusting,  accord 
ing  to  the  different  periods  of  life  in  which  it  was 
indulged.  Isabella,  on  the  other  hand,  distin 
guished  through  life  for  decorum  of  manners  and 
purity  beyond  the  breath  of  calumny,  was  content 
with  the  legitimate  affection  which  she  could  in 
spire  within  the  range  of  her  domestic  circle.  Far 
from  a  frivolous  affectation  of  ornament  or  dress, 
she  was  most  simple  in  her  own  attire,  and  seemed 
to  set  no  value  on  her  jewels,  but  as  they  could 
serve  the  necessities  of  the  state  ;  when  they  could 
be  no  longer  useful  in  this  way,  she  gave  them 
away  to  her  friends. 

Both  were  uncommonly  sagacious  in  the  selec 
tion  of  their  ministers;  though  Elizabeth  was 
drawn  into  some  errors  in  this  particular  by  her 
levity,  as  was  Isabella  by  .religious  feeling.  It 
was  this,  combined  with  her  excessive  humility, 
which  led  to  the  only  errave  errors  in  the  adminis 
tration  of  the  latter.  Her  rival  fell  into  no  such 
errors;  and  she  was  a  stranger  to  the  amiable 
qualities  which  led  to  them.  Her  conduct  was 
certainly  not  controlled  by  religious  principle  ;  and, 
though  the  bulwark  of  the  Protestant  faith,  it  might 
be  difficult  to  say  whether  she  were  at  heart  most 
a  Protestant  or  a  Catholic.  She  viewed  religion 
in  its  connection  with  the  state,  in  other  words, 
with  herself;  and  she  took  measures  for  enforcing 
conformity  to  her  own  views,  not  a  whit  less  des 
potic,  and  scarcely  less  sanguinary,  than  those 
countenanced  for  conscience'  sake  by  her  more 
bigoted  rival. 

This  feature  of  bigotry,  which  has  thrown  a 
shade  over  Isabella's  otherwise  beautiful  character, 
might  lead  to  a  disparagement  of  her  intellectual 
power  compared  with  that  of  the  English  queen. 
To  estimate  this  aright,  we  must  contemplate  the 
results  of  their  respective  reigns.  Elizabeth  found 
all  the  materials  of  prosperity  at  hand,  and  availed 
herself  of  them  most  ably  to  build  up  a  solid  fabric 
of  national  grandeur.  Isabella  created  these  ma 
terials.  She  saw  the  faculties  of  her  people  locked 
up  in  a  deathlike  lethargy,  and  she  breathed  into 
them  the  breath  of  life  for  those  great  and  heroic 
enterprises  which  terminated  in  such  glorious  con 
sequences  to  the  monarchy.  It  is  when  viewed 
from  the  depressed  position  of  her  early  days,  that 
the  achievements  of  her  reign  seem  scarcely  less 
than  miraculous.  The  masculine  genius  of  the 
English  queen  stands  out  relieved  beyond  its  na 
tural  dimensions  by  its  separation  from  the  softer 
qualities  of  her  sex.  While  her  rival's,  like  some 
vast,  but  symmetrical  edifice,  loses  in  appearance 
somewhat  of  its  actual  grandeur  from  the  perfect 
harmony  of  its  proportions. 

The  circumstances  of  their  deaths,  which  were 
somewhat  similar,  displayed  the  great  dissimilarity 
of  their  characters.  Both  pined  amidst  their  royal 
state,  a  prey  to  incurable  despondency  rather  than 
any  marked  bodily  distemper.  In  Elizabeth  it 
sprung  from  wounded  vanity,  a  sullen  conviction 
that  she  had  outlived  the  admiration  on  which  she 


WILLIAM    H.    PRESCOTT. 


375 


had  so  long  fed, — and  even  the  solace  of  friendship 
and  the  attachment  of  her  subjects.  Nor  did  she 
seek  consolation,  where  alone  it  was  to  be  found, 
in  that  sad  hour.  Isabella,  on  the  other  hand, 
sunk  under  a  too  acute  sensibility  to  the  sufferings 
of  others.  But,  amidst  the  gloom  which  gathered 
around  her,  she  looked  with  the  eye  of  faith  to  the 
brighter  prospects  which  unfolded  of  the  future; 
and  when  she  resigned  her  last  breath,  it  was 
amidst  the  tears  and  universal  lamentations  of  her 
people. 


THE  KING  OF  TEZCUCO. 

FROM   THE   CONQUEST   OF  MEXICO. 

NKZAHTJALCOTOTL  divided  the  burden  of  go 
vernment  among  a  number  of  departments,  as  the 
council  of  war,  the  council  of  finance,  the  council 
of  justice.  This  last  was  a  court  of  supreme  au 
thority,  both  in  civil  and  criminal  matters,  receiv 
ing  appeals  from  the  lower  tribunals  of  the  pro 
vinces,  which  were  obliged  to  make  a  full  report, 
every  four  months,  or  eighty  days,  of  their  own 
proceedings  to  this  higher  judicature.  In  all  these 
bodies,  a  certain  number  of  citizens  were  allowed 
to  have  seats  with  the  nobles  and  professional  dig 
nitaries.  There  was,  however,  another  body,  a 
council  of  state,  for  aiding-  the  king  in  the  despatch 
of  business,  and  advising  him  in  matters  of  import 
ance,  which  was  drawn  altogether  from  the  highest 
order  of  chiefs.  It  consisted  of  fourteen  members; 
and  they  had  seats  provided  for  them  at  the  royal 
table. 

Lastly,  there  was  an  extraordinary  tribunal, 
called  the  council  of  music,  but  which,  differing 
from  the  import  of  its  name,  was  devoted  to  the 
encouragement  of  science  and  art.  Works  on 
astronomy,  chronology,  history,  or  any  other  sci 
ence,  were  required  to  be  submitted  to  its  judg 
ment  before  they  could  be  made  public. ....  This 
body,  which  was  drawn  from  the  best  instructed 
persons  in  the  kingdom,  with  little  regard  to  rank, 
had  supervision  of  all  the  productions  of  art,  and 
of  the  nicer  fabrics.  It  decided  on  the  qualifica 
tions  of  the  professors  in  the  various  branches  of 
science,  on  the  fidelity  of  their  instructions  to  their 
pupils,  the  deficiency  of  which  was  severely  pun 
ished,  and  it  instituted  examinations  of  these  latter. 
In  short,  it  was  a  general  board  of  education  for 
the  country.  On  stated  days,  historical  composi 
tions,  and  poems  treating  of  moral  or  traditional 
topics,  were  recited  before  it  by  their  authors. 
Seats  were,  provided  for  the  three  crowned  heads 
of  tlie  empire,  who  deliberated  with  the  other 
members  on  the  respective  merits  of  the  pieces, 
and  distributed  prizes  of  value  to  the  successful 
competitors. 

Such  are  the  marvellous  accounts  transmitted 
to  us  of  this  institution;  an  institution  certainly 
not  to  have  been  expected  among  the  Aborigines 
of  America.  It  is  calculated  to  give  us  a  higher 
idea  of  the  refinement  of  the  people  than  even  .he 
noble  architectural  remains  which  still  cover  some 
parts  of  the  continent.  Architecture  is,  to  a  cer 


tain  extent,  a  sensual  gratification.  It  addresses 
itself  to  the  eye,  and  affords  the  best  scope  for  the 
parade  of  barbaric  pomp  and  splendour.  It  is  the 
form  in  which  the  revenues  of  a  semi-civilized 
people  are  most  likely  to  be  lavished.  The  most 
gaudy  and  ostentatious  specimens  of  it,  and  some 
times  the  most  stupendous,  have  been  reared  by 
such  hands.  It  is  one  of  the  first  steps  in  the 
great  march  of  civilization.  But  the  institution  in 
question  was  evidence  of  still  higher  refinement. 
It  was  a  literary  luxury;  and  argued  the  existence 
of  a  taste  in  the  nation,  which  relied  for  its  grati 
fication  on  pleasures  of  a  purely  intellectual  cha 
racter. 

The  influence  of  this  academy  must  have  been 
most  propitious  to  the  capital,  which  became  the 
nursery,  not  only  of  such  sciences  as  could  be 
compassed  by  the  scholarship  of  the  period,  but  ot 
various  useful  and  ornamental  arts.  Its  historians, 
orators,  and  poets  were  celebrated  throughout  the 
country.  Its  archives,  for  which  accommodations 
were  provided  in  the  royal  palace,  were  stored 
with  the  records  of  primitive  ages.  Its  idiom, 
more  polished  than  the  Mexican,  was  indeed  the 
purest  of  all  the  Nahuatlac  dialects  ;  and  continued, 
long  after  the  Conquest,  to  be  that  in  which  the 
best  productions  of  the  native  races  were  composed. 
Tezcuco  claimed  the  glory  of  being  the  Athens  of 
the  Western  World. 

Among  the  most  illustrious  of  her  bards  was  the 
emperor  himself, — for  the  Tezcucan  writers  claim 
this  title  for  their  chief,  as  head  of  the  imperial 
alliance.  He,  doubtless,  appeared  as  a  competitor 
before  that  very  academy  where  he  so  often  sat  as 
a  critic.  Many  of  his  odes  descended  to  a  late 
generation,  and  are  still  preserved,  perhaps,  in  some 
of  the  dusty  repositories  of  Mexico  or  Spain.  The 
historian,  Ixtlilxochitl,  has  left  a  translation,  in 
Castilian,  of  one  of  the  poems  of  his  royal  ancestor. 
It  is  not  easy  to  render  his  version  into  correspond 
ing  English  rhyme  without  the  perfume  of  the 
original  escaping  in  this  double  filtration.  They 
remind  one  of  the  rich  breathings  of  Spanish-Arab 
poetry,  in  which  an  ardent  imagination  is  tempered 
by  a  not  unpleasing  and  moral  melancholy.  But, 
though  sufficiently  florid  in  diction,  they  are  gene 
rally  free  from  the  meretricious  ornaments  and 
hyperbole  with  which  the  minstrelsy  of  the  East 
is  usually  tainted.  They  turn  on  the  vanities  and 
mutability  of  human  life  ;  a  topic  very  natural  for  a 
monarch  who  had  himself  experienced  the  strangest 
mutations  of  fortune.  There  is  mingled  in  the  la 
ment  of  the  Tezcucan  bard,  however,  an  Epicurean 
philosophy,  which  seeks  relief  from  the  fears  of 
the  future  in  the  joys  of  the  present.  "  Banish 
care,"  he  says ;  "  if  there  are  bounds  to  pleasure, 
the  saddest  life  must  also  have  an  end.  Then 
weave  the  chaplet  of  flowers,  and  sing  thy  songs 
in  praise  of  the  all-powerful  God  ;  for  the  glory  of 
this  world  soon  fadeth  away.  Rejoice  in  the  green 
freshness  of  thy  spring;  for  the  day  will  come 
when  thou  shalt  sigh  for  these  joys  in  vain  ;  when 
the  sceptre  shall  pass  from  thy  hands,  thy  servants 
shall  wander  desolate  in  thy  courts,  thy  sons,  and 
the  sons  of  thy  nobles,  shall  drink  the  dregs  of 


376 


WILLIAM    H.   PRESCOTT. 


distress,  and  all  the  pomp  of  thy  victories  and  tri 
umphs  shall  live  only  in  their  recollection.  Yet 
the  remembrance  of  the  just  shall  not  pass  away 
from  the  nations,  and  the  good  thou  hast  done 
shall  ever  be  held  in  honour.  The  goods  of  this 
life,  its  glories  and  its  riches,  are  but  lent  to  us,  its 
substance  is  but  an  illusory  shadow,  and  the  things 
of  to-day  shall  change  on  the  coming  of  the  mor 
row.  Then  gather  the  fairest  flowers  from  thy 
gardens  to  bind  round  thy  brow,  and  seize  the 
joys  of  the  present  ere  they  perish." 

But  the  hours  of  the  Tezcucan  monarch  were 
not  all  passed  in  idle  dalliance  with  the  Muse,  nor 
in  the  sober  contemplations  of  philosophy,  as  at  a 
later  period.  In  the  freshness  of  youth  and  early 
manhood  he  led  the  allied  armies  in  their  annual 
expeditions,  which  were  certain  to  result  in  a  wider 
extent  of  territory  to  the  empire.  In  the  intervals 
of  peace  he  fostered  those  productive  arts  which 
are  the  surest  sources  of  public  prosperity.  He 
encouraged  agriculture  above  all ;  and  there  was 
scarcely  a  spot  so  rude,  or  a  steep  so  inaccessible, 
as  not  to  confess  the  power  of  cultivation.  The 
land  was  covered  with  a  busy  population,  and 
towns  and  cities  sprung  up  in  places  since  deserted, 
or  dwindled  into  miserable  villages. 

From  resources  thus  enlarged  by  conquest  and 
domestic  industry,  the  monarch  drew  the  means 
for  the  large  consumption  of  his  own  numerous 
household,  and  for  the  costly  works  which  he 
executed  for  the  convenience  and  embellishment 
of  the  capital.  He  filled  it  with  stately  edifices  for 
his  nobles,  whose  constant  attendance  he  was  anx 
ious  to  secure  at  his  court.  He  erected  a  magnifi 
cent  pile  of  buildings  which  might  serve  both  for 
a  royal  residence  and  for  the  public  offices.  It 
extehded,  from  east  to  west,  twelve  hundred  and 
thirty-four  yards,  and  from  north  to  south  nine 
hundred  and  seventy-eight.  It  was  encompassed 
by  a  wall  of  unburnt  bricks  and  cement,  six  feet 
wide  and  nine  high,  for  one-half  of  the  circum 
ference,  and  fifteen  feet,  high  for  the  other  half. 
Within  this  enclosure  were  two  courts.  The 
outer  one  was  used  as  the  great  market-place  of 
the  city ;  and  continued  to  be  so  until  long  after 
the  Conquest, — if,  indeed,  it  is  not  now.  The  in 
terior  court  was  surrounded  by  the  council-cham 
bers  and  halls  of  justice.  There  were  also  accom 
modations  there  for  the  foreign  ambassadors;  and 
a  spacious  saloon,  with  apartments  opening  into 
it  for  men  of  science  and  poets,  who  pursued  their 
studies  in  this  retreat,  or  met  together  to  hold  con 
verse  under  its  marble  porticoes.  In  this  quarter, 
also,  were  kept  the  public  archives ;  which  fared 
better  under  the  Indian  dynasty  than  they  have 
since  under  their  European  successors. 

Adjoining  this  court  were  the  apartments  of  the 
king,  including  those  for  the  royal  harem,  as  libe 
rally  supplied  with  beauties  as  that  of  an  eastern 
sultan.  Their  walls  were  incrnsted  with  alabas 
ters  and  richly  tinted  stucco,  or  hung  with  gor 
geous  tapestries  of  variegated  feather-work.  They 
led  through  long  arcades,  and  through  intricate 
labyrinths  of  shrubbery,  into  gardens  where  baths 
and  sparkling  fountains  were  overshadowed  by  tall 


groves  of  cedar  and  cypress.  The  basins  of  water 
were  well  stocked  with  fish  of  various  kinds,  and 
the  aviaries  with  birds  glowing  in  all  the  gaudy 
plumage  of  the  tropics.  Many  birds  and  animals, 
which  could  not  be  obtained  alive,  were  repre 
sented  in  gold  and  silver  so  skilfully,  as  to  have 
furnished  the  great  naturalist,  Hernandez,  with 
models  for  his  work. 

Accommodations  on  a  princely  scale  were  pro 
vided  for  the  sovereigns  of  Mexico  and  Tlacopan, 
when  they  visited  the  court.  The  whole  of  this 
lordly  pile  contained  three  hundred  apartments, 
some  of  them  fifty  yards  square.  The  height  of 
the  building  is  not  mentioned.  It  was  probably 
not  great;  but  supplied  the  requisite  room  by  the 
immense  extent  of  ground  which  it  covered.  The 
interior  was  doubtless  constructed  of  light  mate 
rials,  especially  of  the  rich  woods,  which,  in  that 
country,  are  remarkable,  when  polished,  for  the 
brilliancy  and  variety  of  their  colours.  That  the 
more  solid  materials  of  stone  stucco  were  also 
liberally  employed  is  proved  by  the  remains  at 
the  present  day ;  remains  which  have  furnished 
an  inexhaustible  quarry  for  the  churches  and  other 
edifices  since  erected  by  the  Spaniards  on  the  site 
of  the  ancient  city. 

We  are  not  informed  of  the  time  occupied  in 
building  this  palace.  But  two  hundred  thousand 
workmen,  it  is  said,  were  employed  on  it !  How 
ever  this  may  be,  it  is  certain  that  the  Tezcucan 
monarchs,  like  those  of  Asia  and  ancient  Egypt, 
had  the  control  of  immense  masses  of  men,  and 
would  sometiines  turn  the  whole  population  of  a 
conquered  city,  including  the  women,  into  the  pub 
lic  works.  The  most  gigantic  monuments  of  archi 
tecture  which  the  world  has  witnessed  would  never 
have  been  reared  by  the  hands  of  freemen. 

Adjoining  the  palace  were  buildings  for  the  king's 
children,  who  by  his  various  wives  amounted  to  no 
less  than  sixty  sons  and  fifty  daughters.  Here 
they  were  instructed  in  all  the  exercises  and  ac 
complishments  suited  to  their  station ;  compre 
hending,  what  would  scarcely  find  a  place  in  a 
royal  education  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic, 
the  arts  of  working  in  metals,  jewelry,  and  feather- 
mosaic.  Once  in  every  four  months,  the  whole 
household, not  excepting  the  youngest,  and  includ 
ing  all  the  officers  and  attendants  on  the  king's 
person,  assembled  in  a  grand  saloon  of  the  palace 
to  listen  to  a  discourse  from  an  orator,  probably 
one  of  the  priesthood.  The  princes,  on  this  occa 
sion,  were  all  dressed  in  neyuen,  the  coarsest  ma 
nufacture  of  the  country.  The  preacher  began  by 
enlarging  on  the  obligations  of  morality,  and  of 
respect  for  the  gods,  especially  important  in  per 
sons  whose  rank  gave  such  additional  weight  to 
example.  He  occasionally  seasoned  his  homily 
with  a  pertinent  application  to  his  audience,  if  any 
member  of  it  had  been  guilty  of  a  notorious  delin 
quency.  From  this  wholesome  admonition  the 
monarch  himself  was  not  exempted,  and  the  orator 
boldly  reminded  him  of  his  paramount  duty  to 
show  respect  for  his  own  laws.  The  king,  so  far 
from  taking  umbrage,  received  the  lesson  with 
humility ;  and  the  audience,  we  are  assured,  were 


WILLIAM    H.    PRESCOTT. 


377 


often  melted  into  tears  by  the  eloquence  of  the 
preacher.  This  curious  scene  may  remind  one  of 
similar  usages  in  the  Asiatic  and  Egyptian  despot 
isms,  where  the  sovereign  occasionally  conde 
scended  to  stoop  from  his  pride  of  place,  and  allow 
his  memory  to  be  refreshed  with  the  conviction  of 
his  own  mortality.  It  soothed  the  feelings  of  the 
subject  to  find  himself  thus  placed,  though  but  for 
a  moment,  on  a  level  with  his  king;  while  it  cost 
little  to  the  latter,  who  was  removed  too  far  from 
his  people  to  suffer  any  thing  by  this  short-lived 
familiarity.  It  is  probable  that  such  an  act  of 
public  humiliation  would  have  found  less  favour 
with  a  prince  less  absolute. 

Nezahualcoyotl's  fondness  for  magnificence  was 
shown  in  his  numerous  villas,  which  were  embel 
lished  with  all  that  could  make  a  rural  retreat  de 
lightful.  His  favourite  residence  was  at  Tezcot- 
zinco ;  a  conical  hill  about  two  leagues  from  the 
capital.  It  was  laid  out  in  terraces,  or  hanging 
gardens,  having  a  flight  of  steps  five  hundred  and 
twenty  in  number,  many  of  them  hewn  in  the  na 
tural  porphyry.  In  the  garden  on  the  summit 
was  a  reservoir  of  water,  fed  by  an  aqueduct  that 
was  carried  over  hill  and  valley,  for  several  miles, 
on  huge  buttresses  of  masonry.  A  large  rock 
stood  in  the  midst  of  this  basin,  sculptured  with 
the  hieroglyphics  representing  the  years  of  Neza 
hualcoyotl's  reign  and  his  principal  achievements 
in  each.  On  a  lower  level  were  three  other  reser 
voirs,  in  each  of  which  stood  a  marble  statue  of  a 
woman,  emblematic  of  the  three  states  of  the  em 
pire.  Another  tank  contained  a  winged  lion,(]) 
cut  out  of  the  solid  rock,  bearing  in  his  mouth  the 
portrait  of  the  emperor.  His  likeness  had  been 
executed  in  gold,  wood,  feather-work,  and  stone, 
but  this  was  the  only  one  which  pleased  him. 

From  these  copious  basins  the  water  was  dis 
tributed  in  numerous  channels  through  the  gar 
dens,  or  was  made  to  tumble  over  the  rocks  in 
cascades,  shedding  refreshing  dews  on  the  flowers 
and  odoriferous  shrubs  below.  In  the  depths  of 
this  fragrant  wilderness,  marble  porticoes  and  pa 
vilions  were  erected,  and  baths  excavated  in  the 
solid  porphyry,  which  are  still  shown  by  the  igno 
rant  natives  as  the  "  Baths  of  Montezuma !"  The 
visiter  descended  by  steps  cut  in  the  living  stone, 
and  polished  so  bright  as  to  reflect  like  mirrors. 
Toward  the  base  of  the  hill,  in  the  midst  of  cedar 
groves,  whose  gigantic  branches  threw  a  refreshing 
coolness  over  the  verdure  in  the  sultriest  seasons 
of  the  year,  rose  the  royal  villa  with  its  light  ar 
cades  and  airy  halls,  drinking  in  the  sweet  per 
fumes  of  the  gardens.  Here  the  monarch  often 
retired  to  throw  off  the  burden  of  state,  and  refresh 
his  wearied  spirits  in  the  society  of  his  favourite 
wives,  reposing  during  the  noontide  heats  in  the 
embowering  shades  of  his  paradise,  or  mingling, 
in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  in  their  festive  sports 
and  dances.  Here  he  entertained  his  imperial 
brothers  of  Mexico  and  Tlacopan,  and  followed  the 
hardier  pleasures  of  the  chase  in  the  noble  woods 
that  stretched  for  miles  around  his  villa,  flourishing 
in  all  their  primeval  majesty.  Here,  too,  he  often 
repaired  in  the  latter  days  of  his  life,  when  age 
* 


had  tempered  ambition  and  cooled  the  ardour  of 
his  blood,  to  pursue  in  solitude  the  studies  of  phi 
losophy  and  gather  wisdom  from  meditation. 

The  extraordinary  accounts  of  the  Tezcucan 
architecture  are  confirmed,  in  the  main,  by  the 
relics  which  still  cover  the  hill  of  Tezcotzinco,  or 
are  half-buried  beneath  its  surface.  They  attract 
little  attention,  indeed,  in  the  country,  where  their 
true  history  has  long  since  passed  into  oblivion ; 
while  the  traveller,  whose  curiosity  leads  him  to 
the  spot,  speculates  on  their  probable  origin,  and, 
as  he  stumbles  over  the  huge  fragments  of  sculp 
tured  porphyry  and  granite,  refers  them  to  the  pri 
mitive  races  who  spread  their  colossal  architecture 
over  the  country  long  before  the  coming  of  the 
Acolhuans  and  the  Aztecs. 

The  Tezcucan  princes  were  used  to  entertain  a 
great  number  of  concubines.  They  had  but  one 
lawful  wife,  to  whose  issue  the  crown  descended. 
Nezahualcoyotl  remained  unmarried  to  a  late  pe 
riod.  He  was  disappointed  in  an  early  attach 
ment,  as  the  princess,  who  had  been  educated  in 
privacy  to  be  the  partner  of  his  throne,  gave  her 
hand  to  another.  The  injured  monarch  submitted 
the  affair  to  the  proper  tribunal.  The  parties, 
however,  were  proved  to  have  been  ignorant  of 
the  destination  of  the  lady ;  and  the  court,  with  an 
independence  which  reflects  equal  honour  on  the 
judges  who  could  give,  and  the  monarch  who  could 
receive  the  sentence,  acquitted  the  young  couple. 
This  story  is  sadly  contrasted  by  the  following. 

The  king  devoured  his  chagrin  in  the  solitude 
of  his  beautiful  villa  of  Tezcotzinco,  or  sought  to 
divert  it  by  travelling.  On  one  of  his  journeys  he 
was  hospitably  entertained  by  a  potent  vassal,  the 
old  lord  of  Tepechpan,  who,  to  do  his  sovereign 
more  honour,  caused  him  to  be  attended  at  the 
banquet  by  a  noble  maiden,  betrothed  to  himself, 
and  who,  after  the  fashion  of  the  country,  had  been 
educated  under  his  own  roof.  She  was  of  the 
blood  royal  of  Mexico,  and  nearly  related,  more 
over,  to  the  Tezcucan  monarch.  The  latter,  who 
had  all  the  amorous  temperament  of  the  South, 
was  captivated  by  the  grace  and  personal  chaims 
of  the  youthful  Hebe,  and  conceived  a  violent 
passion  for  her.  He  did  not  disclose  it  to  any  one, 
however,  but,  on  his  return  home,  resolved  to  gra 
tify  it,  though  at  the  expense  of  his  own  honour, 
by  sweeping  away  the  only  obstacle  which  stood 
in  his  path. 

He  accordingly  sent  an  order  to  the  chief  of 
Tepechpan  to  take  command  of  an  expedition  set 
on  foot  against  the  Tlascalans.  At  the  same  time 
he  instructed  two  Tezcucan  chiefs  to  keep  near  the 
person  of  the  old  lord,  and  bring  him  into  the  thick 
est  of  the  fight,  where  he  might  lose  his  life.  Ho 
assured  them  this  had  been  forfeited  by  a  great 
crime,  but  that,  from  regard  for  his  vassal's  past 
services,  he  was  willing  to  cover  up  his  disgrace 
by  an  honourable  death. 

The  veteran,  who  had  long  lived  in  retirement 
on  his  estates,  saw  himself,  with  astonishment, 
called  so  suddenly  and  needlessly  into  action,  for 
which  so  many  younger  men  were  better  fitted 
He  suspected  the  cause,  and,  in  the  farewell  entei 
2i2 


378 


WILLIAM    H.    PRESCOTT. 


tainment  to  his  friends,  uttered  a  presentiment  of 
his  sad  destiny.  His  predictions  were  too  soon 
verified ;  and  a  few  weeks  placed  the  hand  of  his 
virgin  bride  at  her  own  disposal. 

Nezahualcoyotl  did  not  think  it  prudent  to  break 
his  passion  publicly  to  the  princess  so  soon  after 
the  death  of  his  victim.  He  opened  a  correspond 
ence  with  her  through  a  female  relative,  and  ex 
pressed  his  deep  sympathy  for  her  loss.  At  the 
same  time,  he  tendered  the  best  consolation  in  his 
power,  by  an  offer  of  his  heart  and  hand.  Her 
former  lover  had  been  too  well  stricken  in  years 
for  the  maiden  to  remain  long  inconsolable.  She 
was  not  aware  of  the  perfidious  plot  against  his 
life ;  and,  after  a  decent  time,  she  was  ready  to 
comply  with  her  duty,  by  placing  herself  at  the 
disposal  of  her  royal  kinsman. 

It  was  arranged  by  the  king,  in  order  to  give  a 
more  natural  aspect  to  the  affair,  and  prevent  all 
suspicion  of  the  unworthy  part  he  had  acted,  that 
the  princess  should  present  herself  in  his  grounds 
at  Tezcotzinco  to  witness  some  public  ceremony 
there.  Nezahualcoyotl  was  standing  in  a  balcony 
of  the  palace  when  she  appeared,  and  inquired,  as 
if  struck  with  her  beauty  for  the  first  time,  "who 
the  lovely  young  creature  was  in  his  gardens." 
When  his  courtiers  had  acquainted  him  with  her 
name  and  rank,  he  ordered  her  to  be  conducted  to 
the  palace,  that  she  might  receive  the  attention  due 
to  her  station.  The  interview  was  soon  followed 
by  a  public  declaration  of  his  passion ;  and  the 
marriage  was  celebrated  not  long  after  with  great 
pomp,  in  the  presence  of  his  court,  and  of  his  bro 
ther  monarchs  of  Mexico  and  Tlacopan. 

This  story,  which  furnishes  so  obvious  a  counter 
part  to  that  of  David  and  Uriah,  is  told  with  great 
circumstantiality,  both  by  the  king's  son  and  grand 
son,  from  whose  narratives  Ixtlilxochitl  derived  it. 
They  stigmatize  the  action  as  the  basest  in  their 
great  ancestor's  life.  It  is  indeed  too  base  not  to 
leavr  an  indelible  stain  on  any  character,  however 
pure  in  other  respects,  and  exalted. 

TJie  king  was  strict  in  the  execution  of  his  laws, 
though  his  natural  disposition  led  him  to  temper 
justice  with  mercy.  Many  anecdotes  are  told  of 
the  benevolent  interest  he  took  in  the  concerns  of 
his  subjects,  and  of  his  anxiety  to  detect  and  reward 
merit,  even  in  the  most  humble.  It  was  common 
for  him  to  ramble  among  them  in  disguise,  like  the 
celebrated  caliph  in  the  "  Arabian  Nights,"  min 
gling  freely  in  conversation,  and  ascertaining  their 
actual  condition  with  his  own  eyes. 

On  one  such  occasion,  when  attended  only  by  a 
single  lord,  he  met  with  a  boy  who  was  gathering 
sticks  in  a  field  for  fuel.  He  inquired  of  him  "  why 
he  did  not  go  into  the  neighbouring  forest,  where 
he  would  find  a  plenty  of  them."  To  which  the 
lad  answered,  "  It  was  the  king's  wood,  and  he 
would  punish  him  with  death  if  he  trespassed 
there."  The  royal  forests  were  very  extensive  in 
Tezcuco,  and  were  guarded  by  laws  full  as  severe 
as  those  of  the  Norman  tyrants  in  England. 
"What  kind  of  man  is  your  king1?"  asked  the 
monarch,  v»  illing  to  learn  the  effect  of  these  pro 
hibitions  on  hia  own  popularity.  "  A  very  hard 


man,"  answered  the  boy,  "  who  denies  his  people 
what  God  has  given  them."  Nezahualcoyotl  urged 
him  not  to  mind  such  arbitrary  laws,  but  to  glean 
his  sticks  in  the  forest,  as  there  was  no  one  present 
who  would  betray  him.  But  the  boy  sturdily  re 
fused,  bluntly  accusing  the  disguised  king,  at  the 
same  time,  of  being  a  traitor,  and  of  wishing  to 
bring  him  into  trouble. 

Nezahualcoyotl,  on  returning  to  the  palace,  or 
dered  the  child  and  his  parents  to  be  summoned 
before  him.  They  received  the  orders  with  asto 
nishment,  but,  on  entering  the  presence,  the  boy 
at  once  recognised  the  person  with  whom  he  had 
discoursed  so  unceremoniously,  and  he  was  filled 
with  consternation.  The  good-natured  monarch, 
however,  relieved  his  apprehensions  by  thanking 
him  for  the  lesson  he  had  given  him,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  commended  his  respect  for  the  laws, 
and  praised  his  parents  for  the  manner  in  which 
they  had  trained  their  son.  He  then  dismissed  the 
parties  with  a  liberal  largess;  and  afterward  mitigated 
the  severity  of  the  forest  laws  so  as  to  allow  persons 
to  gather  any  wood  they  might  find  on  the  ground,  if 
they  did  not  meddle  with  the  standing  timber. 

Another  adventure  is  told  of  him  with  a  poor 
woodman  and  his  wife,  who  had  brought  their  little 
load  of  billets  for  sale  to  the  market-place  of  Tez 
cuco.  The  man  was  bitterly  lamenting  his  hard 
lot,  and  the  difficulty  with  which  he  earned  a 
wretched  subsistence,  while  the  master  of  the  pa 
lace  before  which  they  were  standing  lived  an  idle 
life,  without  toil,  and  with  all  the  luxuries  in  the 
world  at  his  command. 

He  was  going  on  in  his  complaints,  when  the 
good  woman  stopped  him,  by  reminding  him  he 
might  be  overheard.  He  was  so,  by  Nezahual 
coyotl  himself,  who,  standing,  screened  from  ob 
servation,  at  a  latticed  window  which  overlooked 
the  market,  was  amusing  himself,  as  he  was  wont, 
with  observing  the  common  people  chaffering  in 
the  square.  He  immediately  ordered  the  queru 
lous  couple  into  his  presence.  They  appeared 
trembling  and  conscience-struck  before  him:  The 
king  gravely  inquired  what  they  had  said.  As 
they  answered  him  truly,  he  told  them  they  should 
reflect,  that,  if  he  had  great  treasures  at  his  com 
mand,  he  had  still  greater  calls  for  them ;  that,  far 
from  leading  an  easy  life,  he  was  oppressed  with 
the  whole  burden  of  government;  and  concluded 
by  admonishing  them  "  to  be  more  cautious  in 
future,  as  walls  had  ears."  He  then  ordered  his 
officers  to  bring  a  quantity  of  cloth  and  a  generous 
supply  of  cacao,  (the  coin  of  the  country,)  and 
dismissed  them.  "  Go,"  said  he,  "  with  the  little 
you  now  have,  you  will  be  rich ;  while,  with  all 
my  riches,  I  shall  still  be  poor." 

It  was  not  his  passion  to  hoard.  He  dispensed 
his  revenues  munificently,  seeking  out  poor,  but 
meritorious  objects,  on  whom  to  bestow  them. 
He  was  particularly  mindful  of  disabled  soldiers, 
and  those  who  had  in  any  way  sustained  loss  in 
the  public  service ;  and,  in  case  of  their  death,  ex 
tended  assistance  to  their  surviving  families.  Open 
mendicity  was  a  thing  he  would  never  tolerate, 
but  chastised  it  with  exemplary  rigour. 


WILLIAM    H.   PRESCOTT. 


379 


It  would  be  incredible  that  a  man  of  the  enlarged 
mind  and  endowments  of  Nezahualcoyotl  should 
acquiesce  in  the  sordid  superstitions  of  his  coun 
trymen,  and  still  more  in  the  sanguinary  rites  bor 
rowed  by  them  from  the  Aztecs.  In  truth,  his  hu 
mane  temper  shrunk  from  these  cruel  ceremonies, 
and  he  strenuously  endeavoured  to  recall  his  people 
to  the  more  pure  and  simple  worship  of  the  ancient 
Toltecs.  A  circumstance  produced  a  temporary 
change  in  his  conduct. 

He  had  been  married  some  years  to  the  wife  he 
had  so  unrighteously  obtained,  but  was  not  blessed 
with  issue.  The  priests  represented  that  it  was 
owing  to  his  neglect  of  the  gods  of  his  country,  and 
that  his  only  remedy  was  to  propitiate  them  by 
human  sacrifice.  The  king  reluctantly  consented, 
and  the  altars  once  more  smoked  with  the  blood 
of  slaughtered  captives.  But  it  was  all  in  vain ; 
and  he  indignantly  exclaimed,  "  These  idols  of 
wood  and  stone  can  neither  hear  nor  feel ;  much 
less  could  they  make  the  heavens,  and  the  earth, 
and  man  the  lord  of  it.  These  must  be  the  work 
of  the  all-powerful,  unknown  God,  Creator  of  the 
universe,  on  whom  alone  I  must  rely  for  consola 
tion  and  support." 

He  then  withdrew  to  his  rural  palace  of  Tez- 
cotzinco,  where  he  remained  forty  days,  fasting  and 
praying  at  stated  hours,  and  offering  up  no  other 
sacrifice  than  the  sweet  incense  of  copal,  and  aro 
matic  herbs  and  gums.  At  the  expiration  of  this 
time,  he  is  said  to  have  been  comforted  by  a  vision 
assuring  him  of  the  success  of  his  petition.  At  all 
events,  such  proved  to  be  the  fact ;  and  this  was 
followed  by  the  cheering  intelligence  of  the  triumph 
of  his  arms  in  a  quarter  where  he  had  lately  expe 
rienced  some  humiliating  reverses. 

Greatly  strengthened  in  his  former  religious  con 
victions,  he  now  openly  professed  his  faith,  and 
was  more  earnest  to  wean  his  subjects  from  their 
degrading  superstitions,  and  to  substitute  nobler  and 
more  spiritual  conceptions  of  the  Deity.  He  built 
a  temple  in  the  usual  pyramidal  form,  and  on  the 
summit  a  tower  nine  stories  high,  to  represent  the 
nine  heavens ;  a  tenth  was  surmounted  by  a  roof 
painted  black,  and  profusely  gilded  with  stars  on 
the  outside,  and  incrusted  with  metals  and  precious 
stones  within.  He  dedicated  this  to  "  the  unknown 
God,  the  Cause  of  causes.'"  It  seems  probable,  from 
the  emblem  on  the  tower,  as  well  as  from  the  com 
plexion  of  his  verses,  as  we  shall  see,  that  he  min 
gled  with  his  reverence  for  the  Supreme  the  astral 
worship  which  existed  among  the  Toltecs.  Vari 
ous  musical  instruments  were  placed  on  the  top  of 
the  tower,  and  the  sound  of  them,  accompanied  by 
the  ringing  of  a  sonorous  metal  struck  by  a  mallet, 
summoned  the  worshippers  to  prayers  at  regular 
seasons.  No  image  was  allowed  in  the  edifice  as 
urisuited  to  the  "  invisible  God ;"  and  the  people 
were  expressly  prohibited  from  profaning  the  altars 
with  blood,  or  any  other  sacrifices  than  that  of  the 
perfume  of  flowers  and  sweet-scented  gums. 

The  remainder  of  his  days  was  chiefly  spent  in 
his  delicious  solitudes  of  Tezcotzinco,  where  he 
devoted  himself  to  astronomical  and,  probably, 
astrological  studies,  and  to  meditation  on  his  im 


mortal  destiny, — giving  utterance  to  his  feelings 
in  songs,  or  rather  hymns,  of  much  solemnity  and 
pathos.  An  extract  from  one  of  these  will  convey 
some  idea  of  his  religious  speculations.  The  pen 
sive  tenderness  of  the  verses  quoted  in  a  preceding 
page  is  deepened  here  into  a  mournful,  and  even 
gloomy  colouring ;  while  the  wounded  spirit,  in 
stead  of  seeking  relief  in  the  convivial  sallies  of  a 
young  and  buoyant  temperament,  turns  for  conso 
lation  to  the  world  beyond  the  grave. 

"  All  things  on  earth  have  their  term,  and,  in  the 
most  joyous  career  of  their  vanity  and  splendour, 
their  strength  fails,  and  they  sink  into  the  dust. 
All  the  round  world  is  but  a  sepulchre ;  and  there 
is  nothing,  which  lives  on  its  surface,  that  shall 
not  be  hidden  and  entombed  beneath  it.  Rivers, 
torrents,  and  streams  move  onward  to  their  desti 
nation.  Not  one  flows  back  to  its  pleasant  source. 
They  rush  onward,  hastening  to  bury  themselves 
in  the  deep  bosom  of  the  ocean.  The  things  of 
yesterday  are  no  more  to-day ;  and  the  things  of 
to-day  shall  cease,  perhaps,  on  the  morrow.  The 
cemetery  is  full  of  the  loathsome  dust  of  bodies 
once  quickened  by  living  souls,  who  occupied 
thrones,  presided  over  assemblies,  marshalled  ar 
mies,  subdued  provinces,  arrogated  to  themselves 
worship,  were  puffed  up  with  vain-glorious  pomp, 
and  power,  and  empire. 

"  But  these  glories  have  all  passed  away,  like  the 
fearful  smoke  that  issues  from  the  throat  of  Popo 
catepetl,  with  no  other  memorial  of  their  existence 
than  the  record  on  the  page  of  the  chronicler. 

"  The  great,  the  wise,  the  valiant,  the  beautiful, 
— alas  !  where  are  they  now  ]  They  are  all  min 
gled  with  the  clod ;  and  that  which  has  befallen 
them  shall  happen  to  us,  and  to  those  that  come 
after  us.  Yet  let  us  take  courage,  illustrious  no 
bles  and  chieftains,  true  friends  and  loyal  subjects, 
— let  us  aspire  to  that  heaven,  where  all  is  eternal, 
and  corruption  cannot  come.  The  horrors  of  the 
tomb  are  but  the  cradle  of  the  Sun,  and  the  dark 
shadows  of  death  are  brilliant  lights  for  the  stars." 
The  mystic  import  of  the  last  sentence  seems  to 
point  to  that  superstition  respecting  the  mansions 
of  the  Sun,  which  forms  so  beautiful  a  contrast  to 
the  dark  features  of  the  Aztec  mythology. 

At  length,  about  the  year  1470,  Nezahualcoyotl, 
full  of  years  and  honours,  felt  himself  drawing  neai 
his  end.  Almost  half  a  century  had  elapsed  since 
he  mounted  the  throne  of  Tezcuco.  He  had  found 
his  kingdom  dismembered  by  faction,  and  bowed 
to  the  dust  beneath  the  yoke  of  a  foreign  tyrant 
He  had  broken  that  yoke ;  had  breathed  new  life 
into  the  nation,  renewed  its  ancient  institutions, 
extended  wide  its  domain ;  had  seen  it  flourishing 
in  all  the  activity  of  trade  and  agriculture,  gather 
ing  strength  from  its  enlarged  resources,  and  daily 
advancing  higher  and  higher  in  the  great  march 
of  civilization.  All  this  he  had  seen,  and  might 
fairly  attribute  no  small  portion  of  it  to  his  own 
wise  and  beneficent  rule.  His  long  and  glorious 
day  was  now  drawing  to  its  close ;  and  he  con 
templated  the  event  with  the  same  serenity  which 
he  had  shown  under  the  clouds  of  its  morning  and 
in  its  meridian  splendour. 


WILLIAM   H.    PRESCOTT. 


A  short  time  before  his  death,  he  gathered  around 
him  those  of  his  children  in  whom  he  most  con 
fided,  his  chief  counsellors,  the  ambassadors  of 
Mexico  and  Tlacopan,  and  his  little  son,  the  heir 
to  the  crown,  his  only  offspring  by  the  queen. 
He  was  then  not  eight  years  old ;  but  had  already 
given,  as  far  as  so  tender  a  blossom  might,  the  rich 
promise  of  future  excellence. 

After  tenderly  embracing  the  child,  the  dying 
monarch  threw  over  him  the  robes  of  sovereignty. 
He  then  gave  audience  to  the  ambassadors,  and, 
when  they  had  retired,  made  the  boy  repeat  the 
substance  of  the  conversation.  He  followed  this 
by  such  counsels  as  were  suited  to  his  comprehen 
sion,  and  which,  when  remembered  through  the 
long  vista  of  after  years,  would  serve  as  lights  to 
guide  him  in  his  government  of  the  kingdom.  He 
besought  him  not  to  neglect  the  worship  of  "  the 
unknown  God,"  regretting  that  he  himself  had  been 
unworthy  to  know  him,  and  intimating  his  convic 
tion  that  the  time  would  come  when  he  should  be 
known  and  worshipped  throughout  the  land. 

He  next  addressed  himself  to  that  one  of  his  sons 
in  whom  he  placed  the  greatest  trust,  and  whom  he 
had  selected  as  the  guardian  of  the  realm.  "  From 
this  hour,"  said  he  to  him,  "  you  will  fill  the  place 
that  I  have  filled,  of  father  to  this  child ;  you  will 
teach  him  to  live  as  he  ought ;  and  by  your  coun 
sels  he  will  rule  over  the  empire.  Stand  in  his 
place,  and  be  his  guide  till  he  shall  be  of  age  to 
govern  for  himself."  Then,  turning  to  his  other 
children,  he  admonished  them  to  live  united  with 
another,  and  to  show  all  loyalty  to  their  prince, 
who,  though  a  child,  already  manifested  a  discre 
tion  far  above  his  years.  "  Be  true  to  him,"  he 
added,  "  and  he  will  maintain  you  in  your  rights 
and  dignities." 

Feeling  his  end  approaching,  he  exclaimed, "  Do 
not  bewail  me  with  idle  lamentations.  But  sing 
the  song  of  gladness  and  show  a  courageous  spirit, 
that  the  nations  I  have  subdued  may  not  believe 
you  disheartened,  but  may  feel  that  each  one  of 
you  is  strong  enough  to  keep  them  in  obedience !" 
The  undaunted  spirit  of  the  monarch  shone  forth 
even  in  the  agonies  of  death.  That  stout  heart, 
however,  melted  as  he  took  leave  of  his  children 
and  friends,  weeping  tenderly  over  them,  while  he 
bade  each  a  last  adieu.  When  they  had  with 
drawn,  he  ordered  the  officers  of  the  palace  to  allow 
no  one  to  enter  it  again.  Soon  after,  he  expired,  in 
the  seventy-second  year  of  his  age,  and  the  forty- 
third  of  his  reign. 

Thus  died  the  greatest  monarch,  and,  if  one  foul 
blot  could  be  effaced,  perhaps  the  best,  who  ever  sat 
upon  an  Indian  throne.  His  character  is  deline 
ated  with  tolerable  impartiality  by  his  kinsman,  the 
Tezcucan  chronicler.  «  He  was  wise,  valiant,  libe 
ral;  and,  when  we  consider  the  magnanimity  of  his 
soul,  the  grandeur  and  success  of  his  enterprises, 
his  deep  policy,  as  well  as  daring,  we  must  admit 
him  to  have  surpassed  every  other  prince  and  cap 
tain  of  this  New  World.  He  had  few  failings 
himself,  and  rigorously  punished  those  of  others. 
He  preferred  the  public  to  his  private  interest ;  was 
most  charitable  in  his  nature,  often  buying  articles, 


at  double  their  worth,  of  poor  and  honest  persons, 
and  giving  them  away  again  to  the  sick  and  infirm. 
In  seasons  of  scarcity  he  was  particularly  bountiful, 
remitting  the  taxes  of  his  vassals,  and  supplying 
their  wants  from  the  royal  granaries.  He  put  no 
faith  in  the  idolatrous  worship  of  the  country.  He 
was  well  instructed  in  moral  science,  and  sought, 
above  all  things,  to  obtain  light  for  knowing  the 
true  God.  He  believed  in  one  God  only,  the.  Cre 
ator  of  heaven  and  earth,  by  whom  we  have  our 
being,  who  never  revealed  himself  to  us  in  human 
form,  nor  in  any  other ;  with  whom  the  souls  of  the 
virtuous  are  to  dwell  after  death,  while  the  wicked 
will  suffer  pains  unspeakable.  He  invoked  the 
Most  High,  as  '  He  by  whom  we  live,'  and  <•  Who 
has  all  things  in  himself.'  He  recognised  the  Sun 
for  his  father,  and  the  Earth  for  his  mother.  He 
taught  his  children  not  to  confide  in  idols,  and  only 
to  conform  to  the  outward  worship  of  them  from 
deference  to  public  opinion.  If  he  could  not  en 
tirely  abolish  human  sacrifices,  derived  from  the 
Aztecs,  he,  at  least,  restricted  them  to  slaves  and 
captives." 


FIRST   SIGHT   OF   THE   VALLEY    OF 
MEXICO  BY  THE  SPANIARDS. 

FROM   THE  SAME. 

THE  troops,  refreshed  by  a  night's  rest,  succeeded, 
early  on  the  following  day,  in  gaining  the  crest  of 
the  sierra  of  Ahualco,  which  stretches  like  a  curtain 
between  the  two  great  mountains  on  the  north  and 
south.  Their  progress  was  now  comparatively  easy, 
and  they  marched  forward  with  a  bijpyant  step  as 
they  felt  they  were  treading  the  soil  of  Montezuma. 

They  had  not  advanced  far,  when,  turning  an 
angle  of  the  sierra,  they  suddenly  came  on  a  view 
which  more  than  compensated  the  toils  of  the  pre 
ceding  day.  It  was  that  of  the  Valley  of  Mexico, 
or  Tenochtitlan,  as  more  commonly  called  by  the 
natives ;  which,  with  its  picturesque  assemblage  of 
water,  woodland,  and  cultivated  plains,  its  shining 
cities  and  shadowy  hills,  was  spread  out  like  some 
gay  and  gorgeous  panorama  before  them.  In  the 
highly  rarefied  atmosphere  of  these  upper  regions, 
even  remote  objects  have  a  brilliancy  of  colouring 
and  a  distinctness  of  outline  which  seem  to  anni 
hilate  distance.  Stretching  far  away  at  their  feet 
were  seen  noble  forests  of  oak,  sycamore,  and  cedar, 
and  beyond,  yellow  fields  of  maize  and  the  tower 
ing  maguey,  intermingled  with  orchards  and  bloom 
ing  gardens ;  for  flowers,  in  such  demand  for  their 
religious  festivals,  were  even  more  abundant  in  this 
populous  valley  than  in  other  parts  of  Anahuac. 
In  the  centre  of  the  great  basin  were  beheld  the 
lakes,  occupying  then  a  much  larger  portion  of  its 
surface  than  at  present;  their  borders  thickly  stud 
ded  with  towns  and  hamlets,  and,  in  the  midst, — 
like  some  Indian  empress  with  her  coronal  of  pearls, 
— the  fair  city  of  Mexico,  with  her  white  towers 
and  pyramidal  temples,  reposing,  as  it  were,  on  the 
bosom  of  the  waters, — the  far-famed  "  Venice  of  the 
Aztecs."  High  over  all  rose  the  royal  hill  of  Cha- 
poltepec,  the  residence  of  the  Mexican  monarchs, 


WILLIAM    H.    PRESCOTT. 


381 


crowned  with  the  same  grove  of  gigantic  cypresses, 
which  at  this  day  fling  their  broad  shadows  over 
the  land.  In  the  distance  beyond  the  blue  waters 
of  the  lake,  and  nearly  screened  by  intervening 
foliage,  was  seen  a  shining  speck,  the  rival  capital 
of  Tezcuco,  and,  still  further  on,  the  dark  belt  of 
porphyry,  girdling  the  Valley  around  like  a  rich 
setting  which  Nature  had  devised  for  the  fairest  of 
her  jewels. 

Such  was  the  beautiful  vision  which  broke  on 
the  eyes  of  the  Conquerors.  And  even  now,  when 
so  sad  a  change  has  come  over  the  scene ;  when 
the  stately  forests  have  been  laid  low,  and  the  soil, 
•  unsheltered  from  the  fierce  radiance  of  a  tropical 
sun,  is  in  many  places  abandoned  to  sterility ;  when 
the  waters  have  retired,  leaving  a  broad  and  ghastly 
margin  white  with  the  incrustation  of  salts,  while 
the  cities  and  hamlets  on  their  borders  have  mould 
ered  into  ruins ; — even  now  that  desolation  broods 
over  the  landscape,  so  indestructible  are  the  lines 
of  beauty  which  Nature  has  traced  on  its  features, 
that  no  traveller,  however  cold,  can  gaze  on  them 
with  any  other  emotions  than  those  of  astonish 
ment  and  rapture. 

What,  then,  must  have  been  the  emotions  of  the 
Spaniards,  when,  after  working  their  toilsome  way 
into  the  upper  air,  the  cloudy  tabernacle  parted 
before  their  eyes,  and  they  beheld  these  fair  scenes 
in  all  their  pristine  magnificence  and  beauty  !  It 
was  like  the  spectacle  which  greeted  the  eyes  of 
Moses  from  the  summit  of  Pisgah,  and,  in  the 
warm  glow  of  their  feelings,  they  cried  out,  "  It  is 
the  promised  land!" 

THE  PROFESSION  OF  LITERATURE. 

FROM  A   PAPER  ON   SCOTT. 

IT  is  not  very  easy  to  see  on  what  this  low  esti 
mate  of  literature  rested.  As  a  profession,  it  has 
too  little  in  common  with  more  active  ones  to  afford 
much  ground  for  running  a  parallel.  The  soldier 
has  to  do  with  externals ;  and  his  contests  and  tri 
umphs  are  over  matter  in  its  various  forms,  whether 
of  man  or  material  nature.  The  poet  deals  with  the 
bodiless  forms  of  air,  of  fancy  lighter  than  air.  His 
business  is  contemplative,  the  other's  is  active,  and 
depends  for  its  success  on  strong  moral  energy  and 
presence  of  mind.  He  must,  indeed,  have  genius  of 
the  highest  order  to  effect  his  own  combinations,  an 
ticipate  the  movements  of  his  enemy,  and  dart  with 
eagle  eye  on  his  vulnerable  point.  But  who  shall 
say  that  this  practical  genius,  if  we  may  so  term  it, 
is  to  rank  higher  in  the  scale  than  the  creative  power 
of  the  poet,  the  spark  from  the  mind  of  divinity  itself? 

The  orator  might  seem  to  afford  better  ground 
for  comparison,  since,  though  his  theatre  of  action 
is  abroad,  he  may  be  said  to  work  with  much  the 
same  tools  as  the  writer.  Yet  how  much  of  his  suc 
cess  depends  on  qualities  other  than  intellectual ! 
"  Action,"  said  the  father  of  eloquence,  "  action, 
action  are  the  three  most  essential  things  to  an  ora 
tor."  How  much  depends  on  the  look,  the  gesture, 
the  magical  tones  of  voice,  modulated  to  the  pas 
sions  he  has  stirred ;  and  how  much  on  the  conta 
gious  sympathies  of  the  audience  itself  which  drown 


every  thing  like  criticism  in  the  overwhelming  tide 
of  emotion !  If  any  one  would  know  how  much, 
let  him,  after  patiently  standing 

"till  his  feet  throb. 

And  his  head  thumps,  to  feed  upon  the  breath 
Of  patriots  bursting  with  heroic  rage," 

read  the  same  speech  in  the  columns  of  a  morning 
newspaper,  or  in  the  well-concocted  report  of  the 
orator  himself.  The  productions  of  the  writer  are 
subjected  to  a  fiercer  ordeal.  He  has  no  excited 
sympathies  of  numbers  to  hurry  his  readers  along 
over  his  blunders.  He  is  scanned  in  the  calm  silence 
of  the  closet.  Every  flower  of  fancy  seems  here  to 
wither  under  the  rude  breath  of  criticism ;  every  link 
in  the  chain  of  argument  is  subjected  to  the  touch  of 
prying  scrutiny,  and  if  there  be  the  least  flaw  in  it,  it 
is  sure  to  be  detected.  There  is  no  tribunal  so  stern 
as  the  secret  tribunal  of  a  man's  own  closet,  far  re 
moved  from  all  the  sympathetic  impulses  of  human 
ity.  Surely  there  is  no  form  in  which  intellect  can  be 
exhibited  to  the  world  so  completely  stripped  of  all 
adventitious  aids  as  thf  form  of  written  composition. 
But,  says  the  practical  man,  let  us  estimate  things  by 
their  utility.  "  You  talk  of  the  poems  of  Homer,"  said 
a  mathematician, "  but,  after  all,what  do  they  prove  ?" 
A  question  which  involves  an  answer  somewhat  too 
voluminous  for  the  tail  of  an  article.  But  if  the  poems 
of  Homer  were,  as  Heeren  asserts,  the  principal  bond 
which  held  the  Grecian  states  together,  and  gave 
them  a  national  feeling,  they  "prove"  more  than  all 
the  arithmeticians  of  Greece — and  there  were  many 
cunning  ones  in  it — ever  proved.  The  results  of 
military  skill  are  indeed  obvious.  The  soldier,  by 
a  single  victory,  enlarges  the  limits  of  an  empire ; 
he  may  do  more — he  may  achieve  the  liberties  of  a 
nation,  or  roll  back  the  tide  of  barbarism  ready  to 
overwhelm  them.  Wellington  was  placed  m  such 
a  position  and  nobly  did  he  do  his  work ;  or,  rather, 
he  was  placed  at  the  head  of  such  a  gigantic  moral 
and  physical  apparatus  as  enabled  him  to  do  it. 
With  his  own  unassisted  strength,  of  course,  he 
could  have  done  nothing.  But  it  is  on  his  own  soli 
tary  resources  that  the  great  writer  is  to  rely.  And 
yet,  who  shall  say  that  the  triumphs  of  Wellington 
have  been  greater  than  those  of  Scott,  whose  works 
are  familiar  as  household  words  to  every  fireside  in 
his  own  land,  from  the  castle  to  the  cottage ;  have 
crossed  oceans  and  deserts,  and,  with  healing  on 
their  wings,  found  their  way  to  the  remotest  regions ; 
have  helped  to  form  the  character,  until  his  own 
mind  may  be  said  to  be  incorporated  into  those  of 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  his  fellow-men  1  Who 
is  there  that  has  not,  at  some  time  or  other,  felt  the 
heaviness  of  his  heart  lightened,  his  pains  mitigated, 
and  his  bright  moments  of  life  made  still  brighter  by 
the  magical  touches  of  his  genius  ?  And  shall  we 
speak  of  his  victories  as  less  real,  less  serviceable  to 
humanity,  less  truly  glorious  than  those  of  the  great 
est  captain  of  his  day  1  The  triumphs  of  the  war 
rior  are  bounded  by  the  narrow  theatre  of  his  own 
age ;  but  those  of  a  Scott  or  a  Shakspeare  will  be 
renewed  with  greater  and  greater  lustre  in  ages 
yet  unborn,  when  the  victorious  chieftain  shall  be 
forgotten,  or  shall  live  only  in  the  song  of  the 
minstrel  and  the  page  of  the  chronicler. 


EDWARD  ROBINSON. 


[Born  1794.    Died  1863.] 


THIS  eminent  scholar,  who  is  descended 
from  the  famous  John  Robinson  of  Ley  den, 
is  a  native  of  Connecticut,  and  was  educated 
at  Hamilton  College,  in  New  York,  where 
he  graduated  in  1816. 

The  names  of  Edward  Robinson  and  Moses 
Stuart  stand  at  the  head  of  the  catalogue  of 
learned  men  who  have  cultivated  biblical  lite 
rature  in  America.  We  are  indebted  mainly 
for  our  advancement  in  this  great  field  of  learn 
ing  to  the  theological  seminaries  of  Andover 
and  Princeton.  From  both  these  institutions 
works  have  issued  within  a  few  years  which 
have  attained  the  highest  reputation,  not  only 
in  our  own  country  but  in  Europe  :  which  em 
brace  more  that  is  valuable  and  profound  than 
in  the  same  period  has  been  produced  else 
where  in  the  world.  It  is  in  this  department 
that  our  authors  command  the  greatest  respect 
and  admiration :  an  auspicious  fact,  for  a  nation 
whose  scholars  begin  with  this  strong  sympa 
thy  with  the  highest  truth,  and  bring  so  suc 
cessfully  the  strength  of  their  intellects  to  its 
cultivation,  if  this  impulse  be  maintained,  will 
excel  in  every  other  field  of  investigation  and 
reflection. 

In  antiquities,  in  criticism,  in  exegesis,  in 
philology,  in  commentaries,  and  general  bibli 
cal  learning,  much  more  has  been  done  than 
can  here  be  stated  even  in  the  most  general 
manner.  -"It  delights  me,"  said  Professor 
Lee  of  the  English  University  of  Cambridge, 
so  long  ago  as  1831,  "and  all  my  Cambridge 
and  other  friends,  to  find  that  our  American 
neighbours  are  really  outstripping  us  in  the 
cause  of  biblical  literature."  This  was  said 
»n  reference  particularly  to  the  Biblical  Repo 
sitory,  (commenced  by  Dr.  Robinson  in  that 
ear,  and  edited  by  him  until  1838,)  and  to 
the  labours  of  Professor  Stuart.  The  Biblical 
Repository  was  indeed  a  most  important  pub 
lication,  and  it  stands  among  the  earliest  and 
richest  contributions  made  in  this  country  to 
the  treasures  of  sacred  scholarship.  The  cele 
brated  Professor  Tholuck,  of  Halle,  said  to 
Dr.  Robinson,  "  Should  you  succeed  in  mak 
ing  the  contents  of  your  Repository  hereafter 

382 


as  rich  and  valuable  as  they  have  been  hitherto, 
it  will  become  a  classical  book  for  the  study 
of  theology  in  America,  and  will  be  the  com 
mencement  of  a  new  era."  It  was  held  in 
the  highest  estimation  abroad,  and  with  other 
American  works  of  a  similar  character  was 
particularly  valued  for  the  successful  combi 
nation  which  it  presented  of  the  spirit  of  piety 
with  profound  investigation  and  sound  judg 
ment.  It  introduced  to  our  students  the  best 
results  of  theological  erudition  in  Germany, 
and  had  a  most  important  effect  in  continuing 
the  impulse  in  sacred  learning  given  by  the 
earlier  works  of  the  editor  and  his  principal 
colaborateur.  These  were,  Stuart's  Hebrew 
Grammar,  first  published  in  1823  ;  Stuart's 
and  Robinson's  Greek  Grammar  of  the  New 
Testament,  in  1825  ;  Robinson's  Greek  and 
English  Lexicon,  from  the  C  la  vis  Philologica 
of  Wahl,  in  1826;  Stuart's  Hebrew  Chresto- 
mathy,  in  1829 ;  and  Stuart's  Course  of  He 
brew  Study,  in  1830. 

Professor  Stuart's  Commentary  on  the  Epis 
tle  to  the  Hebrews  had  appeared  in  1827,  and 
had  been  received  everywhere  as  an  accession 
to  the  body  of  permanent  theological  litera 
ture.  It  was  spoken  of  in  England  as  "  the 
most  valuable  philological  aid"  that  had  been 
published  •'  for  the  critical  study  of  that  im 
portant  and  in  many  respects  difficult  book  ;" 
and  Dr.  Pye  Smith,  one  of  the  first  biblical, 
theological,  and  classical  scholars  in  Great 
Britain,  stated,  that  he  felt  it  to  be  his  duty 
to  describe  it  as  "  the  most  important  present 
to  the  cause  of  sound  biblical  interpretation 
that  had  ever  been  made  in  the  English  lan 
guage."  In  Germany  also  it  secured  for  Pro 
fessor  Stuart  the  highest  consideration ;  and 
it  continues  in  all  countries  to  be  regarded  as 
one  of  the  noblest  examples  of  philological 
theology  and  exegetical  criticism. 

In  1832  Professor  Stuart  gave  to  the  world 
another  great  work  of  a  similar  character:  his 
Commentary  on  the  Epistle  to  the  Romans. 
It  was  distinguished  for  a  profoundness  of 
research,  for  an  intensity  and  minuteness  of 
philological  labour,  and  a  singleness  of  pur- 


EDWARD    ROBINSON. 


383 


pose  to  arrive  at  the  meaning  of  the  apostle, 
without  regard  to  any  preconceived  or  parti 
san  opinions,  which  obtained  for  it  a  regard 
as  an  authority  equal  to  that  awarded  to  its 
predecessor.  In  1845  he  published  a  Com 
mentary  on  the  Apocalypse:  a  profoundly 
learned  and  critical  work,  in  which  the  inter 
pretation  of  this  difficult  book  varies  much 
from  that  which  has  been  most  generally  re 
ceived.  In  the  same  year  he  also  gave  to  the 
church  a  Critical  History  and  Defence  of  the 
Old  Testament  Canon. 

Dr.  Robinson's  translation  of  the  improved 
edition  of  the  Hebrew  Lexicon  by  Gesenius 
appeared  in  1836,  and  again  in  1843.  For  this 
work  he  had  prepared  himself  by  a  residence  of 
several  years  in  Germany,  where  he  had  gone 
through  a  wide  range  of  study  in  the  Shemitish 
languages ;  and  the  general  and  hearty  applause 
of  the  best  scholars  was  evidence  of  his  success. 
He  soon  after  brought  out  a  new  edition  of 
his  Greek  and  English  Lexicon  of  the  New 
Testament,  with  all  the  improvements  which 
years  of  additional  labor  had  enabled  him  to 
give  to  it;  and  in  1845  his  Harmony  of  the 
Four  Gospels,  in  Greek,  newly  arranged,  and 
with  notes. 

But  the  great  work  of  Dr.  Robinson,  and  his 
most  valuable  addition  to  our  literature,  is  his 
Researches  in  Palestine,  published  in  Boston, 
in  1841.  This  was  the  fruit  of  many  years  of 
study  and  investigation,  at  home  and  in  Europe, 
preparatory  to  and  consequent  upon  his  jour- 
neyings  and  examinations  in  the  Holy  Land. 
His  plans  were  partially  formed  in  1832,  while 
the  Reverend  Eli  Smith,  an  American  mis 
sionary  stationed  at  Beirut,  was  on  a  visit  to 
the  United  States;  but  he  did  not  set  out  up 
on  his  travels  until  the  middle  of  July,  1837. 
The  summer  was  passed  in  England  and  on 
the  continent ;  in  November  he  met  Gesenius, 
Tholuck,  Roediger,  and  other  orientalists,  in 
Germany ;  and  passing  through  Italy,  he  em 
barked  at  Trieste  for  Alexandria.  The  first 
two  months  of  the  following  year  were  spent 
in  Egypt,  where  he  was  joined  by  Mr.  Smith, 
and  in  March  they  set  off  for  Jerusalem.  The 
topographical  investigations  were  completed 
in  December,  and  Dr.  Robinson  resided  in 
Berlin  the  two  following  years,  where  he 
had  access  to  the  best  public  and  private 
libraries  relating  to  the  east,  occupied  in  pre 
paring  his  manuscripts  for  the  press.  The 
Biblical  Researches  were  received  by  scholars 


of  all  countries  with  demonstrations  of  the 
highest  approbation.  The  work  was  recog 
nised  as  one  of  the  most  learned  and  judicious 
produced  in  the  world  in  this  century.  For 
patient,  systematic,  and  sagacious  investiga 
tion,  it  was  ranked  with  Niebuhr's  History. 
The  great  German  geographer,  Professor  Rit- 
ter,  who  has  himself  written  one  of  the  best 
books  on  Palestine,  says,  <•  It  lays  open  un 
questionably  one  of  the  richest  discoveries,  one 
of  the  most  important  scientific  conquests  that 
has  been  made  in  the  field  of  geography  and 
biblical  archaeology What  noble  confirma 
tion  the  truth  of  the  Holy  Scriptures  receives 
from  so  many  passages  of  these  investigations, 
in  a  manner  altogether  unexpected,  and  often 
surprising,  even  in  particulars  seemingly  the 
most  trivial  and  unimportant  !....Now  first  be 
gins,  since  the  days  of  Reland,  the  second  great 
era  of  our  knowledge  of  the  Promised  Land." 

The  latest  productions  of  Dr.  Robinson  that 
have  been  given  to  the  public  are  embraced 
in  his  periodical,  entitled  Bibliotheca  Sacra, 
established  in  1843,  and  of  which  a  volume 
has  since  appeared  for  every  year. 

Our  contributions  to  biblical  literature,  with 
few  exceptions,  have  been  made  by  persons 
connected  with  the  colleges  and  theological 
seminaries.  Professor  Hodge,  of  Princeton, 
has  distinguished  himself  by  his  Commentary 
on  the  Epistle  to  the  Romans;  Dr.  Alexander, 
of  the  same  institution,  by  his  Commentary 
on  Isaiah ;  and  Professor  Norton  of  the  Di 
vinity  School  at  Cambridge,  and  Professor 
Bush  of  the  University  of  New  York,  as  has 
been  stated  in  another  part  of  this  volume, 
have  laboured  diligently  and  successfully  in 
tie  same  department.  The  most  remarkable 
exception  to  the  rule  is  presented  by  the  Rev 
erend  Albert  Barnes,  of  Philadelphia,  whose 
practical  Notes  on  the  New  Testament  have 
had  a  very  large  sale  in  this  country  aud 
Great  Britian,  and  who  has  published  a  similar 
work  on  Job,  and  a  more  extended  Commentary 
on  Isaiah,  Daniel  and  the  Psalms. 

In  the  fields  of  literature  and  learning  con 
nected  with  religion,  we  have  from  the  begin 
ning  had  representatives  whose  proper  static) 
was  with  the  most  celebrated  of  older  nations 
Those  who  are  mentioned  in  this  volume  ar 
but  types  of  classes,  to  whom  more  promi 
nence  would  be  given  but  that  the  range  of 
these  notices  is  in  some  degree   limited  io 
works  of  taste. 


ELIZA  LESLIE. 


[Born  1787.    Died  1858.] 


Miss  LESLIE  is  a  native  of  Philadelphia. 
Her  great-grandfather  emigrated  from  Scot 
land,  about  the  year  1745,  and  settled  in  Cecil 
county,  Maryland.  Her  father  was  engaged  in 
business  in  Philadelphia,  and  being  a  very  in 
genious  man,  fond  of  mathematics  and  natural 
philosophy,  became  familiarly  acquainted  with 
Franklin,  Rittenhouse,  Jefferson,  and  others 
of  kindred  tastes  who  at  that  time  resided  here. 
He  was  among  the  first  to  perceive  the  merit 
of  the  great  invention  of  John  Fitch,  and  was 
a  steadfast  and  liberal  friend  of  that  eccentric 
and  unfortunate  man.  Miss  Leslie  was  the 
eldest  of  his  children,  and  while  she  was  quite 
young,  leaving  his  affairs  in  charge  of  a  part 
ner,  he  went  to  reside  in  London,  where  he  re 
mained  seven  years.  Two  of  his  children 
were  born  here,  one  of  whom  was  Charles 
Robert  Leslie,*  now  one  of  the  most  eminent 
of  living  painters.  He  made  choice  of  his 
profession  at  an  early  age,  and  in  1813  went 
abroad  to  study  in  the  British  and  continental 
academies.  He  has  since  resided  in  England, 
except  during  the  short  period  in  which  he 
was  connected  with  the  United  States  Military 
Academy,  though  he  has  always  considered 
himself  an  American  citizen.  The  family  re 
turned  to  Philadelphia  in  1800,  and  Mr.  Leslie 
the  father  died  in  1804. 

The  education  of  women  was  managed  much 
better  than  now  in  that  period  which  our  fathers 
are  wont  to  describe  as  the  golden  age  of  Ame 
rica.  Among  the  institutions  that  flourished 
here  then  were  cooking-schools,  in  which  the 
most  important  of  sciences  was  taught  in  a 
manner  that  contributed  largely  to  the  comfort 
of  the  people.  Miss  Leslie  was  graduated  in 
the  famous  one  kept  in  Philadelphia  for  thirty 
years  by  Mrs.  Goodfellow ;  and  her  first  pub 
lication,  a  book  for  housekeepers,  entitled  Se 
venty-five  Receipts,  as  well  as  her  more  recent 

*  C.  R.  Leslie,  R.  A.,  was  born  in  October,  1794.  His 
most  celebrated  productions  are  May  Day  in  the  Reign 
of  Elizabeth,  Slender  Courting  Anne  Page,  Lady  Jane 
Gray  prevailed  on  to  accept  the  Crown,  Sancho  relating 
his  Adventures  to  the  Duchess,  Falstaff  Dining  at  the 
House  of  Page,  and  the  Coronation  of  Victoria.  All  the 
Leslie  family  are  distinguished  for  their  skill  in  drawing. 
384 


and  elaborate  performances  of  the  same  kind, 
was  scarcely  less  popular  than  Monsieur  Ude's 
or  Dr.  Kitchener's. 

The  Seventy-five  Receipts  were  followed 
by  a  series  of  volumes  for  juvenile  readers,  en 
titled  The  Mirror,  The  Young  Americans, 
Atlantic  Tales,  Stories  for  Emma,  Stories  for 
Adelaide,  and  The  American  Girl's  Book,  all 
of  which  were  found  very  profitable  to  the 
publishers  and  delightful  to  the  new  genera 
tion  :  they  are  scarcely  inferior  to  any  thing  01 
their  kind  that  has  yet  appeared. 

The  work  by  which  Miss  Leslie  first  be 
came  known  in  the  literary  world  was  Pencil 
Sketches,  or  Outlines  of  Character  and  Man 
ners,  published  in  1833.  This  volume  con 
tained  Mrs.  Washington  Potts,  and  about  a 
dozen  other  pieces  of  similar  character  and 
merit.  In  1835  she  gave  the  public  a  second, 
and  in  1837  a  third  series;  and  in  1841  the 
longest  of  her  stories,  under  the  title  of  Althea 
Vernon.  Since  then  she  has  written  enough 
tales  and  sketches  for  the  magazines  and  an 
nuals  to  fill  four  or  five  additional  volumes. 

Miss  Leslie  has  much  individuality,  and  in 
all  her  writings  has  exhibited  decided  talent. 
Her  style  is  natural  and  spirited,  her  fable 
sufficiently  simple  and  probable,  her  charac 
ters  boldly  and  clearly  and  perhaps  in  all  cases 
accurately  drawn,  and  her  description,  narra 
tive,  and  dialogue,  uniformly  well  managed. 
Her  sketches  are  more  or  less  entertaining, 
according  to  the  constitution  of  the  reader's 
mind ;  but  many  of  them  are  satirical ;  the 
subjects  are  such  as  we  have  no  delight  in 
remembering,  and  they  are  executed  with  a  mi 
nuteness  and  distinctness  that  are  sometimes 
truly  painful.  It  must  be  confessed  however 
that  she  is  discriminating,  that  she  is  the 

t  satirist  of  the  vulgar  only,  and  presents  in 
happy  contrasts  to  their  pretension,  the  intel 
ligence  and  refinement  of  good  society. 
— She  also  published  Amelia  ;  The  Dennings ; 

i  American  Girl's  Book  ;  Russel  and  Sidney  ;  and 
The  Behavior  Book;  several  Cook  Books  ;  and 
partially  wrote  a  Life  of  John  Fitch.  She  died 
January  2,  1858. 


ELIZA    LESLIE. 


385 


THAT  GENTLEMAN. 

FROM   PENCIL  SKETCHES. 

Ox  the  third  day,  we  were  enabled  to  lay  our 
course  with  a  fair  wind  and  a  clear  sky :  the  coast 
of  Cornwall  looking  like  a  succession  of  low  white 
clouds  ranged  along  the  edge  of  the  northern  hori 
zon.  Towards  evening  we  passed  the  Lizard,  to 
see  land  no  more  till  we  should  descry  it  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Atlantic.  As  Mr.  Fenton  and  my 
self  leaned  over  the  taffrail,  and  saw  the  last  point 
of  England  fade  dimly  from  our  view,  we  thought 
with  regret  of  the  shore  we  were  leaving  behind  us, 
and  of  much  that  we  had  seen,  and  known,  and  en 
joyed  in  that  country  of  which  all  that  remained  to 
our  lingering  gaze  was  a  dark  spot  so  distant  and 
so  small  as  to  be  scarcely  perceptible.  Soon  we 
could  discern  it  no  longer :  and  nothing  of  Europe 
was  now  left  to  us  but  the  indelible  recollections 
that  it  has  impressed  upon  our  minds.  We  turned 
towards  the  region  of  the  descending  sun — 

"To  where  his  setting  splendours  burn 
Upon  the  western  sea-maid's  urn," 

and  we  vainly  endeavoured  to  direct  all  our  thoughts 
and  feelings  towards  our  home  beyond  the  ocean — 
our  beloved  American  home. 

On  that  night,  as  on  many  others,  when  our  ship 
was  careering  through  the  sea,  with  her  yards 
squared,  and  her  sails  all  trimmed  to  a  fresh  and  fa 
vouring  breeze,  while  we  sat  on  a  sofa  in  the  lesser 
cabin,  and  looked  up  through  the  open  skylight  at 
the  stars  that  seemed  flying  over  our  heads,  we 
talked  of  the  land  we  had  so  recently  quitted.  We 
talked  of  her  people,  who,  though  differing  from 
ours  in  a  thousand  minute  particulars,  are  still  es 
sentially  the  same.  Our  laws,  our  institutions,  our 
manners,  and  our  customs  are  derived  from  theirs: 
we  are  benefited  by  the  same  arts,  we  are  enlightened 
by  the  same  sciences.  Their  noble  and  copious 
language  is  fortunately  ours — -their  Shakspeare  also 
belongs  to  us ;  and  we  rejoice  that  we  can  possess 
ourselves  of  his  "  thoughts  that  breathe  and  words 
that  burn"  in  all  their  original  freshness  and  splen 
dour,  unobscured  by  the  mist  of  translation.  Though 
the  ocean  divides  our  dwelling-places;  though  the 
sword  and  the  can  non-shot  have  sundered  the  bonds 
that  once  united  us  to  her  dominion ;  though  the 
misrepresentations  of  travelling  adventurers  have 
done  much  to  foster  mutual  prejudices,  and  to  em 
bitter  mutual  jealousies,  still  we  share  the  pride  of 
our  parent  in  the  glorious  beings  she  can  number 
among~the  children  of  her  island  home,  for 

"Yet  lives  the  blood  of  England  in  our  veins." 
On  the  fourth  day  of  our  departure  from  the  Isle 
of  Wight,  we  found  ourselves  several  hundred  miles 
from  land,  and  consigned  to  the  solitudes  of  that 
ocean-desert,  "  dark-heaving — boundless — endless 
— and  sublime" — whose  travellers  find  no  path  be 
fore  them,  and  leave  no  track  behind.  But  the  wind 
was  favourable,  the  sky  was  bright,  the  passengers 
had  recovered  their  health  and  spirits,  and  for  the 
first  time  were  all  able  to  present  themselves  at  the 
dinner-table ;  and  there  was  really  what  might  be 
termed  "  a  goodly  company." 

It  is  no  longer  the  custom  in  American  packet 
49 


ships  for  ladies  to  persevere  in  what  is  called  a  sea- 
dress  :  that  is,  a  sort  of  dishabille  prepared  express 
ly  for  the  voyage.  Those  who  are  not  well  enough 
to  devote  some  little  time  and  attention  to  their  per 
sonal  appearance,  rarely  come  to  the  general  table, 
but  take  their  meals  in  their  own  apartment.  The 
gentlemen,  also,  pay  as  much  respect  to  their  toilet 
as  when  on  shore 

Our  passengers  were  not  too  numerous.  The 
lesser  cabin  was  appropriated  to  three  other  ladies 
and  myself.  It  formed  our  drawing-room ;  the 
gentlemen  being  admitted  only  as  visiters.  One 
of  the  ladies  was  Mrs.  Calcott,  an  amiable  and  in 
telligent  woman,  who  was  returning  with  her  hus 
band  from  a  long  residence  in  England.  Another 
was  Miss  Harriet  Audley,  a  very  pretty  and  very 
lively  young  lady  from  Virginia,  who  had  been  vi 
siting  a  married  sister  in  London,  and  was  now  on 
her  way  home  under  the  care  of  the  captain,  ex 
pecting  to  meet  her  father  in  New  York.  We 
were  much  amused  during  the  voyage,  with  the 
coquetry  of  our  fair  Virginian  as  she  aimed  her  ar 
rows  at  nearly  all  the  single  gentlemen  in  turn ;  and 
with  her  frankness  in  openly  talking  of  her  designs 
and  animadverting  on  their  good  or  ill  success. 
The  gentlemen,  with  the  usual  vanity  of  their  sex, 
always  believed  Miss  Audley's  attacks  on  their 
hearts  to  be  made  in  earnest,  and  that  she  was 
deeply  smitten  with  each  of  them  in  succession ; 
notwithstanding  that  the  smile  in  her  eye  was  far 
more  frequent  than  the  blush  on  her  cheek ;  and 
notwithstanding  that  rumour  had  asserted  the  ex 
istence  of  a  certain  cavalier  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Richmond,  whose  constancy  it  was  supposed  she 
would  eventually  reward  with  her  hand,  as  he  might 
be  considered,  in  every  sense  of  the  term,  an  excel 
lent  match. 

Our  fourth  female  passenger  was  Mrs.  Cum- 
mings,  a  plump,  rosy-faced  old  lady  of  remarkably 
limited  ideas,  who  had  literally  passed  her  whole 
life  in  the  city  of  London.  Having  been  recently 
left  a  widow,  she  had  broken  up  housekeeping,  and 
was  now  on  her  way  to  join  a  son  established  in 
New  York,  who  had  very  kindly  sent  for  her  to 
come  over  and  live  with  him.  The  rest  of  the 
world  was  almost  a  sealed  book  to  her,  but  she 
talked  a  great  deal  of  the  Minories,  the  Poultry, 
the  Old  Jewry,  Cheapside,  Long  Acre,  Bishopsgate 
Within  and  Bishopsgate  Without,  and  other  streets 
and  places  with  appellations  equally  expressive. 

The  majority  of  the  male  passengers  were  plea 
sant  and  companionable — and  we  thought  we  had 
seen  them  all  in  the  course  of  the  first  three  days — 
but  on  the  fourth,  we  heard  the  captain  say  to  one 
of  the  waiters,  «  Juba,  ask  that  gentleman  if  I  shall 
have  the  pleasure  of  taking  wine  with  him."  My 
eyes  now  involuntarily  followed  the  direction  of 
Juba's  movements,  feeling  some  curiosity  to  know 
who  "that  gentleman"  was,  as  I  now  recollected 
having  frequently  heard  the  epithet  within  the  last 
few  days.  For  instance,  when  almost  every  on«. 
was  confined  by  sea-sickness  to  their  state-rooms,  I 
had  seen  the  captain  despatch  a  servant  to  inquire 
of  that  gentleman  if  he  would  have  any  thing  sent 
to  him  from  the  table.  Also,  I  had  heard  Hamilton, 
2K 


386 


ELIZA    LESLIE. 


the  steward,  call  out — »  There,  boys,  don't  you 
hear  that,  gentleman  ring  his  bell — why  don't  you 
run  spontaneously — jump,  one  of  you,  to  number 
eleventeen."  I  was  puzzled  for  a  moment  to  divine 
which  state-room  bore  the  designation  of  eleventeen, 
but  concluded  it  to  be  one  of  the  many  unmeaning 
terms  that  characterize  the  phraseology  of  our  co 
loured  people.  Once  or  twice,  I  wondered  who  that 
gentleman  could  be ;  but  something  else  happened 
immediately  to  divert  my  attention. 

Now  when  I  heard  Captain  Santlow  propose 
taking  wine  with  him,  I  concluded,  that,  of  course, 
that  gentleman  must  be  visible  in  propria  persona, 
and  casting  my  eyes  towards  the  lower  end  of  the 
table,  I  perceived  a  genteel  looking  man  whom  I 
had  not  seen  before.     He  was  apparently  of  no 
particular  age,  and  there  was  nothing  in  his  face  j 
that  could  lead  any  one  to  guess  at  his  country.  I 
He  might  have  been  English,  Scotch,  Irish  or  Ame-  I 
rican  ;  but  he  had  none  of  the  characteristic  marks 
of  either  nation.     He  filled  his  glass,  and  bowing  [ 
his  head  to  Captain  Santlow,  who  congratulated  [ 
him  on  his  recovery,  he  swallowed  his  wine  in  si-  } 
lence.     There  was  an  animated  conversation  going  j 
on  near  the  head  of  the  table,  between  Miss  Aud-  | 
ley  and  two  of  her  beaux,  and  we  thought  no  more 
of  him. 

At  the  close  of  the  dessert,  we  happened  to  know 
that  he  had  quitted  the  table  and  gone  on  deck,  by 
one  of  the  waiters  coming  down,  and  requesting  Mr. 
Overslaugh  (who  was  sitting  atilt,  while  discussing 
his  walnuts,  with  his  chair  balanced  on  one  leg,  and 
his  head  leaning  against  the  wainscot)  to  let  him 
pass  for  a  moment,  while  he  went  into  No.  eleven 
teen  for  that  gentleman's  overcoat.  I  now  found 
that  the  servants  had  converted  No.  13  into  eleven 
teen.  By-the-bye,  that  gentleman  had  a  state-room 
all  to  himself,  sometimes  occupy  ing  the  upper  and 
sometimes  the  under  birth. 

"  Captain  Santlow,"  said  Mr.Fenton,  "allow  me 
to  ask  you  the  name  of  that  gentleman." 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  captain,  trying 
to  suppress  a  smile,  "  at  least  I  have  forgotten  it — 
some  English  name ;  for  he  is  an  Englishman — he 
came  on  board  at  Plymouth,  and  his  indisposition 
commenced  immediately.  Mrs.  Cummings,  shall  I 
have  the  pleasure  of  peeling  an  orange  for  you  ?" 

I  now  recollected  a  little  incident  which  had  set 
me  laughing  soon  after  we  left  Plymouth,  and  when 
we  were  beating  down  the  coast  of  Devonshire.  I 
had  been  trying  to  write  at  the  table  in  the  ladies' 
cabin,  but  it  was  one  of  those  days  when 

"Our  paper,  pen  and  ink,  and  we 
Roll  up  and  down  our  ships  at  sea." 

And  all  I  could  do  was  to  take  refuge  in  my  berth, 
and  endeavour  to  read,  leaving  the  door  open  for 
light  and  air.  My  attention,  however,  was  con 
tinually  withdrawn  from  my  book  by  the  sound  of 
something  that  was  dislodged  from  its  place,  slid 
ing  or  falling,  and  frequently  suffering  destruction; 
though  sometimes  miraculously  escaping  unhurt. 
While  I  was  watching  the  progress  of  two  pit 
chers  that  had  been  tossed  out  of  the  washing-stand, 
and  after  deluging  the  floor  with  water,  had  met  in 
the  ladies'  cabin,  and  were  rolling  amicably  side  by 


side,  without  happening  to  break  each  other,  I  saw 
a  barrel  of  flour  start  from  the  steward's  pantry, 
and  running  across  the  dining-room,  stop  at  a  gen 
tleman  that  lay  extended  in  a  lower  berth  with  his 
room  door  open,  and  pour  out  its  contents  upon 
him,  completely  enveloping  him  in  a  fog  of  meal. 
I  heard  the  steward,  who  was  busily  engaged  in 
mopping  up  the  water  that  had  flowed  from  the 
pitchers,  call  out,  «  Run,  boys,  run,  that  gentle 
man's  smothering  up  in  flour — go  take  the  barrel 
off  him — jump,  I  tell  you." 

How  that  gentleman  acted  while  hidden  in  the 
cloud  of  flour,  I  could  not  perceive,  and  immediately 
the  closing  of  the  folding  doors  shut  out  the  scene. 

For  a  few  days  after  he  appeared  among  us,  there 
was  some  speculation  with  regard  to  this  nameless 
stranger,  whose  taciturnity  seemed  his  chief  cha 
racteristic.  One  morning  while  we  were  looking 
at  the  gambols  of  a  shoal  of  porpoises  that  were 
tumbling  through  the  waves  and  sometimes  leap 
ing  out  of  them,  my  husband  made  some  remark  on 
the  clumsy  antics  of  this  unsightly  fish,  addressing 
himself,  for  the  first  time,  to  the  unknown  English 
man,  who  happened  to  be  standing  near  him.  That 
gentleman  smiled  affably,  but  made  no  reply.  Mr. 
Fenton  pursued  the  subject — and  that  gentleman 
smiled  still  more  affably,  and  walked  away. 

Nevertheless,  he  was  neither  deaf  nor  dumb,  nor 
melancholy,  but  had  only  "  a  great  talent  for  si 
lence,"  and  as  is  usually  the  case  with  persons  whose 
genius  lies  that  way,  he  was  soon  left  entirely  to 
himself,  no  one  thinking  it  worth  while  to  take  the 
trouble  of  extracting  words  from  him.  In  truth, 
he  was  so  impracticable,  and  at  the  same  time  so 
evidently  insignificant,  and  so  totally  uninteresting, 
that  his  fellow-passengers  tacitly  conveyed  him  to 
Coventry ;  and  in  Coventry  he  seemed  perfectly 
satisfied  to  dwell.  Once  or  twice  Captain  Sant 
low  was  asked  again  if  he  recollected  the  name  of 
that  gentleman ;  but  he  always  jeplied  with  a  sort 
of  smile,  "  I  cannot  say  I  do — not  exactly,  at  least 
— but  I'll  look  at  my  manifest  and  see" — and  he 
never  failed  to  turn  the  conversation  to  something 
else. 

The  only  person  that  persisted  in  occasionally 
talking  to  that  gentleman,  was  old  Mrs.  Cummings ; 
and  she  confided  to  him  her  perpetual  alarms  at 
"  the  perils  of  the  sea,"  considering  him  a  good 
hearer,  as  he  never  made  any  reply,  and  was  al 
ways  disengaged,  and  sitting  and  standing  about, 
apparently  at  leisure,  while  the  other  gentlemen 
were  occupied  in  reading,  writing,  playing  chess, 
walking  the  deck,  &c. 

Whenever  the  ship  was  struck  by  a  heavy  sea, 
and  after  quivering  with  the  shock,  remained  mo 
tionless  for  a  moment  before  she  recovered  herself 
and  rolled  the  other  way,  poor  Mrs.  Cummings  sup 
posed  that  we  had  run  against  a  rock,  and  could 
not  be  convinced  that  rocks  were  not  dispersed 
everywhere  about  the  open  ocean.  And  as  that 
gentleman  never  attempted  to  undeceive  her  on 
this  or  any  other  subject,  but  merely  listened  with 
a  placid  smile,  she  believed  that  he  always  thought 
precisely  as  she  did.  She  not  unfrequently  dis 
cussed  to  him,  in  an  under  tone,  the  obstinacy  and 


ELIZA    LESLIE. 


387 


incivility  of  the  captain,  who,  she  averred,  with 
truth,  had  never  in  any  one  instance  had  the  po 
liteness  to  stop  the  ship,  often  as  she  had  requested, 
nay, implored  him  to  do  so  even  when  she  was  suf 
fering  with  sea-sickness,  aixl  actually  tossed  out  of 
her  berth  by  the  violence  of  the  storm,  though  she 
was  holding  on  with  both  hands 

In  less  than  a  fortnight  after  we  left  the  English 
Channel  we  were  off  the  banks  of  Newfoundland ; 
and,  as  is  frequently  the  case  in  their  vicinity,  we 
met  with  cold  foggy  weather.  It  cleared  a  little 
about  seven  in  the  morning,  and  we  then  disco 
vered  no  less  than  three  icebergs  to  leeward.  One 
of  them,  whose  distance  from  us  was  perhaps  a  mile, 
appeared  higher  than  the  main-mast  head,  and  as 
the  top  shot  up  into  a  tall  column,  it  looked  like  a 
vast  rock  with  a  light-house  on  its  pinnacle.  As 
the  cold  and  watery  sunbeams  gleamed  fitfully  upon 
it,  it  exhibited  in  some  places  the  rainbow  tints  of  a 
prism — other  parts  were  of  a  dazzling  white,  while 
its  sharp  angular  projections  seemed  like  masses  of 
diamonds  glittering  upon  snow. 

The  fog  soon  became  so  dense  that  in  looking 
over  the  side  of  the  ship  we  could  not  discern  the 
sea.  Fortunately,  it  was  so  calm  that  we  scarcely 
moved,  or  the  danger  of  driving  on  the  icebergs 
would  have  been  terrific.  We  had  now  no  other 
means  of  ascertaining  our  distance  from  them,  but 
by  trying  the  temperature  of  the  water  with  a  ther 
mometer. 

In  the  afternoon  the  fog  gathered  still  more  thick 
ly  round  us,  and  dripped  from  the  rigging,  so  that 
the  sailors  were  continually  swabbing  the  deck.  I 
had  gone  with  Mr.  Fenton  to  the  round-house,  and 
looked  a  while  from  its  windows  on  the  comfortless 
scene  without.  The  only  persons  then  on  the 
main-deck  were  the  captain  and  the  first  mate. 
They  were  wrapped  in  their  watch-coats,  their  hair 
and  whiskers  dripping  with  the  fog  dew.  Most  of 
the  passengers  went  to  bed  at  an  early  hour,  and 
soon  all  was  awfully  still ;  Mrs.  Gumming  being 
really  too  much  frightened  to  talk,  only  that  she 
sometimes  wished  herself  in  Shoreditch,  and  some 
times  in  Houndsditch.  It  was  a  night  of  real  dan 
ger.  The  captain  remained  on  deck  till  morning, 
and  several  of  the  gentlemen  bore  him  company, 
being  too  anxious  to  stay  below. 

About  day-break,  a  heavy  shower  of  rain  dis 
persed  the  fog — "  The  conscious  vessel  waked  as 
from  a  trance" — A  breeze  sprung  up  that  carried 
us  out  of  danger  from  the  icebergs,  which  were 
soon  diminished  to  three  specks  on  the  horizon,  and 
the  sun  rose  bright  and  cheerfully. 

Towards  noon,  the  ladies  recollected  that  none  of 
them  had  seen  that  gentleman  during  the  last  twen 
ty-four  hours,  and  some  apprehension  was  expressed 
lest  he  should  have  walked  overboard  in  the  fog. 
No  one  could  give  any  account  of  him,  or  remember 
his  last  appearance;  and  Miss  Audley  professed 
much  regret  that  now  in  all  probability  we  should 
never  be  able  to  ascertain  his  name,  as,  most  likely, 
he  had  "  died  and  made  no  sign."  To  our  shames 
be  it  spoken,  not  one  of  us  could  cry  a  tear  at  his 
possible  fate.  The  captain  had  turned  into  his 
berth,  and  was  reposing  himself  after  the  fatigue  of 


last  night ;  so  we  could  make  no  inquiry  of  him  on 
the  subject  of  our  missing  fellow-passenger. 

Mrs.  Cummings  called  the  stewart,  and  asked  him 
how  long  it  was  since  he  had  seen  any  thing  of  that 
gentleman.  "  I  really  can't  tell,  madam" — replied 
Hamilton — "  I  can't  pretend  to  charge  my  memory 
with  such  things.  But  I  conclude  he  must  have 
been  seen  yesterday — at  least  I  rather  expect  he 
was." 

The  waiter  Juba  was  now  appealed  to.  « I  be* 
lieve,  madam,"  said  Juba — « I  remember  something 
of  handing  that  gentleman  the  bread-basket  yester 
day  at  dinner — but  I  would  not  be  qualified  as  to 
whether  the  thing  took  place  or  not,  my  mind  be 
ing  a  good  deal  engaged  at  the  time." 

Solomon,  the  third  water,  disclaimed  all  positive 
knowledge  of  this  or  any  other  fact,  but  sagely  re 
marked,  "  that  it  was  very  likely  that  gentleman 
had  been  about  all  yesterday  as  usual ;  yet  still  it 
was  just  as  likely  he  might  not;  and  there  was  only 
one  thing  certain,  which  was,  that  if  he  was  not  no 
where,  he  must,  of  course,  be  somewhere." 

"  I  have  a  misgiving,"  said  Mrs.  Cummings,  "  that 
he  will  never  be  found  again." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I  can  do,  madam,"  exclaimed 
the  steward,  looking  as  if  suddenly  struck  with  a 
bright  thought' — "  I  can  examine  into  No.  eleven- 
teen,  and  see  if  I  can  perceive  him  there."  And 
softly  opening  the  door  of  the  state-room  in  ques 
tion,  he  stepped  back  and  said  with  a  triumphant 
flourish  of  his  hand' — "There  he  is,  ladies,  there  he 
is,  in  the  upper  berth,  fast  asleep  in  his  double  cash 
mere  dressing  gown.  I  opinionate  that  he  was  one 
of  the  gentlemen  that  stayed  on  deck  all  night,  be 
cause  they  were  afraid  to  go  to  sleep  on  account 
of  the  icebergers — of  course  nobody  noticed  him — 
but  there  he  is  now,  safe  enough."  » 

Instantly  we  proceeded  en  masse  towards  No.  ele- 
venteen,  to  convince  ourselves :  and  there  indeed 
we  saw  that  gentleman  lying  sleep  in  his  double 
cashmere  dressing  gown.  He  opened  his  eyes,  and 
seemed  surprised,  as  well  he  mighjt,  at  seeing  all 
the  ladies  and  all  the  servants  ranged  before  the 
door  of  his  room,  and  gazing  in  at  him :  and  then 
we  all  stole  off,  looking  foolish  enough. 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Cummings,  "  he  is  not  dead, 
however, — so,  we  have  yet  a  chance  of  knowing 
his  name  from  himself,  if  we  choose  to  ask  him. 
But  I'm  determined  I'll  make  the  captain  tell  it  me, 
as  soon  as  he  gets  up.  It's  all  nonsense,  this  mak 
ing  a  secret  of  a  man's  name." 

Among  the  numerous  steerage  passengers  was  a 
young  man  whose  profession  was  that  of  a  metho- 
dist  preacher.  Having  succeeded  in  making  some 
religious  impressions  on  the  majority  of  his  com 
panions,  he  one  Sunday  obtained  their  consent  to 
his  performing  divine  service  that  evening  in  the 
steerage  :  and  respectfully  intimated  that  he  would 
be  highly  gratified  by  the  attendance  of  any  of  the 
cabin  passengers  that  would  condescend  to  honour 
him  so  far.  Accordingly,  after  tea,  we  all  de 
scended  to  the  steerage  at  early  candle-light,  and 
found  every  thing  prepared  for  the  occasion.  A 
barrel,  its  head  covered  with  a  piece  of  sailcloth, 
served  as  a  desk,  lighted  by  two  yellowish  dip- 


ELIZA    LESLIE. 


candles  placed  in  empty  porter  bottles.  But  as 
there  was  considerable  motion,  it  was  found  that  the 
bottles  would  not  rest  in  their  stations ;  therefore 
they  were  held  by  two  boys.  The  chests  and  boxes 
nearest  to  the  desk  were  the  seats  allotted  to  the  la 
dies  and  gentlemen :  and  the  steerage  people  ranged 
themselves  behind. 

A  hymn  was  sung  to  a  popular  tune.  The  prayer 
and  sermon  were  delivered  in  simple  but  impressive 
language;  for  the  preacher,  though  a  poor  and  illi 
terate  man,  was  not  deficient  either  in  sense  or  feel 
ing,  and  was  evidently  imbued  with  the  sincerest 
piety.  There  was  something  solemn  and  affecting 
in  the  aspect  of  the  whole  scene,  with  all  its  rude 
arrangement;  and  also  in  the  idea  of  the  lonely  and 
insulated  situation  of  our  little  community  with 
"  one  wide  water  all  around  us."  And  when  the 
preacher,  in  his  homely  but  fervent  language,  re 
turned  thanks  for  our  hitherto  prosperous  voyage, 
and  prayed  for  our  speedy  and  safe  arrival  at  our 
destined  port,  tears  stood  in  the  eyes  of  many  of 
his  auditors.  I  thought,  when  it  was  over,  how 
frequently  such  scenes  must  have  occurred  between 
the  decks  of  the  May-flower,  during  the  long  and  tem 
pestuous  passage  of  that  pilgrim  band  who  finally 

"  moored  their  bark 
On  the  wild  New  England  shore," 

and  how  often 

Amid  the  storm  they  sung, 
Arid  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea— 

when  the  wise  and  pious  Brewster  lifted  his  voice 
in  exhortation  and  prayer,  and  the  virtuous  Carver, 
and  the  gallant  Standish,  bowed  their  heads  in  de 
votion  before  him 

After  crossing  the  Banks  we  seemed  to  feel  our 
selves  on  American  ground,  or  rather  on  American 
sea.  As  our  interest  increased  on  approaching  the 
land  of  our  destination,  that  gentleman  was  propor 
tionally  overlooked  and  forgotten.  He  «  kept  the 
even  tenor  of  his  way,"  and  we  had  become  scarcely 
conscious  that  he  was  still  among  us  :  till  one  day 
when  there  was  rather  a  hard  gale,  and  the  waves 
were  running  high,  we  were  startled,  as  we  sur 
rounded  the  luncheon  table,  by  a  tremendous  noise 
on  the  cabin  staircase,  and  the  sudden  bursting  open 
of  the  door  at  its  foot.  We  all  looked  up,  and  saw 
that  gentleman  falling  down-stairs,  with  both  arms 
extended,  as  he  held  in  one  hand  a  tall  cane  stool, 
and  in  the  other  the  captain's  barometer,  which  had 
hung  just  within  the  upper  door ;  he  having  invo 
luntarily  caught  hold  of  both  these  articles,  with  a 
view  of  saving  himself.  "  While  his  head,  as  he 
tumbled,  went  nicketty  nock,"  his  countenance,  for 
once,  assumed  a  new  expression,  and  the  change 
from  its  usual  unvarying  sameness  was  so  striking, 
that,  combined  with  his  ludicrous  attitude,  it  set  us 
all  to  laughing.  The  waiters  ran  forward  and  as 
sisted  him  to  rise ;  and  it  was  then  found  that  the  i 
stool  and  the  barometer  had  been  the  greatest  suf-  i 
ferers ;  one  having  lost  a  leg,  and  the  other  being  ! 
so  shattered  that  the  stair-carpet  was  covered  with 
globules  of  quicksilver.  However,  he  retired  to  his 
state-room,  and  whether  or  not  he  was  seen  again  i 
before  next  morning,  I  cannot  positively  undertake  ! 
to  say.  i 


On  the  edge  of  the  Gulf  Stream  we  had  a  day  of 
entire  calm,  when  "  there  was  not  a  breath  the  blue 
wave  to  curl."  A  thin  veil  of  haziness  somewhat 
softened  the  fires  of  the  American  sun,  (as  it  was 
now  called  by  the  European  passengers,)  and  we 
passed  the  whole  day  on  deck,  in  a  delightful  state 
of  idle  enjoyment ;  gazing  on  the  inhabitants  of  the 
deep,  that  like  ourselves  seemed  to  be  taking  a  holy- 
day.  Dolphins,  horse-mackerel,  and  porpoises  were 
sporting  round  the  vessel,  and  the  flying-fish  "with 
brine  still  dropping  from  its  wings,"  was  darting 
up  into  the  sun-light ;  while  flocks  of  petrels,  their 
black  plumage  tinged  with  flame-colour,  seemed  to 
rest  on  the  surface  of  the  water;  and  the  nautilus, 
"the  native  pilot  of  his  little  bark,"  glided  gaily 
along  the  dimpling  mirror  that  reflected  his  tiny 
oars  and  gauzy  sail.  We  fished  up  large  clusters 
of  sea-weed,  among  which  were  some  beautiful 
specimens  of  a  delicate  purple  colour,  which,  when 
viewed  through  a  microscope,  glittered  like  silver, 
and  were  covered  with  little  shell-fish  so  minute  as 
to  be  invisible  to  the  naked  eye. 

It  was  a  lovely  day.  The  lieutenant  and  his  fa 
mily  were  all  on  deck,  and  looked  happy.  That 
gentleman  looked  as  usual.  Towards  evening,  a 
breeze  sprung  up  directly  fair,  and  filled  the  sails, 
which  all  day  had  been  clinging  idly  to  the  masts; 
and  before  midnight  we  were  wafted  along  at  the 
rate  of  nine  knots  an  hour,  "  while  round  the  waves 
phosphoric  brightness  broke,"  the  ship  seeming,  as 
she  cleaved  the  foam,  to  draw  after  her  in  her  wake 
a  long  train  of  stars. 

Next  day  we  continued  to  proceed  rapidly,  with 
a  fair  wind,  which  we  knew  would  soon  bring  us 
to  the  end  of  our  voyage.  The  ladies'  cabin  was 
now  littered  with  trunks  and  boxes,  brought  from 
the  baggage  room  that  we  might  select  from  them 
such  articles  as  we  thought  we  should  require  when 
we  went  on  shore. 

But  we  were  soon  attracted  to  the  deck,  to  see 
the  always  interesting  experiment  of  sounding  with 
the  deep-sea  lead.  To  our  great  joy  it  came  up 
(though  from  almost  immeasurable  depth)  with  a 
little  sand  adhering  to  the  cake  of  tallow  at  the 
bottom  of  the  plummet.  The  breeze  was  increas 
ing,  and  Mr.  Overslaugh,  whose  pretensions  to  nau 
tical  knowledge  were  considered  very  shallow  by 
his  fellow  amateurs,  remarked  to  my  husband,  « If 
this  wind  holds,  I  should  not  wonder  if  we  are 
aground  in  less  than  two  hours." 

We  remained  on  deck  the  whole  evening,  be 
lieving  it  probably  the  last  we  should  spend  toge 
ther  ;  and  the  close  companionship  of  four  weeks 
in  the  very  circumscribed  limits  of  a  ship  had  made 
us  seem  like  one  family.  We  talked  of  the  morrow, 
and  I  forgot  that  that  gentleman  was  among  us,  till  I 
saw  him  leave  the  deck  to  retire  for  the  night.  The 
thought  then  struck  me,  that  another  day,  and  we 
should  cease  perhaps  to  remember  his  existence. 

I  laid  my  head  on  my  pillow  with  the  under 
standing  that  land  would  be  discovered  before 
morning,  and  I  found  it  impossible  to  sleep.  Mr. 
Fenton  went  on  deck  about  midnight,  and  re 
mained  there  till  dawn 

Near  one  o'clock  I  heard  a  voice  announcing  the 


ELIZA    LESLIE. 


389 


light  on  the  island  of  Neversink,  and  in  a  short 
time  all  the  gentlemen  were  on  deck.  At  day 
break  Mr.  Fenton  came  to  ask  me  if  I  would  rise 
and  see  the  morning  dawn  upon  our  own  country. 
We  had  taken  a  pilot  on  board  at  two  o'clock,  had 
a  fine  fair  breeze  to  carry  us  into  the  bay  of  New 
York,  and  there  was  every  probability  of  our  being 
on  shore  in  a  few  hours. 

Soon  after  sunrise  we  were  visited  by  a  news- 
boat,  when  there  was  an  exchange  of  papers,  and 
much  to  inquire  and  much  to  tell. 

We  were  going  rapidly  through  the  Narrows, 
when  the  bell  rung  for  breakfast,  which  Captain 
Santlow  had  ordered  at  an  early  hour,  as  we  had 
all  been  up  before  daylight.  Chancing  to  look 
towards  his  accustomed  seat,  I  missed  that  gen 
tleman,  and  inquired  after  him  of  the  captain. 
"  Oh  !"  he  replied,  "  that  gentleman  went  on  shore 
in  the  news-boat;  did  you  not  see  him  depart] 
He  bowed  all  round  before  he  went  down  the  side." 

"  No,"  was  the  general  reply,  "  we  did  not  see 
him  go."  In  truth  we  had  all  been  too  much  in 
terested  in  hearing,  reading,  and  talking  of  the  news 
brought  by  the  boat. 

"  Then  he  is  gone  for  ever,"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Cummings — "  and  we  shall  never  know  his  name." 

"  Come,  Captain  Santlow,"  said  Mr.  Fenton, 
"  try  to  recollect  it. — <  Let  it  not,'  as  Grumio  says, 
«  die  in  oblivion,  while  we  return  to  our  graves  in 
experienced  in  it.'  " 

Captain  Santlow  smiled,  and  remained  silent. 
"  Now,  captain,"  said  Miss  Audley,  «  I  will  not 
quit  the  ship  till  you  tell  me  that  gentleman's  name. 
— I  cannot  hold  out  a  greater  threat  to  you,  as  I 
know  you  have  had  a  weary  time  of  it  since  I  have 
been  under  your  charge.  Come,  I  set  not  my  foot 
on  shore  till  I  know  the  name  of  that  gentleman, 
and  also  why  you  cannot  refrain  from  smiling  when 
ever  you  are  asked  about  it." 

"  Well,  then,"  replied  Captain  Santlow,  "  though 
his  name  is  a  very  pretty  one  when  you  get  it  said, 
there  is  a  little  awkwardness  in  speaking  it.  So  I 
thought  I  would  save  myself  and  my  passengers  the 
trouble.  And  partly  for  that  reason,  and  partly  to 
teaze  you  all,  I  have  withheld  it  from  your  know 
ledge  during  the  voyage.  But  I  can  assure  you 
he  is  a  baronet." 

"  A  baronet,"  cried  Miss  Audley — "  I  wish  I  had 
known  that  before,  I  should  certainly  have  made  a 
dead  set  at  him.  A  baronet  would  have  been  far 
better  worth  the  trouble  of  a  flirtation,  than  you  Mr. 
Williams,  or  you  Mr.  Sutton,  or  you  Mr.  Belfield, 
or  any  of  the  other  gentlemen  that  I  have  been 
amusing  myself  with  during  the  voyage." 

"  A  baronet!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Cummings, "  well, 
really — and  have  I  been  four  weeks  in  the  same 
ship  with  a  baronet — and  sitting  at  the  same  table 
with  him, — and  often  talking  to  him  face  to  face. — 
I  wonder  what  Mrs.  Thirableby  of  Threadneedle 
street  would  say  if  she  knew  that  I  am  now  ac 
quainted  with  a  baronet  T' 

"But  what  is  his  name,  captain!" — said  Mr. 
Fenton ;  "  still  you  do  not  tell  us." 

"  His  name,"  answered  the  Captain,  "  is  Sir  St. 
John  St.  Ledger." 


"  Sir  St.  John  St.  Ledger!"  was  repeated  oy  each 
of  the  company. 

"  Yes,"  resumed  Captain  Santlow — «  and  you 
|  see  how  difficult  it  is  to  say  it  smoothly.     There  is 
more  sibilation  in  it  than  in  any  name  I  know. — 
|   Was  I  not  right  in  keeping  it  from  you  till  the  voy 
age  was  over,  and  thus  sparing  you  the  trouble  of 
articulating  it,  and  myself  the  annoyance  of  hear 
ing  it.     See,  here  it  is  in  writing." 

The  captain  then  took  his  manifest  out  of  his 
pocket-book,  and  showed  us  the  words,  «  Sir  St. 
John  St.  Ledger,  of  Sevenoaks,  Kent." 

"Pho!"  said  Mrs.  Cummings.  «  Where's  the 
trouble  in  speaking  that  name,  if  you  only  knew 
the  right  way — I  have  heard  it  a  hundred  times — 
and  even  seen  it  in  the  newspapers.  This  must 
be  the  very  gentleman  that  my  cousin  George's 
wife  is  always  talking  about.  She  has  a  brother 
that  lives  near  his  estate,  a  topping  apothecary. 
Why,  'tis  easy  enough  to  say  his  name,  if  you  say 
it  as  we  do  in  England." 

"And  how  is  that?"  asked  the  captain;  "  wha* 
can  you  make  of  Sir  St.  John  St.  Ledger?" 

"  Why,  Sir  Singeon  Sillinger,  to  be  sure,"  replied 
Mrs.  Cummings — "  I  am  confident  he  would  have 
answered  to  that  name.  Sir  Singeon  Sillinger  of 
Sunnock — cousin  George's  wife's  brother  lives  close 
by  Sunnock  in  a  yellow  house  with  a  red  door." 

"  And  have  I,"  said  the  captain  laughing,  «  so 
carefully  kept  his  name  to  myself,  during  the  whole 
passage,  for  fear  we  should  have  had  to  call  him 
Sir  St.  John  St.  Ledger,  when  all  the  while  we 
might  have  said  Sir  Singeon  Sillinger." 

"  To  be  sure  you  might,"  replied  Mrs.  Cummings, 
looking  proud  of  the  opportunity  of  displaying  her 
superior  knowledge  of  something.  "  With  all  your 
striving  after  sense  you  Americans  are  very  igno 
rant  people,  particularly  of  the  right  way  of  speak 
ing  English.  Since  I  have  been  on  board,  I  have 
heard  you  all  say  the  oddest  things — though  I 
thought  there  would  be  no  use  in  trying  to  set  you 
right.  The  other  day  there  was  Mr.  Williams 
talking  of  the  church  of  St.  Mary  le  bon — instead 
of  saying  Marrow  bone.  Then  Mr.  Belfield  says, 
Lord  Cholmondeley,  instead  of  Lord  Chum  ley, 
and  Col.  Sinclair  instead  of  Col.  Sinkler;  and  Mr. 
Sutton  says  Lady  Beauchamp,  instead  of  Lady 
Beachum ;  and  you  all  say  Birmingham  instead 
of  Brummagem.  The  truth  is,  you  know  nothing 
about  English  names.  Now  that  name.  Trollope, 
that  you  all  sneer  at  so  much,  and  think  so  very 
low,  why  Trollope  is  quite  genteel  in  England, 
and  so  is  Hussey.  The  Trollopes  and  Husseys 
belong  to  great  families.  But  I  have  no  doubt  of 
finding  many  things  that  are  very  elegant  in  Eng 
land,  counted  quite  vulgar  in  America,  owing  to 
the  ignorance  of  your  people.  For  my  part,  I 
was  particularly  brought  up  to  despise  all  manner 
of  ignorance." 

In  a  short  time  a  steamboat  came  alongside, 
into  which  we  removed  ourselves,  accompanied 
by  the  captain  and  the  letter  bags ;  and  we  pro 
ceeded  up  to  the  city,  where  Mr.  Fenton  and  my 
self  were  met  on  the  wharf,  I  need  not  tell  how, 
and  by  whom. 

2x2 


HUGH  SWINTON  LEGARi 


[Born  1797.    Died  1843.] 


THIS  eminent  scholar  was  descended  from 
one  of  the  French  Huguenots  who  settled  in 
South  Carolina  about  the  year  1695.  He  was 
born  in  Charleston  on  the  second  of  January, 
1797,  and  in  the  eleventh  year  of  his  age  was 
placed  in  the  Charleston  College,  then  under 
the  presidency  of  the  learned  and  accomplished 
Mr.  Mitchell  King,  whose  judicious  instruc 
tion  and  counsel  doubtless  had  a  large  influ 
ence  in  the  formation  of  his  tastes  and  charac 
ter.  Early  in  his  fifteenth  year  he  entered  the 
South  Carolina  College  at  Columbia,  where 
his  previous  attainments,  the  astonishing  fa 
cility  with  which  he  added  to  them,  and  the 
eager  industry  with  which  he  devoted  himself 
to  his  studies,  gave  him  at  once  a  lead,  which, 
Mr.  Preston  says,  *'  he  maintained  throughout 
his  course,  until  he  had  graduated,  not  only 
with  the  highest  honours  of  the  college,  but 
with  a  reputation  throughout  the  state."  The 
end  which  he  proposed  to  himself,  and  which 
he  never  for  a  moment  lost  sight  of,  was  a 
thorough  understanding  of  the  philosophy  of 
legislation  and  the  constitution  of  society,  in 
cluding  all  the  influences,  political,  judicial, 
and  moral,  that  effect  the  destinies  of  the  hu 
man  family,  and  how  to  turn  that  knowledge 
to  account  in  the  actual  service  of  the  state. 
|  Acquiring  at  an  early  period  the  Italian,  French 
and  German  languages,  he  read  largely  in  their 
respective  authors,  but  continued  to  the  end  of 
his  life  to  regard  the  literature  of  England  as 
the  best  in  the  world  with  the  single  excep 
tion  of  the  Greek.  Of  Milton  and  Shakspeare, 
in  whom  he  delighted  from  his  youth,  he  says 
in  a  recently  published  letter,  that  the  man 
who  has  made  himself  a  complete  master  of 
them  "  possesses  a  treasure  of  thought,  know 
ledge,  and  sublime  poetry,  to  be  equaled  in  no 
other  language  ever  spoken  by  man."  He 
subsequently  read  the  great  writers  of  the 
British  Commonwealth,  Whitelock,  Prynne, 
Harrington, and  Sidney,  with  Hobbes,  Claren 
don,  and  others  of  the  Jure  Divino  side,  and 
those  of  a  later  day",  Locke,  arid  Hoadly,  and 
indeed  .-11  the  sound  thinkers  who  have  writ 
ten  in  our  mother  tongue. 


On  the  completion  of  his  academical  course 
at  Columbia  he  returned  to  Charleston,  and 
for  three  years  applied  himself  diligently  to 
the  study  of  the  law,  under  the  direction  of 
Mr.  King,  who  was  now  one  of  the  leading 
counsellors  and  advocates  of  the  state.  At 
twenty-one  I  believe  he  was  admitted  to  the 
bar,  but  he  had  no  idea,  of  entering  at  that 
time  upon  the  practice  of  his  profession.  His 
scheme  of  preparation  embraced  years  of  study 
in  the  foreign  schools,  and  in  the  spring  of 
1818  he  went  to  Paris,  where  he  spent  the  sum 
mer  in  perfecting  himself  in  the  French  and 
Italian,  and  in  making  himself  acquainted  as 
much  as  his  leisure  permitted  with  the  world, 
which  is  seen  in  all  its  phases  in  that  motley 
city.  It  had  been  his  intention  before  leaving 
Charleston  to  go  to  Gottingen,  and  he  appears 
afterward  to  have  regretted  that  he  did  not  do 
so,  but  he  now  decided  upon  Edinburgh,  and 
leaving  Paris  about  the  close  of  September  he 
arrived  there  in  time  to  enter  for  the  winter 
term  the  classes  of  civil  law,  natural  philoso 
phy  and  mathematics.  His  chief  attention 
was  given  to  juridical  philosophy,  and  Mr. 
Preston,  who  was  here  as  in  Paris  his  fellow 
student,  assures  us  that  he  addressed  himself 
to  his  labours  "  with  a  quiet  diligence,  some 
times  animated  into  a  sort  of  intellectual  joy." 
In  the  spring  of  1819  he  made  an  excursion 
through  Scotland  and  England,  and  after  pass 
ing  some  time'  in  London  crossed  over  once 
more  to  France,  and  occupied  the  autumn  in 
seeing  that  country,  Belgium,  Holland,  the 
Rhine  and  the  Alps.  In  the  following  winter 
he  returned  to  Charleston,  by  way  of  New 
York  and  Washington. 

After  a  short  stay  in  the  city  he  retired  to 
the  estate  of  his  mother  on  John's  Island,  where 
he  spent  two  years  as  a  planter,  still  however 
devoting  his  leisure  to  the  pursuit  of  his  fa 
vourite  studies.  *  In  the  fall  of  1820  he  was 
elected  from  his  parish  to  the  state  legislature, 
in  which  he  continued  two  years.  At  the  end 
of  this  period  he  removed  with  his  family  to 
Charleston,  and  entered  upon  the  practice  of 
his  profession,  with  a  very  high  reputation  un- 


HUGH    SWINTON    LEGARE. 


391 


doubtedly,  but  it  appears  with  something  less 
than  the  success  he  had  anticipated.  The  es 
timation  in  which  he  was  held,  however,  se 
cured  his  election  to  the  legislature  as  one  of 
the  representatives  of  the  city,  in  1824,  and 
he  held  a  seat  in  that  body  and  took  a  leading 
part  in  its  deliberations  until  he  was  made 
Attorney  General  of  the  state,  in  1830. 

In  1827  The  Southern  Quarterly  Review 
was  established  at  Charleston,  partly  for  the 
exposition  and  defence  of  southern  opinions 
and  measures  in  politics,  but  chiefly  as  a  journal 
of  literature;  and  in  this  work,  which  owed  its 
reputation  mainly  to  his  contributions,  he  com 
menced  his  career  of  authorship.  His  most  im 
portant  articles  are  those  on  Classical  Learn 
ing,  Roman  Literature,  Cicero  de  Republica, 
the  Public  Economy  of  Athens,  the  Life  and 
Works  of  D'Aguesseau,  Jeremy  Bentham  and 
the  Utilitarians,  Codification,  Kent's  Com 
mentaries,  Early  Spanish  Ballads,  the  Miscel 
laneous  Writings  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  Lord 
Byron's  Character  and  Poems,  Byron's  Let 
ters  and  Journals,  Hall's  Travels  in  America, 
the  Travels  of  the  Duke  of  Saxe  Weirner,  the 
Disowned  and  Tales  of  the  Great  St.  Bernard, 
and  the  Miscellanies  of  William  Crafts;  but 
he  wrote  many  others,  of  less  importance.  It 
is  not  too  much  to  say  of  some  of  these  essays 
that  they  will  bear  a  favourable  comparison 
with  the  best  productions  of  their  kind ;  yet 
they  are  certainly  inferior  to  the  more  carefully 
prepared  papers  which  he  gave  to  the  world  at 
a  subsequent  period. 

His  appointment  to  the  office  of  Attorney 
General  of  South  Carolina  was  regarded  as 
eminently  honourable  to  him,  inasmuch  as  it 
was  conferred  by  a  legislature  in  which  his 
political  opponents  had  a  powerful  ascenden 
cy.  The  applause  which  crowned  his  first 
appearance  before  the  supreme  bench  at  Wash 
ington  vindicated  to  his  friends  their  support 
of  him,  and  to  himself  the  devotion  of  so  many 
years  to  the  noble  studies  by  which  he  had 
been  fitted  for  the  office.  Mr.  Livingston,  who 
was  then  Secretary  of  State,  impressed  by  his 
eloquence,  the  compass  and  solidity  of  his 
learning,  and  his  ambition  to  infuse  into  the 
common  law  the  enlarged  and  liberal  princi 
ples  and  just  morality  of  the  civilians,  tendered 
him  the  place  of  Charge  d' Affaires  at  the  court 
of  Brussels,  with  a  view  to  the  advantages  it 
would  give  him  in  a  further  prosecution  which 
he  desired  to  make  in  his  studies,  and  he  sailed 


for  this  post  in  the  spring  of  1833.  The  pre 
sence  of  much  good  society  in  Brussels  rendered 
his  stay  there  very  agreeable  to  him,  but  did  not 
prevent  the  devotion  of  a  large  portion  of  his 
time  to  jurisprudence,  political  economy,  and 
the  general  reading  of  good  authors.  He  re 
turned  home  in  1836,  and  was  immediately 
ch osen  a  member  of  C ongress  from  the  C harles- 
ton  district.  He  came  into  the  House  of  Re 
presentatives  at  the  commencement  of  Mr. 
Van  Buren's  administration,  but  his  conserva 
tive  principles,  especially  his  opposition  to  the 
Sub-Treasury,  which  was  the  favourite  scheme 
of  the  democratic  party,  prevented  his  reelec 
tion  in  1838,  and  he  again  entered  upon  the 
practice  of  his  profession. 

It  was  in  this  period  that  he  wrote  the  master 
ly  articles  which  contributed  so  largely  to  his 
reputation  as  a  scholar  and  a  man  of  letters  in 
the  New  York  Review,  under  the  titles  of  The 
Constitutional  History  of  Greece;  Demos 
thenes,  the  Man,  the  Orator,  and  the  States 
man  ;  and  The  Origin,  History  and  Influence 
of  Roman  Legislation. 

He  was  eminently  successful  at  the  bar,  and 
in  the  great  canvass  which  preceded  the  elec 
tion  of  General  Harrison  to  the  presidency  he 
took  an  active  part,  and  increased  his  popularity 
by  some  of  the  most  powerful  speeches  made 
at  New  York,  Richmond,  and  other  cities, 
against  the  policy  of  the  incumbent  executive. 
On  the  resignation  of  the  whig  cabinet  after  the 
death  of  General  Harrison,  Mr.  Tyler  bestowed 
on  Mr.  Legare  the  office  of  Attorney  General 
of  the  United  States.  This  was  the  office 
for  which  he  was  most  ambitious,  and  "  there 
was  a  universal  acquiescence  in  the  propriety 
of  the  appointment."*  There  are  abundant 
testimonies  of  the  ability  with  which  he  per 
formed  his  duties  in  this  department.  Of  his 
diligence  we  have  his  own  declaration  that  he 
was  so  much  occupied  with  business  as  to  be 
obliged  to  study  twelve  hours  a  day.  When 
Mr.  Webster  withdrew  from  the  cabinet,  Mr. 
Tyler  selected  Mr.  Legare  to  be  Secretary  of 
State  ad  interim,  and  he  exhibited  extraordi 
nary  energies  and  resources  in  the  discharge 
of  the  double  duties  which  now  devolved  upon 
him,  rendered  more  oppressive  by  the  presence 
in  his  family  of  death,  which  within  a  few 
months  deprived  him  of  a  sister  and  his  mother, 
to  whom  he  was  bound  by  the  tenderest  affec- 

*Mr.  Preston's  Eulogy. 


392 


HUGH   SWINTON   LEGARE. 


tion.  His  own  end"  approached,  and  perhaps 
was  accelerated  by  this  weight  of  blended 
public  and  private  cares.  In  the  summer  of 
1843  he  attended  the  President  on  a  visit 
to  Boston,  to  assist  in  the  celebration  of  the 
completion  of  the  monument  on  Bunker  Hill. 
He  arrived  in  that  city  on  the  sixteenth  of 
June,  was  seized  with  a  painful  and  danger 
ous  illness  the  same  evening,  and  on  the  morn 
ing  of  the  twentieth  breathed  his  last,  at  the 
I  house  of  his  old  classmate  and  steadfast  friend, 
Mr.  George  Ticknor. 

In  1846  a  collection  of  the  writings  of  Mr. 
Legare  was  published  in  two  large  and  closely 
printed  octavo  volumes,  in  Charleston.  It 
consists  of  a  Diary  kept  at  Brussels,  a  Jour 
nal  on  the  Rhine,  Extracts  from  his  Private 
and  Diplomatic  Correspondence,  Orations  and 
Speeches,  and  Contributions  to  the  New  York 
and  Southern  Reviews,  prefaced  by  a  memoir 
of  his  life.  The  collection  of  his  previously 
published  writings  is  incomplete,  but  the  se 
lection  in  the  main  is  judicious.  The  private 
letters  which  are  here  given  us  are  generally 
interesting,  but  they  are  not  in  all  cases  such 
as  his  more  discreet  friends  cared  to  see  in 
print.  The  diaries  which  he  kept  while  abroad 
were  evidently  designed  exclusively  for  the 
amusement  of  himself  and  his  intimate  asso 
ciates,  and  nothing  can  justify  their  publica 
tion,  at  least  during  the  lives  of  many  of  the 
persons  mentioned  in  them.  In  the  "  Diary 
of  Brussels"  he  himself  remarks  of  some 
thing  of  the  same  sort,  that  "  these  attacks  on 
ladies,  and  trespasses  on  the  sanctity  of  pri 
vate  life,  appeared  to"  him  "  quite  shocking." 
This  sentence  should  have  been  a  warning  to 
his  literary  executors. 

The  impression  left  by  his  collected  writ 
ings  is,  that  his  mind  was  of  the  first  order, 
but  that  it  did  not  hold  in  that  order  a  very 
prominent  place.  He  had  that  rectitude  of 
judgment,  that  pervading  good  sense,  that  con 
stant  natural  sympathy  with  truth,  which  is  a 
characteristic  of  the  best  class  of  intellects, 
but  he  was  wanting  in  richness,  fervour,  and 
creative  vigour.  He  possessed  the  forms  of 
fiiie  understanding,  but  the  force  of  intellectu 
al  passion,  or  the  fire  of  genius,  are  not  found. 
His  perception  of  truth  was  superior  to  his 
power  of  illustrating  it.  We  follow  the  dif 
ficult  and  somewhat  languid  processes  of  his 
thoughts,  and,  surprised  at  last  at  finding  him 
in  possession  of  such  admirable  opinions  on 


all  subjects,  we  imagine  that  he  must  have 
discovered  his  conclusions  by  different  facul 
ties  from  those  which  he  uses  to  demonstrate 
them.  That  splendid  fusion  of  reason,  ima 
gination,  and  feeling,  which  constitutes  the 
inspiration  of  the  great,  is  not  visible :  the  dis 
play  is  meagre,  laborious,  and  painful.  He 
fills  the  measure  of  his  subject,  but  it  is  by 
the  utmost  stretch  of  his  abilities :  we  do  not 
observe  the  abounding  power,  the  exuberant 
resources,  the  superfluous  energy,  which  mark 
the  foremost  of  the  first. 

In  his  own  profession  Mr.  Legare  had,  with 
many,  discredited  his  reputation  by  the  devo 
tion  which  he  avowed  to  the  civil  law.  It  is 
understood  that  no  one  who  has  been  able 
thoroughly  to  master  and  comprehend  the  com 
mon  law,  is  disposed  to  give  much  time  to 
the  civilians.  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  no 
man  ever  yet  took  up  the  Code,  because  having 
sounded  the  common  law  through  its  depths, 
he  had  found  it  wanting :  many  have  cheap 
ly  sought  the  praise  of  having  gone  through 
the  common  law,  by  appearing  to  have  attained 
to  something  beyond  it,  upon  the  principle 
that  if  you  "  quote  Lycophron,  they  will  take 
it  for  granted  that  you  have  read  Homer." 
In  Mr.  Legare's  case,  such  suspicions  are  pro 
bably  without  justice.  He  was  attracted  to 
the  "first  collection  of  written  reason"  chiefly 
by  the  interest  which  the  scholar  feels  in  that 
majestic  philosophy  of  morals  which  is  the 
"imperium  sine  fine"  of  Rome.  His  re 
marks  in  a  review  of  Kent's  Commentaries, 
show  that,  he  understood  what  advantages  the 
common  law  had  attained  over  the  civil  law, 
as  a  practical  system,  by  its  constant  regard 
for  certainty,  convenience,  and  policy.  As  a 
common  lawyer  Mr.  Legare  was  respectable; 
and  in  great  cases,  his  elaborate  style  of  pre 
paration  made  him  a  formidable  opponent. 

As  a  statesman  I  think  the  finest  monument 
of  his  powers  is  his  speech  in  Congress  on  the 
Sub-Treasury.  It  is  formal,  elementary,  and 
scholastic,  but  able,  and  at  times  brilliant. 
His  politics,  as  displayed  in  various  essays  and 
reviews,  were  profound  and  intelligent;  but 
it  always  seemed  as  if  he  had  settled  his  views 
of  the  present  times  upon  opinions  derived 
from  history,  and  not  that,  like  Machiavelli,  he 
had  informed  his  judgment  on  occurrences  in 
history  by  suggestions  drawn  from  his  own 
observation.  Still,  by  any  method  to  have 
formed  sound  principles  on  government  and 


HUGH    SWINTON    LEG  ARE. 


393 


society,  in  the  unfavourable  circumstances  in 
which  he  was  placed,  was  an  indication  of 
extraordinary  powers.  He  triumphed  over 
disadvantages  of  position,  connections,  and 
party ;  and  was  among  the  wisest  men  of  the 
south.  Yet  he  appears,  like  Mr.  Hamilton, 
and  Mr.  Ames,  to  have  been  of  a  too  despond 
ing-  temperament,  to  have  magnified  dangers 
that  threatened  our  young  energies,  and  to 
have  lacked  faith  in  our  system,  after  it  had 
passed  some  of  the  strongest  trials  to  which 
it  was  reasonable  to  suppose  it  would  ever  be 
subjected. 

As  a  classical  scholar  Mr.  Legare  made 
great  pretension,  but  there  is  nothing  in  his 
works  to  prove  that  he  was  here  superior  or 
even  equal  to  several  of  his  countrymen.  His 
proficiency  partook  of  the  dryness  and  seve 
rity  of  his  character.  He  studied  rather  as  a 
grammarian  than  as  a  man  of  taste.  He  may 
have  been  accurate,  but  he  was  not  elegant. 


He  writes  often  about  the  Greeks  and  Latins, 
but  he  had  never  caught  the  spirit  and  senti 
ment  of  classical  enthusiasm.  We  iniss  the 
fine  felicity  of  illustration,  the  apt  quotation, 
the  brilliant  allusion,  which  are  so  attractive 
in  the  writings  of  one  whose  heart  and  fancy 
have  dwelt  familiarly  in  the  clime  of  antiqui 
ty.  He  is  not  betrayed  as  a  visitor  to  the  halls 
of  the  past  by  the  smell  of  aloes  and  cassia 
hanging  about  his  garments,  caught  from  the 
ivory  palaces  whereby  they  have  made  him 
glad.  We  know  the  fact  by  his  constantly 
informing  us  of  it,  and  because  he  describes 
the  localities  with  the  precision  of  one  who 
must  have  observed,  chiefly  for  the  purpose  of 
making  a  report.  The  most  striking  passage 
in  his  writings  on  a  classical  subject  is  that 
relating  to  Catullus,  in  his  criticism  of  Dun- 
lap's  History  of  Ancient  Literature.  The  re 
marks  on  that  poet  are  original,  beautiful,  and 
undoubtedly  just. 


LIBERTY  AND  GREATNESS. 

FROM  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  THE  AMERICAN  REVOLUTION. 

THE  name  of  REPUBLIC  is  inscribed  upon  the 
most  imperishable  monuments  of  the  species,  and 
it  is  probable  that  it  will  continue  to  be  associated, 
as  it  has  been  in  all  past  ages,  with  whatever  is  he 
roic  in  character,  and  sublime  in  genius,  and  ele 
gant  and  brilliant  in  the  cultivation  of  arts  and  let 
ters.  It  would  not  have  been  difficult  to  prove  that 
the  base  hirelings  who,  in  this  age  of  legitimacy 
and  downfall,  have  so  industriously  inculcated  a 
contrary  doctrine,  have  been  compelled  'to  falsify 
history  and  abuse  reason.  I  might  have  "  called 
up  antiquity  from  the  old  schools  of  Greece"  to 
show  that  these  apostles  of  despotism  would  have 
'passed  at  Athens  for  barbarians  and  slaves.  I 
might  have  asked  triumphantly,  what  land  had 
even  been  visited  with  the  influences  of  liberty, 
that  did  not  flourish  like  the  spring  ]  What  peo 
ple  had  ever  worshipped  at  her  altars,  without 
kindling  with  a  loftier  spirit  and  putting  forth  more 
noble  energies  ]  Where  she  had  ever  acted,  that 
her  deeds  had  not  been  heroic1?  Where  she  had 
ever  spoken,  that  her  eloquence  had  not  been  tri 
umphant  and  sublime!  It  might  have  been  de 
monstrated  that  a  state  of  society  in  which  nothing 
is  obtained  by  patronage — nothing  is  yielded  to  the 
accidents  of  birth  and  fortune — where  those  who 
are  already  distinguished,  must  exert  themselves 
lest  they  be  speedily  eclipsed  by  their  inferiors,  and 
these  inferiors  are,  by  every  motive,  stimulated  to  ex 
ert  themselves  that  they  may  become  distinguished 
— and  where,  the  lists  being  open  to  the  whole 
world,  without  any  partiality  or  exclusion,  the 
champion  who  bears  offthe  prize,  must  have  tasked 


his  powers  to  the  very  uttermost,  and  proved  him 
self  the  first  of  a  thousand  competitors — is  neces 
sarily  more  favourable  to  a  bold,  vigorous  and 
manly  way  of  thinking  and  acting,  than  any  other. 
I  should  have  asked  with  Longinus — who  but  a 
Republican  could  have  spoken  the  philippics  of 
Demosthenes  ]  and  what  has  the  patronage  of  des 
potism  ever  done  to  be  compared  with  the  sponta 
neous  productions  of  the  Attic,  the  Roman,  and  the 
Tuscan  muse  1 

With  respect  to  ourselves,  who  have  been  so 
systematically  vilified  by  British  critics — if  any  an 
swer  were  expected  to  be  given  to  their  shallow 
and  vulgar  sophistry,  and  there  was  not  a  sufficient 
practical  refutation  of  it,  in  the  undoubted  success 
of  some  of  the  artists  and  writers  that  are  spring 
ing  up  in  our  own  times — we  should  be  perfectly 
safe,  in  resting,  upon  the  operation  of  general 
causes  and  the  whole  analogy  of  history,  our  anti 
cipation  of  the  proudest  success,  in  all  the  pursuits 
of  a  high  and  honourable  ambition.  That  living, 
as  we  do,  in  the  midst  of  a  forest,  we  have  been 
principally  engaged  in  felling  and  improving  it; 
and  that  those  arts,  which  suppose  wealth  and  lei 
sure  and  a  crowded  population,  are  not  yet  so  flou 
rishing  amongst  us  as  they  will  be  in  the  course  of 
a  century  or  two,  is  so  much  a  matter  of  course, 
that  instead  of  exciting  wonder  and  disgust,  one 
is  only  surprised  how  it  should  even  have  attracted 
notice  ;  but  the  question,  whether  we  are  destitute 
of  genius  and  sensibility  and  loftiness  of  character, 
and"  all  the  aspirings  that  prompt  to  illustrious 
achievements,  and  all  the  elements  of  national 
greatness  and  glory,  is  quite  a  distinct  thing,  and 
we  may  appeal,  with  confidence,  to  what  we  have 
done  and  to  what  we  are,  to  the  Revolution  we  are 


394 


HUGH    SWINTON    LEGARE. 


this  day  celebrating,  to  the  career  we  have  since 
run,  to  our  recent  exploits  upon  the  flood  and  in 
the  field,  to  the  skill  of  our  diplomacy,  to  the  com 
prehensive  views  and  undoubted  abilities  of  our 
statesmen,  to  the  virtues  and  prosperity  of  our  peo 
ple,  to  the  exhibition  on  every  occasion  of  all  the 
talents  called  for  by  its  exigencies  and  admitted  by 
its  nature ;  nay,  to  the  very  hatred — the  vehement 
and  irrepressible  hatred,  with  which  these  revilers 
themselves  have  so  abundantly  honoured  us — to 
show  that  nothing  can  be  more  preposterous  than 
the  contempt  with  which  they  have  sometimes 
affected  to  speak  of  us. 

And,  were  there  no  other  argument,  as  there  are 
many,  to  prove  that  the  character  of  the  nation  is  al 
together  worthy  of  its  high  destinies,  would  it  not 
be  enough  to  say  that  we  live  under  a  form  of 
government  and  in  a  state  of  society  to  which  the 
world  has  never  yet  exhibited  a  parallel  1  Is  it 
then  nothing  to  be  free  ?  How  many  nations,  in 
the  whole  annals  of  human  kind,  have  proved 
themselves  worthy  of  being  so  1  Is  it  nothing  that 
we  are  Republicans  1  Were  all  men  as  enlight 
ened,  as  brave,  as  proud  as  they  ought  to  be,  would 
they  suffer  themselves  to  be  insulted  with  any  other 
title  ?  Is  it  nothing,  that  so  many  independent 
sovereignties  should  be  held  together  in  such  a  con 
federacy  as  ours  1  What  does  history  teach  us  of 
the  difficulty  of  institutiag  and  maintaining  such 
a  polity,  and  of  the  glory  that,  of  consequence, 
ought  to  be  given  to  those  who  enjoy  its  advan 
tages  in  so  much  perfection  and  on  so  grand  a 
scale  1  For,  can  any  thing  be  more  striking  and 
sublime,  than  the  idea  of  an  IMPERIAL  REPUBLIC, 
spreading  over  an  extent  of  territory,  more  im 
mense  than  the  empire  of  the  Caesars,  in  the  accu 
mulated  conquests  of  a  thousand  years — without 
prsefects  or  proconsuls  or  publicans — founded  in 
the  maxims  of  common  sense — employing  within 
itself  no  arms,  but  those  of  reason — and  known  to 
its  subjects  only  by  the  blessings  it  bestows  or  perpe 
tuates,  yet  capable  of  directing,  against  a  foreign  foe, 
all  the  energies  of  a  military  despotism — a  Repub 
lic,  in  which  men  are  completely  insignificant,  and 
principles  and  laws  exercise,  throughout  its  vast  do 
minion,  a  peaceful  and  irresistible  sway,  blending 
in  one  divine  harmony  such  various  habits  and 
conflicting  opinions,  and  mingling  in  our  institu 
tions  the  light  of  philosophy  with  all  that  is  daz 
zling  in  the  associations  of  heroic  achievement  and 
extended  domination,  and  deep-seated  and  formida 
ble  power ! 


ENGLAND    AMERICA,  AND  THE  CRE 
DIT  SYSTEM. 

FROM  THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  SUB-TREASURY. 

LET  us  look  at  the  experience  of  the  two  other 
countries  in  which  the  system  exists,  as  we  are  told, 
in  its  most  vicious  state — England  and  the  United 
States.  Look  at  the  result.  I  have  no  faith  at 
all  in  speculative  politics.  A  theorist  in  govern 
ment  is  as  dangerous  as  a  theorist  in  medicine,  or 
in  agriculture,  and  for  precisely  the  same  reason — 


the  subjects  are  too  complicated  and  too  obscure 
for  simple  and  decisive  experiments.  I  go  for  un 
disputed  results  in  the  long  run.  Now  surely  a 
philosophic  inquirer  into  the  history  of  the  com 
merce  and  public  economy  of  nations,  if  he  saw  a 
people  preeminently  distinguished  in  those  parti 
culars  above  all  others,  would  be  inclined  to  as 
cribe  their  superiority  to  what  was  peculiar  in  their 
institutions ;  at  least,  whatever  might  be  his  ideas 
a  priori  on  such  subjects,  he  would  be  very  slow  to 
deny  to  any  remarkable  peculiarity  in  those  insti 
tutions  its  full  importance  as  one  of  the  probable 
causes  of  the  success  which  he  witnessed,  unless 
he  could  clearly  show  the  contrary.  Then,  sir,  by 
what  example  are  we  to  be  guided  in  such  matters 
if  not  by  that  of  England — by  far  the  most  mag 
nificent  manifestation,  that  the  world,  in  any  age 
of  it,  has  ever  beheld,  of  the  might  and  the  gran 
deur  of  civilized  life  1  Sir,  I  have  weighed  every  syl 
lable  that  I  utter — I  express  a  deliberate  conviction, 
founded  upon  a  patient  inquiry  and  a  comparison 
as  complete  as  my  limited  knowledge  has  enabled 
me  to  make  it,  between  the  past  and  the  present 
condition  of  mankind,  and  between  the  great  na 
tion  of  which  I  am  speaking  and  those  which  sur 
round  her.  Sir,  there  is  a  gulph  between  them — 
that  narrow  channel  separates  worlds — it  is  an 
ocean  more  than  three  thousand  miles  wide.  I  ap 
peal  to  any  one  who  has  been  abroad,  whether  going 
from  England  to  any  part  of  the  continent — be  not 
descending  immensely  in  the  scale  of  civilization. 
I  know,  sir,  that  that  word  is  an  ambiguous  one. 
I  know  that,  in  some  of  the  graces  of  polished 
society,  in  some  of  the  arts  of  an  elegant  ima 
gination,  that,  in  the  exact  sciences  and  in  mere 
learning  and  general  intellectual  cultivation,  some 
nations  have  excelled,  perhaps,  many  equalled, 
England.  But,  in  that  civilization,  which,  as  I 
have  said  before,  it  is  the  great  end  of  modern  po 
litical  economy  to  promote,  and  which  is  immedi 
ately  connected  with  the  subject  before  you — which 
at  once  springs  out  of,  and  leads  to,  the  accumula 
tion  of  capital  and  the  distribution  of  wealth  and 
comfort  through  all  classes  of  a  community,  with 
an  immense  aggregate  of  national  power  and  re 
sources — that  civilization  which  enables  man  to 
"  wield  these  elements,  and  arm  him  with  the  force 
of  all  their  legions,"  which  gives  him  dominion 
over  all  other  creatures,  and  makes  him  emphati 
cally  the  Lord  of  the  Universe — that  civilization 
which  consists  not  in  music,  not  in  playing  on  the 
flute,  as  the  Athenian  hero  said,  but  in  turning  a 
small  city  into  a  great  one ;  in  that  victorious,  tri 
umphant,  irresistible  civilization,  there  is  nothing 
recorded  in  the  annals  of  mankind  that  does  not 
sink  into  the  shades  of  the  deepest  eclipse  by  the 
side  of  England.  I  say  nothing  of  her  recent 
achievements  on  the  land  and  the  sea ;  of  her  fleets, 
her  armies,  her  subsidized  allies.  Look  at  the 
Thames  crowded  with  shipping;  visit  her  arsenals, 
her  docks,  her  canals,  her  railways,  her  factories, 
her  mines,  her  warehouses,  her  roads,  and  bridges; 
go  through  the  streets  of  that  wonderful  metropo 
lis,  the  bank,  the  emporium,  and  the  exchange  of 
the  whole  world;  converse  with  those  merchants 


HUGH    SWINTON    LEGAR& 


395 


who  conduct  and  control,  as  far  as  it  is  possible  to 
control,  the  commerce  of  all  nations,  with  those 
manufacturers  who  fill  every  market  with  their  un 
rivalled  products ;  go  into  that  bank  which  is  the 
repository  of  the  precious  metals  for  all  Europe ; 
consider  its  notes  as  well  as  the  bills  of  private 
bankers,  at  a  premium  everywhere,  more  valuable 
than  specie,  symbols  not  merely  of  gold,  but  of 
what  is  far  more  precious  than  gold,  yea,  than  fine 
gold,  of  perfect  good  faith,  of  unblemished  integ 
rity,  of  sagacious  enterprise,  of  steadfast,  persever 
ing  industry,  of  boundless  wealth,  of  business  co 
extensive  with  the  earth,  and  of  all  these  things 
possessed,  exercised,  enjoyed,  protected  under  a 
system  of  liberty  chastened  by  the  law  which  main 
tains  it,  and  of  law  softened  and  mitigated  by  the 
spirit  of  liberty  which  it  breathes  throughout.  Sir, 
I  know,  as  well  as  any  one,  what  compensations 
there  are  for  all  this  opulence  and  power,  for  it  is 
the  condition  of  our  being  that  we  "  buy  our  bless 
ings  at  a  price."  I  know  that  there  are  disturbing 
causes  which  have  hitherto  marred,  in  some  degree, 
the  effect  of  this  high  and  mighty  civilization ;  but  the 
hand  of  reform  has  been  already  applied  to  them, 
and  every  thing  promises  the  most  auspicious  re 
sults.  I  have  it  on  the  most  unquestionable  autho 
rity,  because,  from  an  unwilling  witness,  that  with 
in  the  memory  of  man,  never  were  the  labouring 
classes  of  England  so  universally  employed,  and 
so  comfortably  situated  as  at  the  beginning  of  the 
present  year. 

But  I  said  that  there  was  another  nation  that 
had  some  experience  in  banking  and  its  effects. 
Sir,  I  dare  not  trust  myself  to  speak  of  my  coun 
try  with  the  rapture  which  I  habitually  feel  when 
I  contemplate  her  marvellous  history.  But  this  I 
will  say,  that  on  my  return  to  it,  after  an  absence 
of  only  four  years,  I  was  filled  with  wonder  at  all 
I  saw  and  all  I  heard.  What  upon  earth  is  to  be 
compared  with  it  1  I  found  New  York  grown  up 
to  almost  double  its  former  size,  with  the  air  of  a 
great  capital,  instead  of  a  mere  flourishing  com 
mercial  town,  as  I  had  known  it.  I  listened  to 
accounts  of  voyages  of  a  thousand  miles  in  mag 
nificent  steamboats  on  the  waters  of  those  great 
lakes,  which,  but  the  other  day,  I  left  sleeping  in 
the  primeval  silence  of  nature,  in  the  recesses  of  a 
vast  wilderness ;  and  I  felt  that  there  is  a  grandeur 
and  a  majesty  in  this  irresistible  onward  march  of 
a  race,  created,  as  I  believe,  and  elected  to  possess 
and  people  a  continent,  which  belong  to  few  other 
objects,  either  of  the  moral  or  material  world.  We 
may  become  so  much  accustomed  to  such  things 
that  they  shall  make  as  little  impression  on  our 
minds  as  the  glories  of  the  Heavens  above  us ;  but, 
looking  on  them,  lately,  as  with  the  eye  of  the 
stranger,  I  felt,  what  a  recent  English  traveller  is 
said  to  have  remarked,  that,  far  from  being  without 
poetry,  as  some  have  vainly  alleged,  our  whole 
country  is  one  great  poem.  Sir,  it  is  so ;  and  if 
there  be  a  man  that  can  think  of  what  is  doing,  in 
all  parts  of  this  most  blessed  of  all  lands,  to  em 
bellish  and  advance  it,  who  can  contemplate  that 
living  mass  of  intelligence,  activity  and  improve 
ment  as  it  rolls  on,  in  its  sure  and  steady  progress, 


I  to  the  uttermost  extremities  of  the  west;  who  can 
see  scenes  of  savage  desolation  transformed,  almost 
with  the  suddenness  of  enchantment,  in  to  those  of 
fruitfulness  and  beauty  ;  crowned  with  flourishing 
cities,  filled  with  the  noblest  of  all  populations  ;  if 
there  he  a  man,  I  say,  that  can  witness  all  this 
passing  under  his  very  eyes,  without  feeling  his 
heart  beat  high,  and  his  imagination  warmed  and 
transported  by  it,  be  sure,  sir,  that  the  raptures  of 
song  exist  not  for  him ;  he  would  listen  in  vain  to 
Tasso  or  Camoens,  telling  a  tale  of  the  wars  of 
knights  and  crusaders,  or  of  the  discovery  and  con 
quest  of  another  hemisphere. 

Sir,  thinking  as  I  do  of  these  things ;  not  doubting, 
for  a  moment,  the  infinite  superiority  of  our  race 
in  every  thing  that  relates  to  a  refined  and  well 
ordered  public  economy,  and  in  all  the  means  and 
instruments  of  a  high  social  improvement,  it  strikes 
me  as  of  all  paradoxes  the  most  singular,  to  hear 
foreign  examples  seriously  proposed  for  our  imita 
tion  in  the  very  'matters  wherein  that  superiority 
has  ever  appeared  to  me  to  be  most  unquestion 
able.  The  reflection  has  occurred  to  me  a  thousand 
times  in  travelling  over  the  continent  of  Europe,  as 
I  passed  through  filthy  ill-paved  villages,  through 
towns  in  which  there  is  no  appearance  of  an  im 
provement  having  been  made  since  the  Reforma 
tion,  as  I  have  looked  at  the  wretched  hovel  of  the 
poor  peasant  or  artisan,  or  seen  him  at  his  labours 
with  his  clumsy  implements  and  coarse  gear — what 
a  change  would  take  place  in  the  whole  aspect  of 
the  country,  if  it  were  to  fall  in  the  hands  of  Ame 
ricans  for  a  single  generation  ! 

But  is  it  paper  money  and  the  credit  system 
alone  that  have  achieved  all  these  wonders?  I  do 
not  say  so,  sir ;  but  can  you  say,  can  any  one  presume 
to  say,  that  they  have  not  done  much  of  all  this  ? 
I  know  that  the  cardinal  spring  and  source  of  our 
success  is  freedom — freedom,  with  the  peculiar 
character  that  belongs  to  it  in  our  race— freedom 
of  thought,  freedom  of  speech,  freedom  of  action, 
freedom  of  commerce,  freedom  not  merely  from 
the  oppressions,  but  from  those  undue  restraints 
and  that  impertinent  interference  of  government  in 
the  interests  properly  belonging  to  individuals, 
which  stand  in  the  way  of  all  improvement  in  the 
nations  of  continental  Europe.  It  is  this  vital 
principle,  the  animating  element  of  social  equality, 
tempered  and  sobered  by  a  profound  respect  for  the 
authority  of  the  laws,  and  for  the  rights  of  others, 
and  acting  upon  that  other  prominent  characteris 
tic  of  the  Anglo-Norman  race,  the  strong  instinct 
of  properly,  with  the  personal  independence  and 
personal  comfort  that  belong  to  it,  that  explains 
our  unrivalled  and  astonishing  progress.  But  of 
this  rational,  diffusive  liberty,  among  a  people  so 
intelligent  as  ours,  the  credit  system  is  the  natural 
fruit,  the  inseparable  companion,  the  necessary 
means  and  instrument.  It  is  part  and  parcel  of 
our  existence.  Whoever  heard  of  CREDIT  in  a 
despotism,  or  an  anarchy  1  It  implies  confidence — 
confidence  in  yourself,  confidence  in  your  neigh 
bour,  confidence  in  your  government,  confidence  in 
the  administration  of  the  laws,  confidence  in  the 
sagacity,  the  integrity,  the  discretion  of  those  with 


396 


HUGH    SWINTON    LEGARE. 


whom  you  have  to  deal;  confidence,  in  a  word,  in 
your  destiny,  and  your  fortune,  in  the  destinies  and 
the  fortune  of  the  country  to  which  you  belong ; 
as,  for  instance,  in  the  case  of  a  great  national 
debt.  It  is  the  fruit,  I  say,  of  all  that  is  most  pre 
cious  in  civilized  life,  and  to  quarrel  with  it  is  to 
be  ungrateful  to  God  for  some  of  the  greatest  bless 
ings  he  has  vouchsafed  to  man.  Compare  Asia 
with  Europe;  hoarding  has  been  the  usage  of  the 
former  from  time  immemorial,  because  it  is  slavish, 
oppressed  and  barbarous;  and  it  is  curious  to  see 
the  effect  of  English  laws  in  breaking  up  (as  they 
are  doing)  that  system  in  Hindoostan.  Depend 
upon  it,  sir,  all  such  ideas  are  utterly  alien  to  our 
way  of  thinking — to  all  the  habitudes  of  our  people, 
and  all  the  interests  of  the  country.  My  friends 
from  beyond  the  mountains  are  familiar  with  the 
great  principle,  the  magical  effect  of  credit  in  a 
young  and  progressive  country.  They  know  that 
miracles  are  wrought  by  a  small  advance  of  money 
to  enable  enterprise  and  industry  to  bring  into  cul 
tivation  a  virgin  soil.  They  know  how  soon  the 
treasures  of  its  unworn  fertility  enable  them  to  pay 
off  a  loan  of  that  sort  with  usurious  interest,  and 
make  them  proprietors  of  estates  rising  in  value 
with  the  lapse  of  every  moment.  Compare  the 
great  western  country  now,  with  what  it  was  twenty 
years  ago — sell  it  sub  hasta — and  compute,  if 
the  powers  of  arithmetic  will  enable  you  to  do  so, 
the  augmentation  of  its  riches.  Sir,  this  is  one  of 
the  phenomena  of  our  situation  to  which  attention 
has  hardly  ever  been  called — the  manner  in  which 
the  mere  increase  of  population  acts  upon  the  value 
of  property.  To  be  struck  with  the  prodigious  re 
sults  produced  in  this  simple  way,  you  have  only 
to  compare  the  estimated  taxable  property  in  Penn 
sylvania  and  New  York,  when  it  was  returned  for 
direct  taxation  in  '99,  with  the  returns  of  the  same 
property,  for  the  same  purpose,  in  1813,  after  an  in 
terval  of  fourteen  years — you  will  see  how  it  is  that 
our  people  have  been  enriched  by  debt,  and  «  by 
owing,  owe  not" — how  with  a  balance  of  payments 
almost  continually  against  them  from  the  first  set 
tlement  of  the  country,  they  have  grown  in  riches 
beyond  all  precedent  or  parallel.  You  will  appre 
ciate  all  the  blessings  of  the  credit  system — and 
imagine,  perhaps,  how  this  wonderful  progress 
would  have  been  impeded  and  embarrassed  by  the 
difficulties  of  a  metallic  circulation. 

CATULLUS. 

FROM   AN  ESSAY    ON   ROMAN    LITERATURE. 

Lv  reference  to  the  merits  of  any  merely  literary 
composition,  a  foreigner  must  ever  distrust  his  own 
opinions  when  they  do  not  entirely  coincide  with 
those  of  native  critics.  For  this  reason,  we  feel 
bound  to  admit  that  we  probably  overrate  Catullus 
and  Lucretius  in  considering  them  (for  we  profess 
to  have  always  considered  them) — as  in  point  of 
original  genius,  the  two  first  poets  of  ancient  Rome. 
The  critics  of  their  own  country  say  nothing  that 
is  not  in  their  favour,  but  it  is  plain  that  they  do 
not  entertain  so  exalted  an  opinion  of  their  excel 
lence  as  we  have  ventured  to  express.  When  we 
speak  of  « the  poet,"  says  Justinian,  in  the  begin 


ning  of  his  Institutes,  we  mean  Homer  among  the 
Greeks,  and  Virgil  among  the  Romans ;  and  there 
are  others  besides  the  Mantuan  bard,  who  seem  in 
!  the  same  way  to  take  precedence  of  our  favourites 
in  the  estimation  of  ancient  writers. 

Catullus  had,  among  the  poets  of  his  own  coun- 
i  try,  the  title  of  doctus,  or  learned;  for  what  reason, 
is  not  quite  clear.  If  we  are  to  suppose,  however, 
j  with  some  of  the  commentators,  that  it  was  be- 
j  cause  of  his  familiar  acquaintance  with  the  Greek 
language  and  literature,  we  must  do  him  the  justice 
to  say,  that  of  all  imitators  he  has  the  most  origi 
nality — that  of  all  erudite  men  he  retains  the  great 
est  share  of  the  playfulness,  the  buoyancy,  and  the 
vigour  of  natural  talent.  There  is  no  constraint  what 
ever  in  his  movements — no  parade  or  pedantry  in 
his  style.  On  the  contrary,  there  never  was  a  poet — 
we  do  not  even  except  Shakspeare — who  seemed  to 
write  more  as  the  mood  happened  to  prompt,  and 
whose  verses  are  stamped  with  such  a  decided  cha- 
j  racter  of  facility  and  of  spontaneity.  This,  indeed,  is 
|  the  great,  and  among  the  Latin  poets,  the  peculiar 
charm  of  Catullus.  Of  all  the  Romans,  he  is  most 
of  a  Greek,  not  by  study  and  imitation,  but  by  na 
ture.  His  lively  wit,  his  voluptuous  character,  his 
hearty  affections,  his  powerful  imagination,  seem 
naturally  to  overflow  in  verse  and  "  voluntary  wake 
harmonious  numbers."  Julius  Caesar  Scaliger, 
who  finds  fault  with  every  thing,  disputed  this 
poet's  pretensions  to  learning,  and  denounced  his 
works  as  stuffed  with  nothing  but  vulgarity  and 
ribaldry,  but  he  afterwards  sung  a  palinodia,  de 
claring  the  Galliambic  ode  a  most  noble  composi 
tion,  and  the  Epithalamium  of  Thetis  and  Peleus 
worthy  to  be  placed  by  the  side  of  the  Eneicl. 
Other  writers  have  been  equally  lavish  of  their 
praise  for  other  excellencies ;  Martial,  for  instance, 
ascribes  to  him  an  unrivalled  superiority  in  the 
epigram.  It  is  impossible  to  imagine  any  two 
things  from  the  same  pen  more  entirely  unlike  each 
other,  than  the  ode  just  mentioned,  and  the  sweet 
and  delicate  effusion  upon  Lesbia's  Sparrow,  nor 
any  falling  off  so  sudden  as  from  either  of  these 
to  the  vulgarity  and  nastiness  of  some  of  the  Hen- 
decasyllables.  His  amatory  poetry  is  less  tender 
than  that  of  Tibullus,  and  less  gay  and  gallant, 
than  that  of  Ovid ;  but  it  is  more  simple,  more  cor 
dial,  more  voluptuous  than  either.  A  modern 
reader  would  be  very  much  disappointed  if  he  ex 
pected  to  find  in  it  that  delicacy  of  sentiment ;  that 
cule  fles  femmes ;  that  distant,  mysterious,  and 
adoring  love  which  inspired  the  muse  of  Dante 
and  Petrarch,  and  which  has  ever  since  character 
ized  the  amorous  ditties  of  our  sonnetteers.  The 
passion  of  Catullus  had  not  a  particle  of  Platonic 
abstraction  in  it — it  was  as  far  as  possible  from  being 
metaphysical.  It  is  deeply  tinged  with  sensuality, 
but  it  has  absolute  possession  of  his  whole  being  ;  he 
seems  to  be  smitten  to  the  bottom  of  his  heart  with 
its  power — to  be  quite  intoxicated  with  its  delicious 
raptures.  Itis  that "  drunkenness  of  soul,"  of  which 
Byron  speaks,  from  an  imagination  excited  and  ex 
alted  by  visions  of  bliss  and  images  of  beauty — 
with  every  feeling  absorbed  in  one  devoted  passion, 
and  all  the  senses  dissolved  in  a  dream  of  love. 


HUGH   SWINTON    LEG  ARE. 


397 


The  sensibility  of  Catullus,  however,  is  not  con 
fined  to  the  subjects  of  amatory  song.  There  are 
several  of  his  poems,  on  various  occasions,  which 
are  full  of  tenderness  and  deep  pathos.  Quando 
leggete,  says  Flaminio,  his  imitator  and  almost  his 
rival — "  non  vi  sentite  voi  liquefare  il  cuore  di  dol- 
cezza."  Nothing  can  be  more  true  to  nature  and 
more  touching  than  his  address  to  the  Peninsula 
of  Sirmio — his  home,  and  perhaps  his  birth-place. 
The  Carmen  Nuptiale  has  been  often  imitated,  and 
is  committed  to  memory  by  every  scholar,  and  the 
Epithalamium  of  Julius  and  Manlius  may  be  re 
garded  as  perfect  in  its  kind.  But  the  noblest 
specimen,  beyond  comparison,  of  poetry  and  pathos 
which  the  works  of  Catullus  present — the  most 
powerful  appeal  to  the  sympathies  of  the  human 
bosom  as  the  liveliest  picture  of  its  hidden  work 
ings  and  intensest  agonies,  is  that  Galliambic  ode 
to  which  we  have  already  alluded.  The  subject  is, 
to  be  sure,  a  very  affecting  one.  Under  the  influence 
of  a  frenzied  enthusiasm,  a  young  man  forsakes  his 
home  and  his  country,  for  the  purpose  of  dedicat 
ing  himself  to  the  service  of  the  Idaean  Goddess. 
The  vow  of  chastity  which  a  monk  may  break, 
was  rendered  inviolable  to  the  Galla?  (for  so  the 
priests  of  Cybele  were  called)  by  the  same  means 
which,  in  later  times,  a  father  of  the  church  adopted 
to  disarm  the  temptations  of  the  flesh.  Atys,  in 
the  frenzy  of  his  first  excitement,  is  regularly  ini 
tiated.  He  rushes  madly  forth  to  mingle  in  the 
revelry  of  the  Gallae,  whom  he  arouses  by  the  trump 
and  the  timbrel,  and  wildly  exhorts  to  follow  him 
to  the  lofty  groves  of  the  goddess.  Their  frantic 
demeanor,  the  Bacchanalian  dances,  their  shrill  and 
piercing  howls  are  painted  with  a  force  of  colour 
ing  which  nothing  can  surpass.  The  imitative 
harmony  of  the  versification  is  perfect — it  is  ab 
rupt,  irregular,  disordered.  You  hear  it  in  the 
hurried  step,  the  clashing  cymbal,  the  resounding 
timbrel.  To  all  this  commotion  and  disorder,  a 
moment  of  repose — of  soft  but  fatal  repose — suc 
ceeds.  The  Mffinades,  exhausted  by  their  furious 
excitement,  sink  down  at  the  threshold  of  the  tem 
ple  to  sleep.  A  beautiful  morning  rises  upon  them, 
and  Atys  wakes — to  despair.  His  lament  is  affect 
ing  beyond  the  power  of  language  to  describe.  It 
seems  wrung  from  a  broken  heart  and  is  fraught 
with  all  its  agony  and  desolation.  All  the  poetry 
of  all  ages  may  be  safely  challenged  to  produce 
any  thing  more  painfully  interesting  and  pathetic. 


GREEK  LANGUAGE  AND  LITERATURE. 

FROM   AN   ESSAY  ON   CLASSICAL  LEARNING. 

IT  is  impossible  to  contemplate  the  annals  of 
Greek  literature  and  art,  without  being  struck  with 
them,  as  by  far  the  most  extraordinary  and  brilliant 
phenomena  in  the  history  of  the  human  mind. 
The  very  language — even  in  its  primitive  simpli 
city,  as  it  came  down  from  the  rhapsodists  who 
celebrated  the  exploits  of  Hercules  and  Theseus, 
was  as  great  a  wonder  as  any  it  records.  All  the 
other  tongues  that  civilized  man  has  spoken  are 
Door  and  feeble,  and  barbarous,  in  comparison  with 


it.     Its  compass  and  flexibility,  its  riches  and  its 
powers,  are  altogether  unlimited.     It  not  only  ex 
presses  with  precision  all  that  is  thought  or  known 
at  any  given  period,  but  it  enlarges  itself  naturally, 
with  the  progress  of  science,  and  affords,  as  if  with 
out  an  effort,  a  new  phrase,  or  a  systematic  nomen 
clature  whenever  one  is  called  for.     It  is  equally 
adapted  to  every  variety  of  style  and  subject. — to 
the  most  shadowy  subtlety  of  distinction,  and   the 
utmost  exactness  of  definition,  as  well  as  to  the 
energy  and  the  pathos  of  popular  eloquence — to 
the  majesty,  the  elevation,  the  variety  of  the  epic, 
and  the  boldest  license  of  the  dithyrambic,  no  less 
than  to  the  sweetness  of  the  elegy,  the  simplicity 
of  the  pastoral,  or  the  heedless  gaiety  and  delicate 
characterization   of  comedy.     Above  all,  what  is 
an  unspeakable  charm — a  sort  of  naivete  is  pecu 
liar  to  it,  which  appears  in  all  those  various  styles, 
and  is  quite  as  becoming  and  agreeable  in  a  histo 
rian  or  a  philosopher — Xenophon  for  instance — as 
in  the   light  and  jocund  numbers  of  Anacreon. 
Indeed,  were  there  no  other  object   in  learning 
Greek  but  to  see  to  what  perfection  language  is 
capable  of  being  carried,  not  only  as  a  medium  of 
communication,  but  as  an  instrument  of  thought, 
we,  see  not  why  the  time  of  a  young  man  would 
not  be  just  as  well  bestowed  in  acquiring  a  know 
ledge  of  it — for  all  the  purposes,  at  least,  of  a  libe 
ral  or  elementary  education — as  in  learning  alge 
bra,  another  specimen  of  a  language  or  arrangement 
of  signs  perfect  in  its  kind.     But  this  wonderful 
idiom  happens  to  have  been  spoken,  as  was  hinted 
in  the  preceding  paragraph,  by  a  race  as  wonderful. 
The  very  first  monument  of  their  genius — the  most 
ancient  relic  of  letters  in  the  western  world — stands 
to  this  day  altogether  unrivalled  in  the  exalted  class 
to  which  it  belongs.     What  was  the  history  of  this 
immortal  poem  and  of  its  great  fellow  1     Was  it  a 
single  individual,  and  who  was  he,  that  composed 
them  1     Had  he  any  master  or  model  1     What  had 
been  his  education,  and  what  was  the  state  of  so 
ciety  in  which  he  lived  ]     These  questions  are  full 
of  interest  to  a  philosophical  inquirer  into  the  in 
tellectual  history  of  the  species,  but  they  are  espe 
cially  important  with  a  view  to  the  subject  of  the 
present  discussion.     Whatever  causes  account  for 
the  matchless  excellence  of  these  primitive  poems, 
and  for  that  of  the  language  in  which  they  are 
written,  will  go  far  to  explain  the  extraordinary  cir 
cumstance,  that   the    same   favoured   people   left 
nothing  unattempted  in  philosophy,  in  letters  and 
in  arts,  and  attempted  nothing  without  signal,  and 
in  some  cases,    unrivalled    success.     Winkleman 
undertakes  to  assign  some  reasons  for  this  aston 
ishing  superiority  of  the  Greeks,  and  talks  very 
learnedly  about  a  fine  climate,  delicate  organs,  ex 
quisite  susceptibility,  the  full  development  of  the 
human  form  by  gymnastic  exercises,  &c.     For  our 
own  part,  we  are  content  to  explain  the  phenome 
non  after  the  manner  of  the  Scottish  school  of  me 
taphysicians,  in  which  we  learned  the  little  that  we 
profess  to  know  of  that  department  of  philosophy,  by 
resolving  it  at  once  in  an  original  law  of  nature : 
in  other  words,  by  substantially,  but  decently,  con 
fessing  it  to  be  inexplicable. 
2L 


WILLIAM   WARE. 

[Born  1797.    Died  1852.] 


WILLIAM  WARE  was  born  at  Hingham  in 
Massachusetts  on  the  third  of  August,  1797. 
He  is  a  descendant  in  the  fifth  generation  from 
Robert  Ware,  one  of  the  earliest  settlers  of  the 
colony,  who  came  from  England  about  the 
year  1644.  His  father  was  Henry  Ware,  D.D., 
many  years  honourably  distinguished  by  his 
connection  with  the  Divinity  School  at  Cam 
bridge,  and  the  late  Henry  Ware,  jr.,  D.  D., 
was  his  elder  brother.  His  only  living  brother 
is  Dr.  John  Ware,  who  also  shares  of  the  lite 
rary  tastes  and  talents  of  his  family. 

William  Ware  was  graduated  at  Harvard 
University  in  1816.  After  reading  theology 
the  usual  term  he  was  settled  over  the  Unita 
rian  society  of  Chambers  street,  New  York, 
where  he  remained  about  sixteen  years.  He 
gave  little  to  the  press  except  a  few  sermons, 
and  four  numbers  of  a  religious  miscellany 
called  The  Unitarian,  until  near  the  close  of 
this  period,  when  he  commenced  the  publica 
tion  in  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine  of  those 
brilliant  papers  which  in  the  autumn  of  1836 
were  given  to  the  world  under  the  title  of  Ze- 
nobia  or  the  Fall  of  Palmyra,  an  Historical 
Romance.  Before  the  completion  of  this 
work  he  had  resigned  his  pastoral  office  and 
removed  to  Brookline,  near  Boston. 

The  romance  of  Zenobia  is  in  the  form  of 
letters  to  Marcus  Curtius,  at  Rome,  from  Lu 
cius  Manlius  Piso,  a  senator,  who  is  supposed 
to  have  been  led  by  circumstances  of  a  private 
nature  to  visit  Palmyra  toward  the  close  of  the 
third  century,  to  have  become  acquainted  with 
the  queen  and  her  court,  to  have  seen  the  City 
of  the  Desert  in  its  greatest  magnificence,  and 
to  have  witnessed  its  destruction  by  the  Em 
peror  Aurelian.     For  the  purposes  of  romantic 
fiction  the  subject  is  perhaps  the  finest  that  had 
not  been  appropriated  in  all  ancient  history ;   ; 
and  the  treatment  of  it,  which  is  highly  pictu 
resque  arid  dramatic  throughout,  shows  that  I 
the  author  has  been  a  successful  student  of  the  j 
institutions,  manners  and  social  life  of  the  age  ' 
he  has  attempted  to  illustrate. 

Mr.  Ware's  sec«nd  romance,  Probus,  or 
Rome  in  the  Third  Century,  was  published  in  •. 


the  summer  of  1838.  It  is  a  sort  of  sequel  to 
the  Zenobia,  and  is  composed  of  letters  pur 
porting  to  be  written  by  Piso  from  Rome  to 
Fausta,  the  daughter  of  Gracchus,  one  of  the 
old  Palmyrene  ministers.  •  In  the  first  work 
Piso  meets  with  Probus,  a  Christian  teacher, 
and  is  partially  convinced  of  the  truth  of  his 
doctrine ;  he  is  now  a  disciple,  and  a  sharer  of 
the  persecutions  which  marked  the  last  days  of 
the  reign  of  Aurelian.  The  characters  in  Pro- 
bus  are  skilfully  drawn  and  contrasted,  and 
with  a  deeper  moral  interest,  from  the  frequent 
discussions  of  doctrine  which  it  contains,  the 
romance  has  the  classical  style  and  spirit  which 
characterized  its  predecessor. 

Mr.  Ware's  third  work  is  entitled  Julian,  or 
Scenes  in  Judea,  and  was  published  in  1841. 
The  hero  is  a  Roman,  of  Hebrew  descent,  who 
visits  the  land  of  his  ancestors,  to  gratify  a 
liberal  curiosity,  during  the  last  days  of  the 
Saviour.  Every  thing  connected  with  Pales 
tine  at  this  period  is  so  familiar  that  the  ground 
might  seem  to  be  sacred  to  History  and  Re 
ligion  ;  but  it  has  often  been  invaded  by  the 
romancer,  and  perhaps  never  with  more  suc 
cess  than  in  the  present  instance.  Although 
Julian  has  less  freshness  than  Zenobia,  it  has 
an  air  of  truth  and  sincerity  that  renders  it 
scarcely  less  interesting. 

Mr.  Ware  was  several  years  editor  of  the 
Christian  Examiner,  the  very  able  journal  of 
religion  and  letters  published  at  Boston,  and 
he  was  till  1845  minister  of  the  Unitarian  So- 
ciety  at  West  Cambridge,  but  ill  health  has 
since  compelled  him  to  relinquish  all  kinds  of 
occupation.  He  died,  Feb.  19,  1852. 

The  writings  of  Mr.  Ware  betray  a  familiar 
ity  with  the  civilization  of  the  ancients,  and 
are  written  in  a  graceful,  pure  and  brilliant 
style.  In  our  literature  they  are  peculiar,  and 
they  will  bear  a  favourable  comparison  with, 
the  most  celebrated  historical  romances  relat 
ing  to  the  same  scenes  and  periods  which 
have  been  written  abroad.  They  have  passed 
through  many  editions  in  Great  Britain,  and 
have  been  translated  into  German  and  other 
languages  of  the  continent. 


WILLIAM    WARE. 


399 


THE  JOURNEY  TO  PALMYRA. 

FROM   ZENOBIA. 

I  WILL  not  detain  you  long  with  our  voyage,  but 
will  only  mark  out  its  course.  Leaving  the  Afri 
can  shore,  we  struck  across  to  Sicily,  and  coasting 
along  its  eastern  border,  beheld  with  pleasure  the 
towering  form  of  ^Etna,  sending  up  into  the  hea 
vens  a  dull  and  sluggish  cloud  of  vapours.  We 
then  ran  between  the  Peloponnesus  and  Crete,  and 
so  held  our  course  till  the  Island  of  Cyprus  rose 
like  her  own  fair  goddess  from  the  ocean,  and  filled  j 
our  eyes  with  a  beautiful  vision  of  hill  and  valley, 
wooded  promontory,  and  glittering  towns  and 
villas.  A  fair  wind  soon  withdrew  us  from  these 
charming  prospects,  and  after  driving  us  swiftly 
and  roughly  over  the  remainder  of  our  way,  re 
warded  us  with  a  brighter  and  more  welcome  vision 
still — the  coast  of  Syria  and  our  destined  port, 
Berytus. 

As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  both  toward  the 
north  and  the  south,  we  beheld  a  luxuriant  region, 
crowded  with  villages,  and  giving  every  indication 
of  comfort  and  wealth.  The  city  itself,  which  we 
rapidly  approached,  was  of  inferior  size,  but  pre 
sented  an  agreeable  prospect  of  warehouses,  public 
and  private  edifices,  overtopped  here  and  there  by 
the  lofty  palm,  and  other  trees  of  a  new  and  pecu 
liar  foliage.  Four  days  were  consumed  here  in  the 
purchase  of  slaves,  camels,  and  horses,  and  in  other 
preparations  for  the  journey  across  the  desert. 
Two  routes  represented  themselves,  one  more,  the 
other  less  direct;  the  last,  though  more  circuitous, 
appeared  to  me  the  more  desirable,  as  it  would  take 
me  within  sight  of  the  modern  glories  and  ancient 
remains  of  Heliopolis.  This,  therefore,  was  de 
termined  upon ;  and  on  the  morning  of  the  fifth 
day  we  set  forward  upon  our  long  march.  Four 
slaves,  two  camels,  and  three  horses,  with  an  Arab 
conductor,  constituted  our  little  caravan ;  but  for 
greater  safety  we  attached  ourselves  to  a  much  larger 
one  than  our  own,  in  which  we  were  swallowed 
up  and  lost,  consisting  of  travellers  and  traders  from 
all  parts  of  the  world,  and  who  were  also  on  their 
way  to  Palmyra,  as  a  point  whence  to  separate  to 
various  parts  of  the  vast  east.  It  would  delight 
me  to  lay  before  you,  with  the  distinctness  and  mi 
nuteness  of  a  picture,  the  whole  of  this  novel  and 
to  me  interesting  route ;  but  I  must  content  my 
self  with  a  slight  sketch,  and  reserve  fuller  com 
munications  to  the  time  when,  once  more  seated 
with  you  upon  the  Coelian,  we  enjoy  the  freedom 
of  social  converse. 

Our  way  through  the  valleys  of  Libanus  was  like 
one  long  wandering  among  the  pleasure  grounds 
of  opulent  citizens.  The  land  was  everywhere 
richly  cultivated,  and  a  happier  peasantry,  as  far 
as  the  eye  of  the  traveller  could  judge,  nowhere 
•exists.  The  most  luxuriant  valleys  of  our  own 
Italy  are  not  more  crowded  with  the  evidences  of 
plenty  and  contentment.  Upon  drawing  near  to  the 
ancient  Baalbec,  I  found,  on  inquiry  of  our  guide, 
that  we  were  not  to  pass  through  it,  as  I  had  hoped, 
nor  even  very  near  it,  not  nearer  than  between 
two  and  three  miles.  So  that  in  this  I  had  been 


clearly  deceived  by  those  of  whom  I  had  made  the 
most  exact  inquiries  at  Berytus.  The  event  proved, 
however,  that  it  was  not  for  nothing ;  for  soon  af 
ter  we  had  started  on  our  journey,  on  the  morning 
of  the  second  day,  turning  suddenly  around  the 
projecting  rock  of  a  mountain  ridge,  we  all  at  once 
beheld,  as  if  a  vail  had  been  lifted  up,  Heliopolis 
and  its  suburbs  spread  out  before  us  in  all  their 
various  beauty.  The  city  lay  about  three  miles 
distant.  I  could  only  therefore  identify  its  prin 
ciple  structure,  the  Temple  of  the  Sun,  as  built  by 
the  first  Antonine.  This  towered  above  the  walls 
and  over  all  the  other  buildings,  and  gave  vast  ideas 
of  the  greatness  of  the  place,  leading  the  mind  to 
crowd  it  with  other  edifices  that  should  bear  some 
proportion  to  this  noble  monument  of  imperial 
magnificence,  As  suddenly  as  the  view  of  this 
imposing  scene  had  been  revealed,  so  suddenly 
was  it  again  eclipsed  by  another  short  turn  in  the 
road,  which  took  us  once  more  into  the  mountain 
valleys.  But  the  overhanging  and  impenetrable 
foliage  of  a  Syrian  forest  shielding  me  from  the 
fierce  rays  of  a  burning  sun,  soon  reconciled 'me 
to  my  loss — more  especially  as  I  knew  that  in  a 
short  time  we  were  to  enter  upon  the  sandy  desert 
which  stretches  from  the  Anti-Libanus  almost  to 
the  very  walls  of  Palmyra. 

Upon  this  boundless  desert  we  now  soon  en 
tered.  The  scene  which  it  presented  was  more 
dismal  than  I  can  describe.  A  red,  moving  sand 
— or  hard  and  baked  by  the  heat  of  a  sun  such  as 
Rome  never  knows — low,  gray  rocks  just  rising  here 
and  there  above  the  level  of  the  plain,  with  now 
and  then  the  dead  and  glittering  trunk  of  a  vast 
cedar,  whose  roots  seemed  as  if  they  had  outlasted 
centuries — the  bones  of  camels  and  elephants,  scat 
tered  on  either  hand,  dazzling  the  sight  by  reason 
of  their  excessive  whiteness — at  a  distance  occa 
sionally  an  Arab  of  the  desert,  for  a  moment  sur 
veying  our  long  line,  and  then  darting  off  to  his 
fastnesses — these  were  the  objects  which,  with 
scarce  any  variation,  met  our  eyes  during  the  four 
wearisome  days  that  we  dragged  ourselves  over 
this  wild  and  inhospitable  region.  A  little  after  the 
noon  of  the  fourth  day,  as  we  started  on  our  way, 
having  refreshed  ourselves  and  our  exhausted  ani 
mals,  at  a  spring  which  here  poured  out  its  warm 
but  still  grateful  waters  to  the  traveller,  my  ears 
received  the  agreeable  news  that  toward  the  east 
there  could  now  be  discerned  the  dark  line  which 
indicated  our  approach  to  the  verdant  tract  that 
encompasses  the  great  city.  Our  own  excited 
spirits  were  quickly  imparted  to  our  beasts,  and  a 
more  rapid  movement  soon  revealed  into  distinct 
ness  the  high  land  and  waving  groves  of  palm  trees 
which  mark  the  site  of  Palmyra. 

It  was  several  miles  before  we  reached  the  city, 
that  we  suddenly  found  ourselves — landing  as  it 
were  from  a  sea  upon  an  island  or  continent — in  a 
rich  and  thickly  peopled  country.  The  roads  indi 
cated  an  approach  to  a  great  capital  in  the  increas 
ing  numbers  of  those  who  thronged  them,  meet 
ing  and  passing  us,  overtaking  us,  or  crossing  our 
path.  Elephants,  camels,  and  the  dromedary, 
which  I  had  before  seen  only  in  the  amphitheatres, 


400 


WILLIAM    WARE. 


I  here  beheld  as  the  native  inhabitants  of  the  soil,  j 
Frequent  villas  of  the  rich  and  luxurious  Palmy-  ! 
renes  to  which  they  retreat  from  the  greater  heats  : 
of  the  city  now  threw  a  lovely  charm  over  the  scene. 
Nothing  can  exceed  the  splendour  of  the  sumptu-  ! 
ous  palaces.  Italy  itself  has  nothing  which  sur 
passes  them.  The  new  and  brilliant  costumes  of 
the  persons  whom  we  met,  together  with  the  rich 
housings  of  the  animals  they  rode,  served  greatly  j 
to  add  to  all  this  beauty.  I  was  still  entranced,  as  j 
it  were,  by  the  objects  around  me,  and  buried  in 
reflection,  when  I  was  aroused  by  the  shout  of 
those  who  led  the  caravan,  and  who  had  attained 
the  summit  of  a  little  rising  ground,  saying,  "  Pal 
myra  !  Palmyra !"  I  urged  forward  my  steed,  and 
in  a  moment  the  most  wonderful  prospect  I  ever 
beheld — no,  I  cannot  except  even  Rome — burst 
upon  my  sight.  Flanked  by  hills  of  considerable 
elevation  on  the  east,  the  city  filled  the  whole 
plain  below  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  both 
toward  the  north  and  toward  the  south.  This  im 
mense  plain  was  all  one  vast  and  boundless  city. 
It  seemed  to  me  to  be  larger  than  Rome.  Yet  I 
knew  very  well  that  it  could  not  be,  that  it  was  not. 
And  it  was  some  time  before  I  understood  the  true 
character  of  the  scene  before  me,  so  as  to  separate 
the  city  from  the  country  and  the  country  from  the 
city,  which  here  wonderfully  interpenetrate  each 
other  and  so  confound  and  deceive  the  observer. 
For  the  city  proper  is  so  studded  with  groups  of 
lofty  palm  trees,  shooting  up  among  its  temples  and 
palaces,  and  on  the  other  hand,  the  plain  in  its  im 
mediate  vicinity  is  so  thickly  adorned  with  magni 
ficent  structures  of  the  purest  marble,  that  it  is  not 
easy,  nay  it  is  impossible  at  the  distance  at  which 
I  contemplated  the  whole,  to  distinguish  the  line 
which  divided  the  one  from  the  other.  It  was  all 
city  and  all  country,  all  country  and  all  city.  Those 
which  lay  before  me  I  was  ready  to  believe  were 
the  Elysian  Fields.  I  imagined  that  I  saw  under 
my  feet  the  dwellings  of  purified  men  and  of  gods. 
Certainly  they  were  too  glorious  for  the  mere  earth- 
born.  There  was  a  central  point,  however,  which 
chiefly  fixed  my  attention,  where  the  vast  Temple 
of  the  Sun  stretched  upward  its  thousand  columns 
of  polished  marble  to  the  heavens,  in  its  matchless 
beauty  casting  into  the  shade  every  other  work  of 
art  of  which  the  world  can  boast.  I  have  stood  be 
fore  the  Parthenon,  and  have  almost  worshipped 
that  divine  achievement  of  the  immortal  Phidias. 
But  it  is  a  toy  by  the  side  of  this  bright  crown  of 
the  eastern  capital.  I  have  been  at  Milan,  at  Ephe- 
sus,  at  Alexandria,  at  Antioch;  but  in  neither  of 
these  renowned  cities  have  I  beheld  any  thing  that 
I  can  allow  to  approach  in  united  extent,  grandeur, 
and  most  consummate  beauty,  this  almost  more 
than  work  of  man.  On  each  side  of  this,  the  cen 
tral  point,  there  rose  upward  slender  pyramids — 
pointed  obelisks — domes  of  the  most  graceful  pro 
portions,  columns,  arches,  and  lofty  towers,  for  num 
ber,  and  for  form,  beyond  my  power  to  describe. 
These  buildings,  as  well  as  the  walls  of  the  city, 
being  all  either  of  white  marble  or  of  some  stone 
as  white,  and  being  everywhere  in  their  whole  ex 
tent  interspersed,  as  I  have  already  said,  with  mul 


titudes  of  overshadowing  palm  trees,  perfectly  filled 
and  satisfied  my  sense  of  beauty,  and  made  me  feel 
for  the  moment,  as  if  in  such  a  scene  I  should  love 
to  dwell  and  there  end  my  days.  Nor  was  I  alone 
in  these  transports  of  delight.  All  my  fellow-tra 
vellers  seemed  equally  affected :  and  from  the  na 
tive  Palmyrenes,  of  whom  there  were  many  among 
us,  the  most  impassioned  and  boastful  exclamations 
broke  forth.  "  What  is  Rome  to  this  1"  they  cried. 
"  Fortune  is  not  constant.  Why  m-ay  not  Palmy 
ra  be  what  Rome  has  been — mistress  of  the  world  ] 
Who  more  fit  to  rule  than  the  great  Zenobia  1  A 
few  years  may  see  great  changes.  Who  can  tell 
what  shall  come  to  pass  1"  These,  and  many  such 
sayings,  were  uttered  by  those  around  me,  accom 
panied  by  many  significant  gestures  and  glances 
of  the  eye.  I  thought  of  them  afterward.  We 
now  descended  the  hill,  and  the  long  line  of  our 
caravan  moved  on  toward  the  city. 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  PALMYRA. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

AFTER  one  day  of  preparation  and  one  of  assault 
the  city  has  fallen,  and  Aurelian  again  entered  in 
triumph  ;  this  time  in  the  spirit  of  revenge  and  re 
taliation.  It  is  evident,  as  we  look  on,  horror-struck, 
that  no  quarter  is  given,  but  that  a  general  massa 
cre  has  been  ordered,  both  of  soldier  and  citizen. 
We  can  behold  whole  herds  of  the  defenceless  po 
pulace  escaping  from  the  gates  or  over  the  walls, 
only  to  be  pursued — hunted — and  slaughtered  by 
the  remorseless  soldiers.  And  thousands  upon 
thousands  have  we  seen  driven  over  the  walls,  or 
hurled  from  the  battlements  of  the  lofty  towers  to 
perish,  dashed  upon  the  rocks  below. 

No  sooner  had  the  evening  of  this  fatal  day  set 
in,  than  a  new  scene  of  terrific  sublimity  opened 
before  us,  as  we  beheld  flames  beginning  to  ascend 
from  every  part  of  the  city.  They  grew  and  spread 
till  they  presently  appeared  to  wrap  all  objects  alike 
in  one  vast  sheet  of  fire.  Towers,  pinnacles  and 
domes,  after  glittering  awhile  in  the  fierce  blaze, 
one  after  another  fell  and  disappeared  in  the  general 
ruin.  The  Temple  of  the  Sun  stood  long  un 
touched,  shining  almost  with  the  brightness  of  the 
sun  itself,  its  polished  shafts  and  sides  reflecting 
the  surrounding  fires  with  an  intense  brilliancy. 
We  hoped  that  it  might  escape,  and  were  certain 
that  it  would,  unless  fired  from  within — as  from 
its  insulated  position  the  flames  from  the  neigh 
bouring  buildings  could  not  reach  it.  But  we 
watched  not  long  ere  from  its  western  extremity 
the  fire  broke  forth,  and  warned  us  that  that  peer 
less  monument  of  human  genius,  like  all  else,  would 
soon  crumble  to  the  ground.  To  our  amazement 
however  and  joy,  the  flames,  after  having  made 
great  progress,  were  suddenly  arrested,  and  by 
some  cause  extinguished;  and  the  vast  pile  stood 
towering  in  the  centre  of  the  desolation,  of  double 
size  as  it  seemed,  from  the  fall  and  disappearance 
of  so  many  of  the  surrounding  structures 

On  the  third  day  after  the  capture  of  the  city 


WILLIAM    WARE. 


401 


and  the  massacre  of  the  inhabitants,  the  army  of  I 
the  «  conqueror  and  destroyer"  withdrew  from  the  , 
scene  of  its  glory,  and  again  disappeared  beyond   I 
the  desert.     I  sought  not  the  presence  of  Aurelian 
while  before  the  city,  for  I  cared  not  to  meet  him 
drenched  in  the  blood  of  women  and  children,   j 
But  as  soon  as  he  and  his  legions  were  departed, 
we  turned  toward  the  city,  as  children  to  visit  the 
dead  body  of  a  parent. 

No  language  which  I  can  use  can  give  you  any 
just  conception  of  the  horrors  which  met  our  view 
on  the  way  to  the  walls  and  in  the  city  itself.  For 
more  than  a  mile  before  we  reached  the  gates,  the 
roads  and  the  fields,  on  either  hand,  were  strewed 
with  the  bodies  of  those  who,  in  their  attempts  to 
escape,  had  been  overtaken  by  the  enemy  and  slain. 
Many  a  group  of  bodies  did  we  notice,  evidently 
those  of  a  family,  the  parents  and  the  children, 
who,  hoping  to  reach  in  company  some  place  of 
security,  had  all — and  without  resistance  apparent 
ly — fallen  a  sacrifice  to  the  relentless  fury  of  their 
pursuers.  Immediately  in  the  vicinity  of  the  walls  j 
and  under  them  the  earth  was  concealed  from  the  j 
eye  by  the  multitudes  of  the  slain,  and  all  objects  ! 
were  stained  with  the  one  hue  of  blood.  Upon  j 
passing  the  gates  and  entering  within  those  walls 
which  I  had  been  accustomed  to  regard  as  embrac 
ing  in  their  wide  and  graceful  sweep  the  most 
beautiful  city  of  the  world,  my  eye  met  naught  but 
black  and  smoking  ruins,  fallen  houses  and  tem 
ples,  the  streets  choked  with  piles  of  still  blazing 
timbers  and  the  half-burned  bodies  of  the  dead.  As 
I  penetrated  farther  into  the  heart  of  the  city,  and 
to  its  better  built  and  more  spacious  quarters,  I 
found  the  destruction  to  be  less — that  the  principal 
streets  were  standing,  and  many  of  the  more  dis 
tinguished  structures.  But  everywhere — in  the 
streets — upon  the  porticoes  of  private  and  public 
dwellings — upon  the  steps  and  within  the  very 
walls  of  the  temples  of  every  faith — in  all  places, 
the  most  sacred  as  well  as  the  most  common,  lay 
the  mangled  carcasses  of  the  wretched  inhabitants. 
None  apparently  had  been  spared.  The  aged  were 
there,  with  their  bald  or  silvered  heads — little  chil 
dren  and  infants — women,  the  young,  the  beauti 
ful,  the  good — all  were  there,  slaughtered  in  every 
imaginable  way,  and  presenting  to  the  eye  specta 
cles  of  horror  and  of  grief  enough  to  break  the 
heart  and  craze  the  brain.  For  one  could  not  but 
go  back  to  the  day  and  the  hour  when  they  died, 
and  suffer  with  these  innocent  thousands  a  part  of 
what  they  suffered,  when  the  gates  of  the  city  giv 
ing  way,  the  infuriated  soldiery  poured  in,  and 
with  death  written  in  their  faces  and  clamouring  on 
their  tongues,  their  quiet  houses  were  invaded,  and 
resisting  or  unresisting,  they  all  fell  together  be 
neath  the  murderous  knives  of  the  savage  foe. 
What  shrieks  then  rent  and  filled  the  air — what 
pray.ers  of  agony  went  up  to  the  gods  for  life  to 
those  whose  ears  on  mercy's  side  were  adders' — 
what  piercing  supplications  that  life  might  be  taken 
and  honour  spared !  The  apartments  of  the  rich 
and  the  noble  presented  the  most  harrowing  spec 
tacles,  where  the  inmates,  delicately  nurtured,  and 
knowing  of  danger,  evil  and  wrong,  only  by  name 
51 


and  report,  had  first  endured  all  that  nature  most 
abhors,  and  then,  there  where  their  souls  had  died, 
were  slain  by  their  brutal  violators  with  every  cir 
cumstance  of  most  demoniac  cruelty.  Happy  for 
those  who,  like  Gracchus,  foresaw  the  tempest  and 
fled.  These  calamities  have  fallen  chiefly  upon 
the  adherents  of  Antiochus;  but  among  them, 
alas !  were  some  of  the  noblest  and  most  honoured 
families  of  the  capital.  Their  bodies  now  lie  black 
ened  and  bloated  upon  their  door-stones — their 

own  halls  have  become  their  tombs 

The  silence  of  death  and  of  ruin  rests  over  this 
once  and  but  so  lately  populous  city.  As  I  stood 
upon  a  high  point  which  overlooked  a  large  ex 
tent  of  it,  I  could  discern  no  signs  of  life,  except 
here  and  there  a  detachment  of  the  Roman  guard 
dragging  forth  the  bodies  of  the  slaughtered  citi 
zens,  and  bearing  them  to  be  burned  or  buried. 
This  whole  people  is  extinct.  In  a  single  day 
these  hundred  thousands  have  found  a  common 
grave.  Not  one  remains  to  bewail  or  bury  the 
dead.  Where  are  the  anxious  crowds,  who,  when 
their  dwellings  have  been  burned,  eagerly  rush  in 
as  the  flames  have  spent  themselves  to  sorrow  over 
their  smoking  altars,  and  pry  with  busy  search 
among  the  hot  ashes,  if  perchance  they  may  yet 
rescue  some  lamented  treasure,  or  bear  away  at 
least  the  bones  of  a  parent  or  a  child,  buried  be 
neath  the  ruins  1  They  are  not  here.  It  is  broad 
day,  and  the  sun  shines  bright,  but  not  a  living 
form  is  seen  lingering  about  these  desolated  streets 
and  squares.  Birds  of  prey  are  already  hovering 
round,  and  alighting  without  apprehension  of 
disturbance  wherever  the  banquet  invites  them; 
and  soon  as  the  shadows  of  evening  shall  fall,  the 
hyena  of  the  desert  will  be  here  to  gorge  himself 
upon  what  they  have  left,  having  scented  afar  off 
upon  the  tainted  breeze  the  fumes  of  the  rich  feast  - 
here  spread  for  him.  These  Roman  grave-diggers 
from  the  legion  of  Bassus,  are  alone  upon  the 
ground  to  contend  with  them  for  their  prize.  0, 
miserable  condition  of  humanity  !  Why  is  it  that 
to  man  have  been  given  passions  which  he  cannot 
tame,  and  which  sink  him  below  the  brute  !  Why 
is  it  that  a  few  ambitious  are  permitted  by  the 
Great  Ruler,  in  the  selfish  pursuit  of  their  own 
aggrandizement,  to  scatter  in  ruin,  desolation,  and 
death,  whole  kingdoms — making  misery  and  de 
struction  the  steps  by  which  they  mount  up  to 
their  seats  of  pride  !  O,  gentle  doctrine  of  Christ ! 
doctrine  of  love  and  of  peace,  when  shall  it  be  that 
I  and  all  mankind  shall  know  thy  truth,  and  the 
world  smile  with  a  new  happiness  under  thy  life- 
giving  reign ! 


DEDICATION  OF  THE  TEMPLE  ^>F  THE 

SUN. 

FROM  PROBCS. 

VAST  preparations  had  been  making  for  the  de 
dication  for  many  days  or  even  months  preceding, 
and  the  day  arose  upon  a  city  full  of  expectation 
of  the  shows,  ceremonies  and  games  that  were  to 
reward  their  long  and  patient  waiting.  For  the 
2L2 


402 


WILLIAM    WARE. 


season  of  the  year  the  day  was  hot,  unnaturally  so; 
and  the  sky  filled  with  those  massive  clouds,  piled 
like  mountains  of  snow  one  upon  another,  which, 
while  they  both  please  the  eye  by  their  forms  and 
veil  the  fierce  splendours  of  the  sun  as  they  now 
and  then  sail  across  his  face,  at  the  same  time  por 
tend  wind  and  storm.  All  Rome  was  early  astir. 
It  was  ushered  in  by  the  criers  traversing  the  streets 
and  proclaiming  the  rites  and  spectacles  of  the  day, 
what  they  were  and  where  to  be  witnessed,  followed 
by  troops  of  boys  imitating  in  their  grotesque  way 
the  pompous  declarations  of  the  men  of  authority, 
not  unfrequently  drawing  down  upon  their  heads  the 
curses  and  the  batons  of  the  insulted  dignitaries 

At  the  appointed  hour  we  were  at  the  palace  of 
Aurelian  on  the  Palatine,  where  a  procession,  pomp 
ous  as  art  and  rank  and  numbers  could  make  it, 
was  formed,  to  move  thence  by  a  winding  and  dis 
tant  route  to  the  temple  near  the  foot  of  the  Quiri- 
nal.  Julia  repaired  with  Portia  to  a  place  of  ob 
servation  near  the  temple — I  to  the  palace  to  join 
the  company  of  the  emperor.  Of  the  gorgeous 
magnificence  of  the  procession  I  shall  tell  you  no 
thing.  It  was  in  extent  and  variety  of  pomp  and 
costliness  of  decoration,  a  copy  of  that  of  the  late 
triumph,  and  went  even  beyond  the  captivating 
splendour  of  the  example.  Roman  music — which 
is  not  that  of  Palmyra — lent  such  charms  as  it  could 
to  our  passage  through  the  streets  to  the  temple, 
from  a  thousand  performers. 

As  we  drew  near  to  the  lofty  fabric,  I  thought 
that  no  scene  of  such  various  beauty  and  magnifi 
cence  had  ever  met  my  eye.  The  temple  itself  is 
a  work  of  unrivalled  art.  In  size  it  surpasses  any 
other  building  of  the  same  kind  in  Rome,  and  for 
the  excellence  in  workmanship  and  purity  of  de 
sign,  although  it  may  fall  below  the  standard  of 
Hadrian's  age,  yet  for  a  certain  air  of  grandeur  and 
luxuriance  of  invention  in  its  details,  and  lavish 
profusion  of  embellishment  in  gold  and  silver,  no 
temple  or  other  edifice  of  any  preceding  age  ever 
perhaps  resembled  it.  Its  order  is  the  Corinthian, 
of  the  Roman  form,  and  the  entire  building  is  sur 
rounded  by  its  slender  columns,  each  composed  of  a 
single  piece  of  marble.  Upon  the  front  is  wrought 
Apollo  surrounded  by  the  Hours.  The  western 
extremity  is  approached  by  a  flight  of  steps  of  the 
same  breadth  as  the  temple  itself.  At  the  eastern 
there  extends  beyond  the  walls  to  a  distance  equal 
to  the  length  of  the  building  a  marble  platform, 
upon  which  stands  the  altar  of  sacrifice,  and  which 
is  ascended  by  various  flights  of  steps,  some  little 
more  than  a  gently  rising  plain,  up  which  the  beasts 
are  led  that  are  destined  to  the  altar. 

When  this  vast  extent  of  wall  and  column  of  the 
most  dazzling  brightness  came  into  view,  everywhere 
covered,  together  with  the  surrounding  temples,  pa 
laces  and  theatres,  with  a  dense  mass  of  human  be 
ings,  of  all  climes  and  regions,  dressed  out  in  their 
richest  attire — music  from  innumerable  instruments 
filling  the  heavens  with  harmony — shouts  of  the 
proud  and  excited  populace  every  few  moments  and 
from  different  points,  as  Aurelian  advanced,  shak 
ing  the  air  with  its  thrilling  din — the  neighing  of 
horses,  the  frequent  blasts  of  the  trumpet — the 


whole  made  more  solemnly  imposing  by  the  vast 
masses  of  cloud  which  swept  over  the  sky,  now 
suddenly  unveiling  and  again  eclipsing  the  sun,  the 
great  god  of  this  idolatry,  and  from  which  few  could 
withdraw  their  gaze  ; — when  at  once  this  all  broke 
upon  my  eye  and  ear,  I  was  like  a  child  who  before 
had  never  seen  aught  but  his  own  village  and  his 
own  rural  temple,  in  the  effect  wrought  upon  me, 
and  the  passiveness  with  which  I  abandoned  myself 
to  the  sway  of  the  senses.  Not  one  there  was  more 
ravished  by  the  outward  circumstance  and  show. 
I  thought  of  Rome's  thousand  years,  of  her  power, 
her  greatness  and  universal  empire,  and  for  a  mo 
ment  my  step  was  not  less  proud  than  that  of  Au 
relian.  But  after  that  moment — when  the  senses 
had  had  their  fill,  when  the  eye  had  seen  the  glory, 
and  the  ear  had  fed  upon  the  harmony  and  the 
praise,  then  I  thought  and  felt  very  differently  ;  sor 
row  and  compassion  for  these  gay  multitudes  were 
at  my  heart ;  prophetic  forebodings  of  disaster,  dan 
ger,  and  ruin  to  those  to  whose  sacred  cause  I  had 
linked  myself,  made  my  tongue  to  falter  in  its 
speech  and  my  limbs  to  tremble.  I  thought  that 
the  superstition  that  was  upheld  by  the  wealth  and 
the  power,  whose  manifestations  were  before  me, 
had  its  roots  in  the  very  centre  of  the  earth — far 
too  deep  down  for  a  few  like  myself  ever  to  reach 
them.  I  was  like  one  whose  last  hope  of  life  and 
escape  is  suddenly  struck  away. 

I  was  roused  from  these  meditations  by  our  ar 
rival  at  the  eastern  front  of  the  temple.  Between 
the  two  central  columns,  on  a  throne  of  gold  and 
ivory,  sat  the  emperor  of  the  world,  surrounded  by 
the  senate,  the  colleges  of  augurs  and  haruspices, 
and  by  the  priests  of  the  various  temples  of  the  ca 
pital,  all  in  their  peculiar  costume.  Then  Fronto, 
the  priest  of  the  temple,  when  the  crier  had  pro 
claimed  that  the  hour  of  worship  and  sacrifice  had 
come,  and  had  commanded  silence  to  be  observed 
— standing  at  the  altar,  glittering  in  his  white  and 
golden  robes  like  a  messenger  of  light — bared  his 
head,  and  lifting  his  face  up  toward  the  sun,  offered 
in  clear  and  sounding  tones  the  prayers  of  dedica 
tion.  As  he  came  toward  the  close  of  his  prayer, 
he,  as  is  so  usual,  with  loud  and  almost  frantic 
cries  and  importunate  repetition,  called  upon  the 
god  to  hear  him,  and  then  with  appropriate  names 
and  praises  invoked  the  Father  of  gods  and  men  to 
be  present  and  hear.  Just  as  he  had  thus  solemn 
ly  invoked  Jupiter  by  name,  and  was  about  to  call 
upon  the  other  gods  in  the  same  manner,  the  clouds, 
which  had  been  deepening  and  darkening,  sudden 
ly  obscured  the  sun  ;  a  distant  peal  of  thunder  roll 
ed  along  the  heavens,  and  at  the  same  moment  from 
the  dark  recesses  of  the  temple  a  voice  of  preter 
natural  power  came  forth,  proclaiming  so  that  the 
whole  multitude  heard  the  words — "  God  is  but 
one  ;  the  king  eternal,  immortal,  invisible."  It  is 
impossible  to  describe  the  horror  that  seized  those 
multitudes.  Many  cried  out  with  fear,  and  each 
seemed  to  shrink  behind  the  other.  Paleness  sat 
upon  every  face.  The  priest  paused  as  if  struck 
by  a  power  from  above.  Even  the  brazen  Fronto 
was  appalled.  Aurelian  leaped  from  his  seat,  and 
by  his  countenance,  white  and  awe-struck,  showed 


WILLIAM    WARE. 


403 


that  to  him  it  came  as  a  voice  from  the  gods.  He 
spoke  not,  but  stood  gazing  at  the  dark  entrance 
into  the  temple  from  which  the  sound  had  come. 
Fronto  hastily  approached  him,  and  whispering  but 
one  word  as  it  were  into  his  ear.  the  emperor 
started ;  the  spell  that  bound  him  was  dissolved ; 
and  recovering  himself — making  indeed  as  though 
a  very  different  feeling  had  possessed  him — cried 
out  in  fierce  tones  to  his  guards: 

"  Search  the  temple ;  some  miscreant  hid  away 
among  the  columns  profanes  thus  the  worship  and 
the  place.  Sieze  him  and  drag  him  forth  to  instant 
death." 

The  guards  of  the  emperor  and  the  servants  of 
the  temple  rushed  in  at  that  bidding  and  searched 
in  every  part  the  interior  of  the  building.  They 
soon  emerged,  saying  that  the  search  was  fruitless. 
The  temple  in  all  its  aisles  and  apartments  was 
empty. 

The  ceremonies,  quiet  being  again  restored,  then 
went  on.  Twelve  bulls,  of  purest  white  and  of  per 
fect  forms,  their  horns  bound  about  with  fillets,  were 
now  led  by  the  servants  of  the  temple  up  the  mar 
ble  steps  to  the  front  of  the  altar,  where  stood 
the  cultrarii  and  haruspices,  ready  to  slay  them  and 
examine  their  entrails.  The  omens  as  gathered 
by  the  eyes  of  all  from  the  fierce  struggiings  and 
bellowings  of  the  animals  as  they  were  led  toward 
the  place  of  sacrifice — some  even  escaping  from  the 
hands  of  those  who  had  the  management  of  them 
— and  from  the  violent  and  convulsive  throes  of 
others  as  the  blow  fell  upon  their  heads,  or  the 
knife  severed  their  throats,  were  of  the  darkest  cha 
racter,  and  brought  a  deep  gloom  upon  the  brow 
of  the  emperor.  The  report  of  the  haruspices  upon 
examination  of  the  entrails  was  little  calculated  to 
remove  that  gloom.  It  was  for  the  most  part  un 
favourable.  Especially  appalling  was  the  sight  of 
a  heart  so  lean  and  withered  that  it  scarce  seemed 
possible  it  should  ever  have  formed  a  part  of  a  liv 
ing  animal.  But  more  harrowing  than  all  was  the 
voice  of  Fronto,  who  prying  with  the  haruspices 
into  the  smoking  carcass  of  one  of  the  slaughtered 
bulls,  suddenly  cried  out  with  horror  that  "no 
heart  was  to  be  found." 

The  emperor,  hardly  to  be  restrained  by  those 
near  him  from  some  expression  of  anger,  ordered 
a  more  diligent  search  to  be  made. 

"  It  is  not  in  nature  that  such  a  thing  should  be," 
he  said.  "  Men  are,  in  truth,  sometimes  without 
hearts ;  but  brutes,  as  I  think,  never." 

The  report  was  however  confidently  confirmed. 
Fronto  himself  approached,  and  said  that  his  eye 
had  from  the  first  been  upon  the  beast,  and  the 
exact  truth  had  been  stated. 

The  carcasses,  such  parts  as  were  for  the  flames, 
were  then  laid  upon  the  vast  altar,  and  the  flames 
of  the  sacrifice  ascended. 

The  heavens  were  again  obscured  by  thick  clouds, 
which,  accumulating  into  dark  masses,  began  now 
nearer  and  nearer  to  shoot  forth  lightning  and  roll 
their  thunders.  The  priest  commenced  the  last 


office,  prayer  to  the  god  to  whom  the  new  temple 
had  been  thus  solemnly  consecrated.  He  again 
bowed  his  head,  and  again  lifted  up  his  voice.  But 
no  sooner  had  he  invoked  the  god  of  the  temple 
and  besought  his  ear,  than  again  from  its  dark  in 
terior  the  same  awful  sounds  issued  forth,  this  time 
saying  "  Thy  gods,  O  Rome,  are  false  and  lying 
gods.  God  is  but  one." 

Aurelian,  pale  as  it  seemed  to  me  with  super 
stitious  fear,  strove  to  shake  it  off,  giving  it  artfully 
and  with  violence  the  appearance  of  offended  dig 
nity.  His  voice  was  a  shriek  rather  than  a  human 
utterance,  as  he  cried  out, 

« This  is  but  a  Christian  device ;  search  the 
temple  till  the  accursed  Nazarene  be  found,  and 
hew  him  piecemeal — "  more  he  would  have  said, 
but  at  the  instant  a  bolt  of  lightning  shot  from  the 
heavens,  and  lighting  upon  a  large  sycamore  which 
shaded  a  part  of  the  temple  court,  clove  it  in  twain. 
The  swollen  cloud  at  the  same  moment  burst,  and 
a  deluge  of  rain  poured  upon  the  city,  the  temple, 
the  gazing  multitudes,  and  the  just  kindled  altars. 
The  sacred  fires  went  out  in  hissing  and  darkness; 
a  tempest  of  wind  whirled  the  limbs  of  the  slaugh 
tered  victims  into  the  air,  and  abroad  over  the 
neighbouring  streets.  All  was  confusion,  uproar, 
terror  and  dismay.  The  crowds  sought  safety  in 
the  houses  of  the  nearest  inhabitants,  and  the 
porches  of  the  palaces.  Aurelian  and  the  senators, 
and  those  nearest  him,  fled  to  the  interior  of  the 
temple.  The  heavens  blazed  with  the  quick  flash 
ing  of  the  lightning,  and  the  temple  itself  seemed 
to  rock  beneath  the  voice  of  the  thunder.  I  never 
knew  in  Rome  so  terrific  a  tempest.  The  stoutest 
trembled,  for  life  hung  by  a  thread.  Great  num 
bers,  it  has  now  been  found,  in  every  part  of  the 
capitol,  fell  a  prey  to  the  fiery  bolts.  The  capitol 
itself  was  struck,  and  the  brass  statue  of  Vespasian 
in  the  forum  thrown  down  and  partly  melted.  The 
Tiber  in  a  few  hours  overran  its  banks,  and  laid 
much  of  the  city  on  its  borders  under  water. 

But  ere  long  the  storm  was  over.  The  retreat 
ing  clouds,  but  still  sullenly  muttering  in  the  dis 
tance  as  they  rolled  away,  were  gaily  lighted  up  by 
the  sun,  which  again  shone  forth  in  his  splendour. 
The  scattered  limbs  of  the  victims  were  collected  and 
again  laid  upon  the  altar.  Dry  wood  being  brought, 
the  flames  quickly  shot  upward  and  consumed  to 
the  last  joint  and  bone  the  sacred  offerings.  Fronto 
once  more  stood  before  the  altar,  and  now,  unin 
terrupted,  performed  the  last  office  of  the  ceremony. 
Then  around  the  tables  spread  within  the  temple 
to  the  honour  of  the  gods,  feasting  upon  the  luxu 
ries  contributed  by  every  quarter  of  the  earth,  and 
filling  high  with  wine,  the  adverse  omens  of  the 
day  were  by  most  forgotten.  But  not  by  Aure 
lian.  No  smile  was  seen  to  light  up  his  dark 
countenance.  The  jests  of  Varus  and  the  wisdom 
of  Porphyrius  alike  failed  to  reach  him.  Wrap- 
;  ped  up  in  his  own  thoughts,  he  brooded  gloomily 
j  over  what  had  happened,  and  strove  to  read  the 
I  interpretation  of  portents  so  unusual  and  alarming. 


GEORGE   BANCROFT. 


[Born  1800.] 


MR.  BANCROFT  was  born  in  Worcester,  Mas 
sachusetts,  in  the  year  1800.  His  father,  the 
Reverend  Aaron  Bancroft,  D.  D.,  who  died  at 
an  advanced  age  in  1839,  after  having  been  for 
more  than  half  a  century  minister  of  a  Con 
gregational  church  in  that  town,  was  a  theolo 
gical  and  historical  writer  of  some  reputation, 
and  was  eminently  distinguished  for  the  libe 
rality  of  his  views,  the  kindness  of  his  manners, 
arid  the  spotless  purity  of  his  character.  His 
Life  of  Washington,  of  which  many  editions 
have  been  published,  appeared  originally  in 
1807,  and  his  devotion  to  American  history  at 
this  period  doubtless  had  some  influence  in 
kindling  that  intellectual  passion  in  his  son 
which  has  since  produced  such  honourable 
fruits. 

At  the  early  age  of  thirteen  Mr.  Bancroft 
entered  Harvard  College,  where  he  graduated 
in  1817,  with  the  first  honours  of  his  class. 
He  had  determined  to  study  theology,  and  his 
essay  on  this  occasion,  for  which  he  received 
from  the  corporation  one  of  the  Bowdoin  prizes, 
was  on  the  Use  and  Necessity  of  Revelation. 
In  the  following  year,  he  went  to  Germany, 
and  devoted  himself  two  years  to  the  study  of 
/history  and  philology,  under  Professor  Hee- 
re»,  at  Gottingen,  where  he  received  the  de 
gree  of  Doctor  of  Philosophy.  He  then  went 
to  Berlin,  where  he  cultivated  the  society  of 
learned  men,  (among  others  of  Varnhagen  von 
Ense,  one  of  the  most  brilliant  of  contempora 
ry  German  authors,)  and  next  to  Heidelberg, 
where  he  became  acquainted  with  Schlosser, 
the  first  of  German  historians,  who  awakened 
his  taste  for  history.  Before  his  return  he  also 
visited  Italy  and  France,  and  stayed  a  short 
time  in  London. 

He  had  not  entirely  abandoned  his  design 
of  entering  the  ministry.  Indeed  he  preached 
a  few  times,  in  a  manner  that  induced  predic 
tions  that  he  would  greatly  distinguish  him 
self  in  the  pulpit.  But  he  was  disposed  to 
devote  himself  to  literature  and  learning,  and 
cherished  dreams  of  successful  authorship. 

His  first  book  was  a  small  collection  of  Poems, 
404 


chiefly  illustrative  of  his  experiences  and  ob 
servations  abroad,  which  appeared  in  1823.  In 
the  following  year  he  gave  the  public  his  trans 
lation  of  the  Reflections  on  the  Politics  of  An 
cient  Greece,  by  Professor  Heeren,  with  whom, 
at  Gottingen,  he  had  been  accustomed  to  live 
on  terms  of  intimacy,  and  soon  after,  he  opened 
the  Round  Hill  School,  at  Northampton,  and 
devoted  himself  assiduously  to  teaching.  Here 
he  translated  several  books  on  the  study  of  the 
ancient  languages,  from  the  German,  and  in 
1828,  Heeren's  histories  of  the  States  of  An 
tiquity,  and  of  the  Political  System  of  Europe 
and  its  Colonies,  from  the  Discovery  of  Ame 
rica  to  the  Independence  of  the  American  Con 
tinent.  These  versions  demanded  and  evinced 
not  only  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  German 
language,  but  a  wide  range  of  classical  and  ge 
neral  learning. 

He  now  began  to  give  more  and  more  atten 
tion  to  politics.  At  first  he  was  a  Whig,  but 
during  his  residence  at  Northampton  he  went 
over  to  the  Democracy,  and  in  an  article  in  the 
Boston  Quarterly  Review,  on  the  Progress  of 
Civilization,  attempted  to  show  that  the  na 
tural  association  of  men  of  letters  is  with  that 
party. 

In  1834  Mr.  Bancroft  published  the  first  vo 
lume  of  his  History  of  the  Colonization  of  the 
United  States,  which  was  everywhere  received 
with  the  liveliest  applause.  The  reputation 
which  he  acquired  by  this  and  other  literary 
labours,  and  the  ability  he  exhibited  as  a  po 
litician,  commended  him  to  the  notice  of  the 
dispensers  of  place  and  patronage  in  Wash 
ington,  and  he  was  appointed  to  the  lucrative 
post  of  Collector  of  the  Customs  at  Boston. 
His  official  duties  did  not  divert  him  from  his 
studies,  and  in  1837  he  gave  to  the  press  the 
second  and  in  1840  the  third  volume  of  his 
History,  completing  the  first  part  of  it,  and 
introducing,  as  a  youthful  surveyor  in  the  ser 
vice  of  Virginia,  the  hero  of  the  second,  which 
is  to  embrace  the  period  and  appear  under  the 
title  of  The  History  of  the  Revolution. 

On  the  election  of  General  Harrison  to  the 


GEORGE    BANCROFT. 


405 


Presidency  Mr.  Bancroft  was  superseded  as 
Collector  of  Boston,  but  the  democrats  came 
into  power  again  in  1844,  and  he  was  then 
called  into  the  Cabinet,  as  Secretary  of  the 
Navy.  Here  he  was  a  bold  and  fearless  re 
former,  in  a  department  in  which  much  reform 
was  needed,  and  though  many  of  his  recom 
mendations  respecting  the  Navy  were  not 
adopted,  for  reasons  quite  independent  of  their 
inherent  character,  no  minister  has  exerted  a 
more  powerful  or  advantageous  influence  upon 
this  branch  of  the  public  service.*  He  re 
signed  his  place  in  the  cabinet  in  September, 
1846,  was  immediately  after  appointed  Minis 
ter  Plenipotentiary  to  Great  Britain,  and  in  the 
month  of  October  arrived  in  London,  where  he 
resided  until  1849. 

Mr.  Bancroft's  History  of  the  United  States 
is  one  of  the  great  works  of  the  present  age, 
stamped  more  plainly  with  its  essential  cha 
racter  than  any  other  of  a  similar  sort  that  has 
been  written.  The  subject  of  the  birth  and 
early  experiences  of  a  radically  new  and  tho 
roughly  independent  nation,  has  a  deep  philo 
sophical  interest,  which  to  the  historian  is  in 
stead  of  that  dramatic  attraction  of  which  the 
few  incidents  in  the  progress  of  many  small 
communities,  scattered  over  a  continent,  inde 
pendent  of  each  other,  and  all  dependent  on  a 
foreign  power,  are  necessarily  destitute.  This 
Mr.  Bancroft  perceives,  and  entering  deeply 
into  the  spirit  of  the  times,  he  becomes  insen 
sibly  the  advocate  of  th'e  cause  of  freedom, 
which  invalidates  his  testimony.  He  suffers 
too  much  "  his  passion  to  instruct  his  reason." 
He  is  more  mastered  by  his  subject  than  him 
self  master  of  it.  Liberty  with  him  is  not  the 
result  of  an  analytical  process,  but  the  basis 
of  his  work,  and  he  builds  upon  it  syntheti 
cally. 

When  Mr.  Bancroft  commenced  his  labours, 
the  very  valuable  but  incomplete  history  by 
Judge  Marshall  was  the  only  work  on  the 
subject  by  a  native  author  that  was  deserving 
of  much  praise.  Grahame's  faithful  history 
of  the  Colonization,  and  the  brilliant  account 
of  the  Revolution  by  Botta,  were  acknow 
ledged  to  be  the  best  histories  of  the  country 
for  their  respective  periods.  This  fact  alone 
was  sufficient  to  guide  an  American  historian 

*  Among  many  things  for  which  the  country  is  indebted 
to  Mr.  Bancroft  the  Secretary,  are  the  Nautical  School 
of  Alexandria  and  the  Astronomical  Observatory  of 
Washington. 


in  the  choice  of  his  theme,  had  he  been  less 
deeply  imbued  than  Mr.  Bancroft  with  the 
principles  which  our  history  illustrates. — 
Whatever  may  be  the  merit  of  some  of  Mr. 
Bancroft's  opinions,  there  are  in  the  volumes 
he  has  published  no  signs  of  a  superficial  study 
of  events.  His  narrative  is  based  on  contem 
porary  documents,  and  he  has  shown  remark 
able  patience  in  collecting,  and  in  assorting, 
comparing  and  arranging  them.  In  this  respect 
his  work  is  singularly  faithful. 

In  regard  to  the  characters  and  adventures 
of  many  of  the  early  discoverers,  the  princi 
ples  and  policies  of  the  founders  of  several  of 
the  states,  and  the  peculiarities  and  influences 
of  the  various  classes  of  colonists,  the  details 
are  full  and  the  reflections  eminently  philoso 
phical.  The  languages,  religions,  and  rural 
and  warlike  customs  of  the  Indians,  are  also 
treated  in  a  manner  that  evinces  much  research 
and  ingenuity. 

Mr.  Bancroft's  style  is  elaborate,  scholarly, 
and  forcible,  though  sometimes  not  without  a 
visible  effort  at  eloquence,  and  there  is  occa 
sionally  a  dignity  of  phrase  that  is  not  in  keep 
ing  with  the  subject  matter.  It  lacks  the  de 
lightful  ease  and  uniform  proportion  which 
mark  the  diction  of  Prescott. 

He  is  evidently  sincere  in  the  principles  he 
advocates,  though  in  a  few  points  of  minor  im 
portance  he  has  evinced  some  unsteadiness  of 
conviction.  Altogether  his  work  is  equal  to  its 
great  reputation  in  general  ability,  research  and 
originality,  and  it  is  eminently  American,  in 
the  best  sense  of  that  word  as  used  in  regard 
to  literature. 

Mr.  Bancroft's  History  has  been  translated 
into  several  foreign  languages,  and  the  Ger 
man  version  recently  passed  to  a  fourth  edi 
tion.  It  has  been  republished  in  its  original 
language  in  London  and  Paris. 

The  fourth  and  fifth  volumes  of  the  History 
being  the  first  and  second  volumes  of  the  His 
tory  of  the  Revolution,  were  published  in 
1852-3,  vol.  6th  in  1854,  vol.  7th  in  1858,  vol. 
8th  in  1860,  vol.  9th  in  1866,  and  the  10th  is 
preparing.  He  is  now  minister  to  Prussia. 

Besides  the  works  of  Mr.  Bancroft  which  I 
have  mentioned,  he  has  published  an  abridg 
ment  of  his  History  of  the  Colonization  of 
the  United  States,  several  orations,  articles  in 
the  North  American  and  Boston  Quarterly 
Reviews,  and  a  vol.  of  Miscellanies. 


406 


GEORGE    BANCROFT. 


VIRGINIA. 

FROM  THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES. 

VIRGINIA  had  long  been  the  home  of  its  inha 
bitants.  "  Among  many  other  blessings,"  said 
their  statute-book,  «  God  Almighty  hath  vouchsafed 
increase  of  children  to  this  colony  ;  who  are  now 
multiplied  to  a  considerable  number ,"  and  the  huts 
in  the  wilderness  were  as  full  as  the  birds-nests  of 
the  woods. 

The  genial  climate  and  transparent  atmosphere 
delighted  those  who  had  come  from  the  denser  air 
of  England.  Every  object  in  nature  was  new  and 
wonderful.  The  loud  and  frequent  thunder-storms 
were  phenomena  that  had  been  rarely  witnessed  in 
the  colder  summers  of  the  north ;  the  forests,  ma 
jestic  in  their  growth,  and  free  from  underwood, 
deserved  admiration  for  their  unrivalled  magnifi 
cence  ;  the  purling  streams  and  the  frequent  rivers, 
flowing  between  alluvial  banks,  quickened  the  ever- 
pregnant  soil  into  an  unwearied  fertility  ;  the  strang 
est  and  the  most  delicate  flowers  grew  familiarly  in 
the  fields ;  the  woods  were  replenished  with  sweet 
barks  and  odours ;  the  gardens  matured  the  fruits 
of  Europe,  of  which  the  growth  was  invigorated 
and  the  flavour  improved  by  the  activity  of  the  vir 
gin  mould.  Especially  the  birds,  with  their  gay 
plumage  and  varied  melodies,  inspired  delight; 
every  traveller  expressed  his  pleasure  in  listening 
to  the  mocking-bird,  which  carolled  a  thousand  se 
veral  tunes,  imitating  and  excelling  the  notes  of  all 
its  rivals.  The  humming-bird,  so  brilliant  in  its 
plumage  and  so  delicate  in  its  form,  quick  in  mo 
tion  yet  not  fearing  the  presence  of  man,  haunting 
about  the  flowers  like  the  bee  gathering  honey,  re 
bounding  from  the  blossoms  into  which  it  dips 
its  bill,  and  as  soon  returning  "  to  renew  its  many 
addresses  to  its  delightful  objects,"  was  ever  admired 
as  the  smallest  and  the  most  beautiful  of  the  fea 
thered  race.  The  rattle-snake,  with  the  terrors  of  its 
alarms  and  the  power  of  its  venom ;  the  opossum, 
soon  to  become  as  celebrated  for  the  care  of  its  off 
spring  as  the  fabled  pelican  ;  the  noisy  frog,  boom 
ing  from  the  shallows  like  the  English  bittern ;  the 
flying-squirrel ;  the  myriads  of  pigeons,  darkening 
the  air  with  the  immensity  of  their  flocks,  and,  as 
men  believed,  breaking  with  their  weight  the  boughs 
of  trees  on  which  they  alighted, — were  all  honoured 
with  frequent  commemoration  and  became  the  sub 
jects  of  the  strangest  tales.  The  concurrent  rela 
tion  of  all  the  Indians  justified  the  belief,  that, 
within  ten  days' journey  toward  the  setting  of  the 
sun,  there  was  a  country  where  gold  might  be 
washed  from  the  sand,  and  where  the  natives  them 
selves  had  learned  the  use  of  the  crucible ;  but  de 
finite  and  accurate  as  were  the  accounts,  inquiry 
was  always  baffled,  and  the  regions  of  gold  re 
mained  for  two  centuries  an  undiscovered  land. 

Various  were  the  employments  by  which  the 
calmness  of  life  was  relieved.  George  Sandys,  an 
idle  man,  who  had  been  a  great  traveller,  and  who 
did  not  remain  in  America,  a  poet  whose  verse 
was  tolerated  by  Dryden  and  praised  by  Izaak 
Walton,  beguiled  the  ennui  of  his  seclusion  by 
translating  the  whole  of  Ovid's  Metamorohoses.  To 


the  man  of  leisure,  the  chase  furnished  a  perpetual 
resource.  It  was  not  long  before  the  horse  was 
multiplied  in  Virginia  ;  and  to  improve  that  noble 
animal  was  early  an  object  of  pride,  soon  to  be  fa 
voured  by  legislation.  Speed  was  especially  valued ; 
and  "  the  planter's  pace"  became  a  proverb. 

Equally  proverbial  was  the  hospitality  of  the 
Virginians.  Labour  was  valuable ;  land  was  cheap ; 
competence  promptly  followed  industry.  There 
was  no  need  of  a  scramble ;  abundance  gushed 
from  the  earth  for  all.  The  morasses  were  alive 
with  water-fowl ;  the  creeks  abounded  with  oysters, 
heaped  together  in  inexhaustible  beds ;  the  rivers 
were  crowded  with  fish ;  the  forests  were  nimble  with 
game  ;  the  woods  rustled  with  covies  of  quails  and 
wild-turkies,  while  they  rung  with  the  merry  notes 
of  the  singing  birds ;  and  hogs,  swarming  like  ver 
min,  ran  at  large  in  troops.  It  was  "  the  best  poor 
man's  country  in  the  world."  «  If  a  happy  peace 
be  settled  in  poor  England,"  it  had  been  said, "  then 
they  in  Virginia  shall  be  as  happy  a  people  as  any 
under  heaven."  But  plenty  encouraged  indolence. 
No  domestic  manufactures  were  established;  every 
thing  was  imported  from  England.  The  chief 
branch  of  industry,  for  the  purpose  of  exchanges, 
was  tobacco-planting;  and  the  spirit  of  invention 
was  enfeebled  by  the  uniformity  of  pursuit. 


CONNECTICUT. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

CONNECTICUT,  from  the  first,  possessed  unmixed 
popular  liberty.  The  government  was  in  honest 
and  upright  hands ;  the  little  strifes  of  rivalry  never 
became  heated  ;  the  magistrates  were  sometimes 
persons  of  no  ordinary  endowments ;  but  though 
gifts  of  learning  and  genius  were  valued,  the  state 
was  content  with  virtue  and  single-mindedness; 
and  the  public  welfare  never  suffered  at  the  hands 
of  plain  men.  Roger  Williams  had  ever  been  a 
welcome  guest  at  Hartford  ;  and  "  that  heavenly 
man,  John  Haynes,"  would  say  to  him,  "I  think, 
Mr.  Williams,  I  must  now  confess  to  you,  that  the 
most  wise  God  hath  provided  and  cut  out  this  part 
of  the  world  as  a  refuge  and  receptacle  for  all  sorts 
of  consciences."  There  never  existed  a  persecut 
ing  spirit  in  Connecticut ;  while  "  it  had  a  scholar 
to  their  minister  in^every  town  or  village."  Edu 
cation  was  cherished ;  religious  knowledge  was  car 
ried  to  the  highest  degree  of  refinement,  alike  in 
its  application  to  moral  duties,  and  to  the  mysteri 
ous  questions  on  the  nature  of  God,  of  liberty,  and 
of  the  soul.  A  hardy  race  multiplied  along  the  al 
luvion  of  the  streams,  and  subdued  the  more  rocky 
and  less  inviting  fields;  its  population  for  a  centu 
ry  doubled  once  in  twenty  years,  in  spite  of  consi 
derable  emigration ;  and  if,  as  has  often  been  said, 
the  ratio  of  the  increase  of  population  is  the  surest 
criterion  of  public  happiness,  Connecticut  was  long 
the  happiest  state  in  the  world.  Religion  united 
with  the  pursuits  of  agriculture,  to  give  to  the  land 
the  aspect  of  salubrity.  The  domestic  wars  were 
discussions  of  knotty  points  in  theology  ;  the  con- 


GEORGE    BANCROFT. 


407 


cerns  of  the  parish,  the  merits  of  the  minister,  were  j 
the  weightiest  affairs;  and  a  church  reproof  the 
heaviest  calamity.  The  strifes  of  the  parent  coun-  i 
try,  though  they  sometimes  occasioned  a  levy  among 
the  sons  of  the  husbandmen,  yet  never  brought  an 
enemy  within  their  borders ;  tranquillity  was  with 
in  their  gates,  and  the  peace  of  God  within  their 
hearts.  No  fears  of  midnight  ruffians  could  dis 
turb  the  sweetness  of  slumber ;  the  best  house  re 
quired  no  fastening  but  a  latch,  lifted  by  a  string ; 
bolts  and  locks  were  unknown. 

There  was  nothing  morose  in  the  Connecticut 
character.  It  was  temperate  industry  enjoying  the 
abundance  which  it  had  created.  No  great  in 
equalities  of  condition  excited  envy,  or  raised  poli 
tical  feuds;  wealth  could  display  itself  only  in  a 
larger  house  and  a  fuller  barn  ;  and  covetousness 
was  satisfied  by  the  tranquil  succession  of  harvests,  j 
There  was  venison  from  the  hills  ;  salmon,  in  their  j 
season,  not  less  than  shad,  from  the  rivers ;  and 
sugar  from  the  trees  of  the  forest.  For  a  foreign 
market  little  was  produced  beside  cattle ;  and  in  re 
turn  for  them  but  few  foreign  luxuries  stole  in. 
Even  so  late  as  1713,  the  number  of  seamen  did 
not  exceed  one  hundred  and  twenty.  The  soil 
had  originally  been  justly  divided,  or  held  as  com 
mon  property  in  trust  for  the  public,  and  for  new 
comers.  Forestalling  was  successfully  resisted ; 
the  brood  of  speculators  in  land  inexorably  turned 
aside.  Happiness  was  enjoyed  unconsciously  ;  be 
neath  the  rugged  exterior  humanity  wore  its  sweet 
est  smile.  There  was  for  a  long  time  hardly  a 
lawyer  in  the  land.  The  husbandman  who  held 
his  own  plough,  and  fed  his  own  cattle,  was  the 
great  man  of  the  age ;  no  one  was  superior  to  the 
matron,  who,  with  her  busy  daughters,  kept  the 
hum  of  the  wheel  incessantly  alive,  spinning  and 
weaving  every  article  of  their  dress.  Fashion  was 
confined  within  narrow  limits ;  and  pride,  which 
aimed  at  no  grander  equipage  than  a  pillion,  could 
exult  only  in  the  common  splendor  of  the  blue  and 
white  linen  gown,  with  short  sleeves,  coining  down 
to  the  waist,  and  in  the  snow-white  flaxen  apron, 
which,  primly  starched  and  ironed,  was  worn  on 
public  days  by  every  woman  in  the  land.  For 
there  was  no  revolution  except  from  the  time  of 
sowing  to  the  time  of  reaping;  from  the  plain  dress 
of  the  week  day  to  the  more  trim  attire  of  Sunday. 

Every  family  was  taught  to  look  upward  to  God, 
as  to  the  Fountain  of  all  good.  Yet  life  was  not 
sombre.  The  spirit  of  frolic  mingled  with  inno 
cence  :  religion  itself  sometimes  wore  the  garb  of 
gayety  ;  and  the  annual  thanksgiving  to  God  was, 
from  primitive  times,  as  joyous  as  it  was  sincere. 
Nature  always  asserts  her  rights,  and  abounds  in 
means  of  gladness. 

The  frugality  of  private  life  had  its  influence  on 
public  expenditure.  Half  a  century  after  the  con 
cession  of  the  charter,  the  annual  expenses  of  the 
government  did  not  exceed  eight  hundred  pounds, 
or  four  thousand  dollars ;  and  the  wages  of  the 
chief  justice  were  ten  shillings  a  day  while  on  ser 
vice.  In  each  county  a  magistrate  acted  as  judge 
of  probate,  and  the  business  was  transacted  with 
small  expense  to  the  fatherless. 


Education  was  always  esteemed  a  concern  of 
deepest  interest,  and  there  were  common  schools 
from  the  first.  Nor  was  it  long  before  a  small 
college,  such  as  the  day  of  small  things  permitted, 
began  to  be  established ;  and  Yale  owes  its  birth 
"to  ten  worthy  fathers,  who,  in  1700,  assembled  at 
Branford,  and  each  one,  laying  a  few  volumes  on 
a  table,  said,  <  I  give  these  books  for  the  founding 
of  a  college  in  this  colony.'  " 

But  the  political  education  of  the  people  is  due 
to  the  happy  organization  of  towns,  which  here,  as 
indeed  throughout  all  New  England,  constituted 
each  separate  settlement  a  little  democracy  of  itself. 
It  was  the  natural  reproduction  of  the  system, 
which  the  instinct  of  humanity  had  imperfectly  re 
vealed  to  our  Anglo-Saxon  ancestors.  In  the  an 
cient  republics,  citizenship  had  been  an  hereditary 
privilege.  In  Connecticut,  citizenship  was  acquired 
by  inhabitancy,  was  lost  by  removal.  Each  town- 
meeting  was  a  little  legislature,  and  all  inhabitants, 
the  affluent  and  more  needy,  the  wise  and  the  fool 
ish,  were  members  with  equal  franchises.  There 
the  taxes  of  the  town  were  discussed  and  levied; 
there  the  village  officers  were  chosen ;  there  roads 
were  laid  out,  and  bridges  voted  ;  there  the  minister 
was  elected,  the  representatives  to  the  assembly 
were  instructed.  The  debate  was  open  to  all; 
wisdom  asked  no  favours;  the  churl  abated  nothing 
of  his  pretensions.  Whoever  reads  the  records  of 
these  village  democracies,  will  be  perpetually  com 
ing  upon  some  little  document  of  political  wisdom, 
which  breathes  the  freshness  of  rural  legislation, 
and  wins  a  disproportioned  interest,  from  the  jus 
tice  and  simplicity  of  the  times.  As  the  progress 
of  society  required  exertions  in  a  wider  field,  the 
public  mind  was  quickened  by  associations  that 
were  blended  with  early  history ;  and  when  Con 
necticut  emerged  from  the  quiet  of  its  origin,  and 
made  its  way  into  scenes  where  a  new  political 
world  was  to  be  created,  the  sagacity  that  had  re 
gulated  the  affairs  of  the  village,  gained  admiration 
in  the  field  and  in  council. 


CHIVALRY  AND   PURITANISM. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

HISTOKIANS  have  loved  to  eulogize  the  manners 
and  virtues,  the  glory  and  the  benefits,  of  chivalry. 
Puritanism  accomplished  for  mankind  far  more. 
If  it  had  the  sectarian  crime  of  intolerance,  chi 
valry  had  the  vices  of  dissoluteness.  The  knights 
were  brave  from  gallantry  of  spirit;  the  Puritans 
from  the  fear  of  God.  The  knights  were  proud 
of  loyalty  ;  the  Puritans  of  liberty.  The  knights 
did  homage  to  monarchs,  in  whose  smile  they  be 
held  honour,  whose  rebuke  was  the  wound  of  dis 
grace;  the  Puritans,  disdaining  ceremony,  would 
not  bow  at  the  name  of  Jesus,  nor  bend  the  knee 
to  the  King  of  kings.  Chivalry  delighted  in  out 
ward  show,  favoured  pleasure,  multiplied  amuse 
ment,  and  degraded  the  human  race  by  an  exclu 
sive  respect  for  the  privileged  classes ;  Puritanism 


408 


GEORGE   BANCROFT. 


bridled  the  passions,  commanded  the  virtues  of  self- 
denial,  and  rescued  the  name  of  man  from  disho 
nour.  The  former  valued  courtesy ;  the  latter,  jus 
tice.  The  former  adorned  society  by  graceful  re 
finements;  the  latter  founded  national  grandeur  on 
universal  education.  The  institutions  of  chivalry 
were  subverted  by  the  gradually-increasing  weight, 
and  knowledge,  and  opulence  of  the  industrious 
classes  ;  the  Puritans,  rallying  upon  those  classes, 
planted  in  their  hearts  the  undying  principles  of 
democratic  liberty. 


THE  HUGUENOTS  IN  CAROLINA. 

FROM  THE   SAME. 

WHAT  need  of  describing  the  stripes,  the  roast- 
ings  by  slow  fires,  the  plunging  into  wells,  the 
gashes  from  knives,  the  wounds  from  red-hot  pin 
cers,  and  all  the  cruelties  employed  by  men  who 
were  only  forbidden  not  to  ravish  nor  to  kill  ?  The 
loss  of  lives  cannot  be  computed.  How  many 
thousands  of  men,  how  many  thousands  of  chil 
dren  and  women,  perished  in  the  attempt  to  escape, 
who  can  tell "?  An  historian  has  asserted  that  ten 
thousand  perished  at  the  stake,  or  on  the  gibbet 
and  the  wheel. 

But  the  efforts  of  tyranny  were  powerless. 
Truth  enjoys  serenely  her  own  immortality;  and 
opinion,  which  always  yields  to  a  clearer  convic 
tion,  laughs  violence  to  scorn.  The  unparalleled 
persecution  of  vast  masses  of  men  for  their  reli 
gious  creed,  occasioned  but  a  new  display  of  the 
power  of  humanity  ;  the  Calvinists  preserved  their 
faith  over  the  ashes  of  their  churches,  and  the  bodies 
of  their  murdered  ministers.  The  power  of  a  brutal 
soldiery  was  defied  by  whole  companies  of  faith 
ful  men,  that  still  assembled  to  sing  their  psalms ; 
and  from  the  country  and  the  city,  from  the  com 
fortable  homes  of  wealthy  merchants,  from  the 
abodes  of  an  humbler  peasantry,  from  the  work 
shops  of  artisans,  hundreds  of  thousands  of  men 
rose  up,  as  with  one  heart,  to  bear  testimony  to  the 
indefeasible,  irresistible  right  to  freedom  of  mind. 

Every  wise  government  was  eager  to  offer  a  re 
fuge  to  the  upright  men  who  would  carry  to  other 
countries  the  arts,  the  skill  in  manufactures,  and 
the  wealth  of  France.  Emigrant  Huguenots  put  a 
new  aspect  on  the  north  of  Germany,  where  they 
filled  entire  towns  and  sections  of  cities,  introduc 
ing  manufactures  before  unknown.  A  suburb  of 
London  was  filled  with  French  mechanics;  the 
prince  of  Orange  gained  entire  regiments  of  sol 
diers,  as  brave  as  those  whom  Cromwell  led  to  vic 
tory  ;  a  colony  of  them  reached  even  the  Cape  of 
Good  Hope.  In  our  American  colonies  they  were 
welcome  everywhere.  The  religious  sympathies 
of  New  England  were  awakened ;  did  any  arrive 
in  poverty,  having  barely  escaped  with  life  1 — the 
towns  of  Massachusetts  contributed  liberally  to 
their  support,  and  provided  them  with  lands.  Others 
repaired  to  New  York ;  but  the  warmer  climate  was 
more  inviting  to  the  exiles  of  Languedoc,  and  South 
Carolina  became  the  chief  resort  of  the  Huguenots. 
What  though  the  attempt  to  emigrate  was  by  the 


law  of  France  a  felony  ]  In  spite  of  every  pre 
caution  of  the  police,  five  hundred  thousand  souls 
escaped  from  their  country.  The  unfortunate  were 
more  wakeful  to  fly  than  the  ministers  of  tyranny 
to  restrain. . . . 

Escaping  from  a  land  where  the  profession  of 
their  religion  was  a  felony,  where  their  estates  were 
liable  to  be  confiscated  in  favour  of  the  apostate, 
where  the  preaching  of  their  faith  was  a  crime  to 
be  expiated  on  the  wheel,  where  their  children 
might  be  torn  from  them,  to  be  subjected  to  the 
nearest  Catholic  relation — the  fugitives  from  Lan 
guedoc  on  the  Mediterranean,  from  Rochelle,  and 
Saintange,  and  Bordeaux,  the  provinces  on  the 
Bay  of  Biscay,  from  St.  Quentin,  Poictiers,  and 
the  beautiful  valley  of  Tour,  from  St.  Lo  and 
Dieppe,  men  who  had  the  virtues  of  the  English 
Puritans,  without  their  bigotry,  came  to  the  land 
to  which  the  tolerant  benevolence  of  Shaftesbury 
had  invited  the  believer  of  every  creed.  From  a 
land  that  had  suffered  its  king,  in  wanton  bigotry, 
to  drive  half  a  million  of  its  best  citizens  into  exile, 
they  came  to  the  land  which  was  the  hospitable  re 
fuge  of  the  oppressed  ;  where  superstition  and  fa 
naticism,  infidelity  and  faith,  cold  speculation  and 
animated  zeal,  were  alike  admitted  without  ques 
tion,  and  where  the  fires  of  religious  persecution 
were  never  to  be  kindled.  There  they  obtained  an 
assignment  of  lands,  and  soon  had  tenements ; 
there  they  might  safely  make  the  woods  the  scene 
of  their  devotions,  and  join  the  simple  incense  of 
their  psalms  to  the  melodies  of  the  winds  among 
the  ancient  groves.  Their  church  was  in  Charles 
ton  ;  and  thither,  on  every  Lord's  day,  gathering 
from  their  plantations  upon  the  banks  of  the  Cooper, 
and  taking  advantage  of  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the 
tide,  they  might  all  regularly  be  seen,  the  parents 
with  their  children,  whom  no  bigot  could  now 
wrest  from  them,  making  their  way  in  light  skiffs 
along  the  river,  through  scenes  so  tranquil,  that 
silence  was  broken  only  by  the  rippling  of  oars, 
and  the  hum  of  the  flourishing  village  that  gemmed 
the  confluence  of  the  rivers. 


NEW  NETHERLANDS  AND  NEW  YORK. 

FHOM  THE  SAME. 

SOMBRE  forests  shed  a  melancholy  grandeur  over 
the  useless  magnificence  of  nature,  and  hid  in  their 
deep  shades  the  rich  soil  which  the  sun  had  never 
warmed.  No  axe  had  levelled  the  giant  progeny 
of  the  crowded  groves,  in  which  the  fantastic  forms 
of  withered  limbs,  that  had  been  blasted  and  riven 
by  lightning,  contrasted  strangely  with  the  ver 
dant  freshness  of  a  younger  growth  of  branches. 
The  wanton  grape-vine,  seeming  by  its  own  power 
to  have  sprung  from  the  earth,  and  to  have  fas 
tened  its  leafy  coils  on  the  top  of  the  tallest  fo 
rest  tree,  swung  in  the  air  with  every  breeze,  like 
the  loosened  shrouds  of  a  ship.  Trees  might  every 
where  be  seen  breaking  from  their  root  in  the 
marshy  soil,  and  threatening  to  fall  with  the  first 
rude  gust ;  while  the  ground  was  strown  with  the 


GEORGE    BANCROFT. 


409 


ruins  of  former  forests,  over  which  a  profusion  of 
wild  flowers  wasted  their  freshness  in  mockery  of 
the  gloom.  Reptiles  sported  in  the  stagnant  pools, 
or  crawled  unharmed  over  piles  of  .mouldering 
trees.  The  spotted  deer  couched  among  the  thick 
ets  ;  but  not  to  hide,  for  there  was  no  pursuer ; 
and  there  were  none  but  wild  animals  to  crop  the 
uncut  herbage  of  the  productive  prairies.  Silence 
reigned,  broken,  it  may  have  been,  by  the  flight  of 
land-birds  or  the  flapping  of  water-fowl,  and  ren 
dered  more  dismal  by  the  howl  of  beasts  of  prey. 
The  streams,  not  yet  limited  to  a  channel,  spread 
over  sand-bars,  tufted  with  copses  of  willow,  or 
waded  through  wastes  of  reeds ;  or  slowly  but  sure 
ly  undermined  the  groups  of  sycamores  that  grew 
by  their  side.  The  smaller  brooks  spread  out  into 
sedgy  swamps,  that  were  overhung  by  clouds  of 
mosquitoes ;  masses  of  decaying  vegetation  fed  the 
exhalations  with  the  seeds  of  pestilence,  and  made 
the  balmy  air  of  the  summer's  evening  as  deadly 
as  it  seemed  grateful.  Vegetable  life  and  death 
were  mingled  hideously  together.  The  horrors  of 
corruption  frowned  on  the  fruitless  fertility  of  un 
cultivated  nature. 

And  man,  the  occupant  of  the  soil,  was  wild  as 
the  savage  scene,  in  harmony  with  the  rude  nature 
by  which  he  was  surrounded ;  a  vagrant  over  the 
continent,  in  constant  warfare  with  his  fellow-man  ; 
the  bark  of  the  birch  his  canoe ;  strings  of  shells 
his  ornaments,  his  record,  and  his  coin ;  the  roots 
of  the  forest  among  his  resources  for  food  ;  his 
knowledge  in  architecture  surpassed  both  in  strength 
and  durability  by  the  skill  of  a  beaver;  bended 
saplings  the  beams  of  his  house  ;  the  branches  and 
rind  of  trees  its  roof;  drifts  of  forest-leaves  his 
couch  ;  mats  of  bulrushes  his  protection  against  the 
winter's  cold ;  his  religion  the  adoration  of  nature  ; 
his  morals  the  promptings  of  undisciplined  instinct ; 
disputing  with  the  wolves  and  bears  the  lordship  of 
the  soil,  and  dividing  with  the  squirrel  the  wild  fruits 
with  which  the  universal  woodlands  abounded.... 

And  how  changed  is  the  scene  from  that  on 
which  Hudson  gazed !  The  earth  glows  with  the 
colours  of  civilization;  the  banks  of  the  streams 
are  enamelled  with  richest  grasses ;  woodlands  and 
cultivated  fields  are  harmoniously  blended;  the 
birds  of  spring  find  their  delight  in  orchards  and 
trim  gardens,  variegated  with  choicest  plants  from  j 
every  temperate  zone ;  while  the  brilliant  flowers  j 
of  the  tropics  bloom  from  the  windows  of  the  green-  j 
house  and  the  saloon.  The  yeoman,  living  like 
a  good  neighbour  near  the  fields  he  cultivates,  glo 
ries  in  the  fruitfulness  of  the  valleys,  and  counts 
with  honest  exultation  the  flocks  and  herds  that 
browse  in  safety  on  the  hills.  The  thorn  has  given 
way  to  the  rosebush ;  the  cultivated  vine  clambers 
over  rocks  where  the  brood  of  serpents  used  to  nes 
tle;  while  industry  smiles  at  the  changes  she  has 
wrought,  and  inhales  the  bland  air  which  now  has 
health  on  its  wings. 

And  man  is  still  in  harmony  with  nature,  which 
he  has  subdued,   cultivated,   and    adorned.     For  ! 
him  the  rivers  that  flow  to  remotest  climes  mingle 
their  waters ;  for  him  the  lakes  gain  new  outlets  to 
the  ocean ;  for  him  the  arch  spans  the  flood,  and  i 
52 


science  spreads  iron  pathways  to  the  recent  wilder 
ness  ;  for  him  the  hills  yield  up  the  shining  marble 
and  the  enduring  granite;  for  him  the  forests  of 
the  interior  come  down  in  immense  rafts ;  for  him 
the  marts  of  the  city  gather  the  produce  of  every 
clime,  and  libraries  collect  the  works  of  genius  of 
every  language  and  every  age.  The  passions  of 
society  are  chastened  into  purity ;  manners  are 
made  benevolent  by  civilization ;  and  the  virtue  of 
the  country  is  the  guardian  of  its  peace.  Science 
investigates  the  powers  of  every  plant  and  mineral, 
to  find  medicines  for  disease  ;  schools  of  surgery  rival 
the  establishments  of  the  Old  World.  An  active 
daily  press,  vigilant  from  party  interests,  free  even 
to  dissoluteness,  watches  the  progress  of  society, 
and  communicates  every  fact  that  can  interest  hu 
manity  ;  the  genius  of  letters  begins  to  unfold  his 
powers  in  the  warm  sunshine  of  public  favour. 
And  while  idle  curiosity  may  take  its  walk  in  shady 
avenues  by  the  ocean  side,  commerce  pushes  its 
wharves  into  the  sea,  blocks  up  the  wide  rivers  with 
its  fleets,  and,  sending  its  ships,  the  pride  of  naval 
architecture,  to  every  clime,  defies  every  wind,  out 
rides  every  tempest,  and  invades  every  zone. 


JOHN  LOCKE  AND  WILLIAM  PENN. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

PEXX,  despairing  of  relief  in  Europe,  bent  the 
whole  energy  of  his  mind  to  accomplish  the  esta 
blishment  of  a  free  government  in  the  New  World. 
For  that  "  heavenly  end,"  he  was  prepared  by  the 
severe  discipline  of  life,  and  the  love,  without  dis 
simulation,  which  formed  the  basis  of  his  charac 
ter.  The  sentiment  of  cheerful  humanity  was  irre- 
pressibly  strong  in  his  bosom  ;  as  with  John  Eliot 
and  Roger  Williams,  benevolence  gushed  prodi 
gally  from  his  ever-flowing  heart;  and  when,  in 
his  late  old  age,  his  intellect  was  impaired,  and  his 
reason  prostrated  by  apoplexy,  his  sweetness  of 
disposition  rose  serenely  over  the  clouds  of  disea&e. 
Possessing  an  extraordinary  greatness  of  mind, 
vast  conceptions,  remarkable  for  their  universality 
and  precision,  and  "  surpassing  in  speculative  en 
dowments  ;"  conversant  with  men,  and  books,  and 
governments,  with  various  languages,  and  the  forms 
of  political  combinations,  as  they  existed  in  Eng 
land  and  France,  in  Holland,  and  the  principalities 
and  free  cities  of  Germany,  he  yet  sought  the 
source  of  wisdom  in  his  own  soul.  Humane  by 
nature  and  by  suffering ;  familiar  with  the  royal 
family;  intimate  with  Sunderland  and  Sydney, 
acquainted  with  Russel,  Halifax,  Shaftesbury,  and 
Buckingham;  as  a  member  of  the  Royal  Society, 
the  peer  of  Newton  and  the  great  scholars  of  his 
age, — he  valued  the  promptings  of  a  free  mind 
more  than  the  awards  of  the  learned,  and  reve 
renced  the  single-minded  sincerity  of  the  Notting 
ham  shepherd  more  than  the  authority  of  colleges 
and  the  wisdom  of  philosophers.  And  now,  being 
in  the  meridian  of  life,  but  a  year  older  than  was 
Locke,  when,  twelve  years  before,  he  had  framed 
to.  constitution  for  Carolina,  the  Quaker  legislator 
2M. 


410 


GEORGE    BANCROFT. 


was  come  to  the  New  World  to  lay  the  foundations 
of  states.  Would  he  imitate  the  vaunted  system 
of  the  great  philosopher1?  Locke,  like  William 
Penn,  was  tolerant;  hoth  loved  freedom;  both 
cherished  truth  in  sincerity.  But  Locke  kindled 
the  torch  of  liberty  at  the  fires  of  tradition ;  Penn 
at  the  living  light  in  the  soul.  Locke  sought  truth 
through  the  senses  and  the  outward  world ;  Penn 
looked  inward  to  the  divine  revelations  in  every 
mind.  Locke  compared  the  soul  to  a  sheet  of 
white  paper,  just  as  Hobbes  had  compared  it  to  a 
slate,  on  which  time  and  chance  might  scrawl  their 
experience ;  to  Penn,  the  soul  was  an  organ  which 
of  itself  instinctively  breathes  divine  harmonies, 
like  those  musical  instruments  which  are  so  curi 
ously  and  perfectly  framed,  that,  when  once  set  in 
motion,  they  of  themselves  give  forth  all  the  me 
lodies  designed  by  the  artist  that  made  them.  To 
Locke,  "  Conscience  is  nothing  else  than  our  own 
opinion  of  our  own  actions ;"  to  Penn,  it  is  the 
image  of  God,  and  his  oracle  in  the  soul.  Locke, 
who  was  never  a  father,  esteemed  "  the  duty  of  pa 
rents  to  preserve  their  children  to  not  be  understood 
without  reward  and  punishment;"  Penn  loved  his 
children,  with  not  a  thought  for  the  consequences. 
Locke,  who  was  never  married,  declares  marriage 
an  affair  of  the  senses ;  Penn  reverenced  woman 
as  the  object  of  fervent,  inward  affection,  made,  not 
for  lust,  but  for  love.  In  studying  the  understand 
ing,  Locke  begins  with  the  sources  of  knowledge ; 
Penn  with  an  inventory  of  our  intellectual  trea 
sures.  Locke  deduces  government  from  Noah  and 
Adam,  rests  it  upon  contract,  and  announces  its 
end  to  be  the  security  of  property ;  Penn,  far  from 
going  back  to  Adam,  or  even  to  Noah,  declares  that 
"  there  must  be  a  people  before  a  government," 
and,  deducing  the  right  to  institute  government 
from  man's  moral  nature,  seeks  its  fundamental 
rules  in  the  immutable  dictates  "  of  universal  rea 
son,"  its  end  in  freedom  and  happiness.  The  sys 
tem  of  Locke  lends  itself  to  contending  factions 
of  the  most  opposite  interests  and  purposes;  the 
doctrine  of  Fox  and  Penn,  being  but  the  common 
creed  of  humanity,  forbids  division,  and  insures  the 
highest  moral  unity.  To  Locke,  happiness  is  plea 
sure  ;  things  are  good  and  evil  only  in  reference  to 
pleasure  and  pain ;  and  to  "  inquire  after  the  high 
est  good  is  as  absurd  as  to  dispute  whether  the  best 
relish  be  in  apples,  plums,  or  nuts ;"  Penn  esteemed 
happiness  to  lie  in  the  subjection  of  the  baser  in 
stincts  to  the  instinct  of  Deity  in  the  breast,  good 
and  evil  to  be  eternally  and  always  as  unlike  as 
truth  and  falsehood,  and  the  inquiry  after  the  high 
est  good  to  involve  the  purpose  of  existence.  Locke 
says  plainly,  that,  but  for  rewards  and  punishments 
beyond  the  grave,  "  it  is  certainly  right  to  eat  and 
drink,  and  enjoy  what  we  delight  in  ;"  Penn,  like 
Plato  and  Fenelon,  maintained  the  doctrine  so  ter 
rible  to  despots,  that  God  is  to  be  loved  for  his 
own  sake,  and  virtue  to  be  practised  for  its  intrinsic 
loveliness.  Locke  derives  the  idea  of  infinity  from 
the  senses,  describes  it  as  purely  negative,  and  at 
tributes  it  to  nothing  but  space,  duration  and  num 
ber  ;  Penn  derived  the  idea  from  the  soul,  and  as 
cribed  it  to  truth,  and  virtue,  and  God.  Locke 


declares  immortality  a  matter  with  which  reason 
has  nothing  to  do,  and  that  revealed  truth  must  be 
sustained  by  outward  signs  and  visible  acts  ot 
power ;  Penn  saw  truth  by  its  own  light,  and  sum 
moned  the  soul  to  bear  witness  to  its  own  glory. 
Locke  believed  "  not  so  many  men  in  wrong  opi 
nions  as  is  commonly  supposed,  because  the  great 
est  part  have  no  opinions  at  all,  and  do  not  know 
what  they  contend  for ;"  Penn  likewise  vindicated 
the  many,  but  it  was  because  truth  is  the  common 
inheritance  of  the  race.  Locke,  in  his  love  of  to 
lerance,  inveighed  against  the  methods  of  persecu 
tion  as  »  Popish  practices  ;"  Penn  censured  no  sect, 
but  condemned  bigotry  of  all  sorts  as  inhuman. 
Locke,  as  an  American  lawgiver,  dreaded  a  too  nu 
merous  democracy,  and  reserved  all  power  to 
wealth  and  the  feudal  proprietaries ;  Penn  believed 
that  God  is  in  every  conscience,  his  light  in  every 
soul;  and  therefore,  stretching  out  his  arms,  he 
built — such  are  his  own  words — «  a  free  colony  for 
all  mankind."  This  is  the  praise  of  William  Penn, 
that,  in  an  age  which  had  seen  a  popular  revo 
lution  shipwreck  popular  liberty  among  selfish 
factions;  which  had  seen  Hugh  Peters  and  Hen 
ry  Vane  perish  by  the  hangman's  cord  and  the 
axe ;  in  an  age  when  Sydney  nourished  the  pride 
of  patriotism  rather  than  the  sentiment  of  philan 
thropy,  when  Russel  stood  for  the  liberties  of  his 
order,  and  not  for  new  enfranchisements,  when 
Harrington,  and  Shaftesbury,  and  Locke,  thought 
government  should  rest  on  property, — Penn  did 
not  despair  of  humanity,  and,  though  all  history 
arid  experience  denied  the  sovereignty  of  the  peo 
ple,  dared  to  cherish  the  noble  idea  of  man's  capa 
city  for  self-government.  Conscious  that  there  was 
no  room  for  its  exercise  in  England,  the  pure  en 
thusiast,  like  Calvin  and  Descartes,  a  voluntary  ex 
ile,  was  come  to  the  banks  of  the  Delaware  to  in 
stitute  "  THE  HOLY  EXPERIMENT." 


WILLIAM  THE  THIRD. 

FROM  THE   SAME. 

THE  character  of  the  new  monarch  of  Great 
Britain  could  mould  its  policy,  but  not  its  constitu 
tion.  True  to  his  purposes,  he  yet  wins  no  sym 
pathy.  In  political  sagacity,  in  force  of  will,  far 
superior  to  the  English  statesmen  who  environed 
him ;  more  tolerant  than  his  ministers  or  his  par 
liaments,  the  childless  man  seems  like  the  unknown 
character  in  algebra  which  is  introduced  to  form 
the  equation,  and  dismissed  when  the  problem  is 
solved.  In  his  person  thin  and  feeble,  with  eyes 
of  a  hectic  lustre,  of  a  temperament  inclining  to 
the  melancholic,  in  conduct  cautious,  of  a  self-re 
lying  humour,  with  abiding  impressions  respecting 
men,  he  sought  no  favour,  and  relied  for  success  on 
his  own  inflexibility  and  the  greatness  and  maturity 
of  his  designs.  Too  wise  to  be  cajoled,  too  firm 
to  be  complaisant,  no  address  could  sway  his  re 
solve.  In  Holland,  he  had  not  scrupled  to  derive 
an  increase  of  power  from  the  crimes  of  rioters  and 
assassins;  in  England,  no  filial  respect  diminished 


GEORGE    BANCROFT. 


411 


the  energy  of  his  ambition.  His  exterior  was 
chilling;  yet  he  had  a  passionate  delight  in  horses 
and  the  chase.  In  conversation  he  was  abrupt, 
speaking  little  and  slowly,  and  with  repulsive  dry- 
ness  ;  in  the  day  of  battle,  he  was  all  activity,  and 
the  highest  energy  of  life,  without  kindling  his  pas 
sions,  animated  his  frame.  His  trust  in  Providence 
was  so  connected  with  faith  in  general  laws,  that, 
in  every  action,  he  sought  the  principle  which 
should  range  it  on  an  absolute  decree.  Thus,  un 
conscious  to  himself,  he  had  sympathy  with  the 
people,  who  always  have  faith  in  Providence. 
"  Do  you  dread  death  in  my  company  ]"  he  cried 
to  the  anxious  sailors,  when  the  ice  on  the  coast 
of  Holland  had  almost  crushed  the  boat  that  was 
bearing  him  to  the  shore.  Courage  and  pride  per 
vaded  the  reserve  of  the  prince  who,  spurning  an 
alliance  with  a  bastard  daughter  of  Louis  XIV., 
had  made  himself  the  centre  of  a  gigantic  opposi 
tion  to  France.  For  England,  for  the  English 
people,  for  English  liberties,  he  had  no  affection, 
'indifferently  employing  the  whigs,  who  found  their 
pride  in  the  revolution,  and  the  tories,  who  had 
opposed  his  elevation,  and  who  yet  were  the  fittest 
instruments  "  to  carry  the  prerogative  high."  One 
great  passion  had  absorbed  his  breast — the  inde 
pendence  of  his  native  country.  The  harsh  en 
croachments  of  Louis  XIV.,  which,  in  1672,  had 
made  William  of  Orange  a  revolutionary  stadtholder, 
now  assisted  to  constitute  him  a  revolutionary  king, 
transforming  the  impassive  champion  of  Dutch  inde 
pendence  into  the  defender  of  the  liberties  of  E  urope. 

DISCOVERY   OF  THE   MISSISSIPPI  BY 
MARQUETTE. 

FROM   THE   SAME. 

BEHOLD,  in  1673,  on  the  tenth  day  of  June,  the 
meek,  single-hearted,  unpretending,  illustrious  Mar- 
quette,  with  Joliet  for  his  associate,  five  Frenchmen 
as  his  companions,  and  two  Algonquins  as  guides, 
lifting  their  two  canoes  on  their  backs,  and  walk 
ing  across  the  narrow  portage  that  divides  the  Fox 
River  from  the  Wisconsin.  They  reach  the  water 
shed  ; — uttering  a  special  prayer  to  the  immaculate 
Virgin,  they  leave  the  streams  that,  flowing  on 
wards,  could  have  borne  their  greetings  to  the  cas 
tle  of  Quebec; — already  they  stand  by  the  Wis 
consin.  "The  guides  returned,"  says  the  gentle 
Marquette,  "leaving  us  alone,  in  this  unknown 
land,  in  the  hands  of  Providence."  France  and 
Christianity  stood  in  the  valley  of  the  Mississippi. 
Embarking  on  the  broad  Wisconsin,  the  discover 
ers,  as  they  sailed  west,  went  solitarily  down-the 
stream,  between  alternate  prairies  and  hill-sides, 
beholding  neither  man  nor  the  wonted  beasts  of 
the  forest :  no  sound  broke  the  appalling  silence, 
but  the  ripple  of  their  canoe,  and  the  lowing  of 
the  buffalo.  In  seven  days,  « they  entered  happi 
ly  the  Great  River,  with  a  joy  that  could  not  be 
expressed  ;"  and  the  two  birch-bark  canoes,  raising 
their  happy  sails  under  new  skies  and  to  unknown 
breezes,  floated  down  the  calm  magnificence  of  the 
ocean  stream,  over  the  broad,  clear  sand-bars,  the 
resort  of  innumerable  waterfowl, — gliding  past 


islets  that  swelled  from  the  bosom  of  the  stream, 
with  their  tufts  of  massive  thickets,  and  between 
the  wide  plains  of  Illinois  and  Iowa,  all  garlanded 
with  majestic  forests,  or  checkered  by  island  groves 
and  the  open  vastness  of  the  prairie. 

About  sixty  leagues  below  the  mouth  of  the 
Wisconsin,  the  western  bank  of  the  Mississippi 
bore  on  its  sands  the  trail  of  men ;  a  little  footpath 
was  discerned  leading  into  a  beautiful  prairie ;  and, 
leaving  the  canoes,  Joliet  and  Marquette  resolved 
alone  to  brave  a  meeting  with  the  savages.  After 
walking  six  miles,  they  beheld  a  village  on  the 
banks  of  a  river,  and  two  others  on  a  slope,  at  a 
distance  of  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  first.  The 
river  was  the  Mou-in-gou-e-na,  or  Moingona,  of 
which  we  have  corrupted  the  same  into  Des 
Moines.  Marquette  and  Joliet  were  the  first  white 
men  who  trod  the  soil  of  Iowa.  Commending 
themselves  to  God,  they  uttered  a  loud  cry.  The 
Indians  hear;  four  men  advance  slowly  to  meet 
them,  bearing  the  peace-pipe  brilliant  with  many 
coloured  plumes.  «  We  are  Illinois,"  said  they, — • 
that  is,  when  translated,  "  We  are  men  ;"  and  they 
offered  the  calumet.  An  aged  chief  received  them 
at  his  cabin  with  upraised  hands,  exclaiming, 
"  How  beautiful  is  the  sun,  Frenchmen,  when  thou 
comest  to  visit  us !  Our  whole  village  awaits 
thee ;  thou  shall  enter  in  peace  into  all  our  dwell 
ings."  And  the  pilgrims  were  followed  by  the 
devouring  gaze  of  an  astonished  crowd. 

At  the  great  council,  Marquette  published  to 
them  the  one  true  God,  their  Creator.  He  spoke, 
also,  of  the  great  captain  of  the  French,  the  go 
vernor  of  Canada,  who  had  chastised  the  Five  Na 
tions  and  commanded  peace ;  and  he  questioned 
them  respecting  the  Mississippi  and  the  tribes  that 
possessed  its  banks.  For  the  messengers,  who  an 
nounced  the  subjection  of  the  Iroquois,  a  magnifi 
cent  festival  was  prepared  of  hominy,  and  fish,  and 
the  choicest  viands  from  the  prairies. 

After  six  days'  delay,  and  invitations  to  new 
visits,  the  chieftain  of  the  tribe,  with  hundreds  of 
warriors,  attended  the  strangers  to  their  canoes ; 
and,  selecting  a  peace-pipe  embellished  with  the 
head  and  neck  of  brilliant  birds,  and  all  feathered 
over  with  plumage  of  various  hues,  they  hung  round 
Marquette  the  mysterious  arbiter  of  peace  and  war, 
the  sacred  calumet,  a  safeguard  among  the  nations. 

The  little  group  proceeded  onwards.  "  I  did 
not  fear  death,"  says  Marquette ;  "  I  should  have 
esteemed  it  the  greatest  happiness  to  have  died  for 
the  glory  of  God."  They  passed  the  perpendicu 
lar  rocks,  which  wore  the  appearance  of  monsters ; 
they  heard  at  a  distance  the  noise  of  the  waters  of 
the  Missouri,  known  to  them  by  its  Algonquin  name 
of  Pekitanoni ;  and,  when  they  came  to  the  most 
beautiful  confluence  of  rivers  in  the  world, — where 
the  swifter  Missouri  rushes  like  a  conqueror  into 
the  calmer  Mississippi,  dragging  it,  as  it  were,  has 
tily  to  the  sea, — the  good  Marquette  resolved  in  his 
heart,  anticipating  Lewis  and  Clarke,  one  day  to 
ascend  the  mighty  river  to  its  source ;  to  cross  the 
ridge  that  divides  the  oceans,  and  descending  a 
westerly  flowing  stream,  to  publish  the  gospel  to 
all  the  people  of  this  New  World. 


412 


GEORGE    BANCROFT. 


In  a  little  less  than  forty  leagues,  the  canoes 
floated  past  the  Ohio,which  was  then,  and  long  after 
wards,  called  the  Wabash.  Its  banks  were  tenanted 
by  numerous  villages  of  the  peaceful  Shawnees, 
who  quailed  under  the  incursions  of  the  Iroquois. 

The  thick  canes  begin  to  appear  so  close  and 
strong,  that  the  buffalo  could  not  break  through 
them ;  the  insects  become  intolerable ;  as  a  shelter 
against  the  suns  of  July,  the  sails  are  folded  into 
an  awning.  The  prairies  vanish;  and  forests  of 
whitewood,  admirable  for  their  vastness  and  height, 
crowd  even  to  the  skirts  of  the  pebbly  shore.  It  is 
also  observed  that,  in  the  land  of  the  Chickasas,  the 
Indians  have  guns. 

Near  the  latitude  of  thirty-three  degrees,  on  the 
western  bank  of  the  Mississippi,  stood  the  village 
of  Mitchigamea,  in  the  region  that  had  not  been 
visited  by  Europeans  since  the  days  of  De  Soto. 
"  Now,"  thought  Marquette,  "  we  must,  indeed, 
ask  the  aid  of  the  Virgin."  Armed  with  bows 
and  arrows,  with  clubs,  axes,  and  bucklers,  amidst 
continual  whoops,  the  natives,  bent  on  war,  embark 
in  vast  canoes  made  out  of  the  trunks  of  hollow  trees; 
but,  at  the  sight  of  the  mysterious  peace-pipe  held 
aloft,  God  touched  the  hearts  of  the  old  men,  who 
checked  the  impetuosity  of  the  young ;  and,  throw 
ing  their  bows  and  quivers  into  the  canoes,  as  a  token 
of  peace,  they  prepared  a  hospitable  welcome. 

The  next  day,  a  long,  wooden  canoe,  containing 
ten  men>  escorted  the  discoverers,  for  eight  or  ten 
leagues  to  the  village  of  Akansea,  the  limit  of  their 
voyage.  They  had  left  the  region  of  the  Algon- 
quins,  and,  in  the  midst  of  the  Sioux  and  Chicka 
sas,  could  speak  only  by  an  interpreter.  A  half 
league  above  Akansea,  they  were  met  by  two 
boats,  in  one  of  which  stood  the  commander,  hold 
ing  in  his  hand  the  peace-pipe,  and  singing  as  he 
drew  near.  After  offering  the  pipe,  he  gave  bread 
of  maize.  The  wealth  of  his  tribe  consisted  in 
buffalo  skins ;  their  weapons  were  axes  of  steel, — 
a  proof  of  commerce  with  Europeans. 

Thus  had  our  travellers  descended  below  the 
entrance  of  the  Arkansas,  to  the  genial  climes 
that  have  almost  no  winter  but  rains,  beyond  the 
bound  of  the  Huron  and  Algonquin  languages,  to 
the  vicinity  of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  and  to  tribes  of 
Indians  that  had  obtained  European  arms  by  traf 
fic  with  Spaniards  or  with  Virginia. 

So,  having  spoken  of  God,  and  the  mysteries  of 
the  Catholic  faith ;  having  become  certain  that  the 
Father  of  Rivers  went  not  to  the  ocean  east  of  Flo 
rida,  nor  yet  to  the  Gulf  of  California,  Marquette  and 
Joliet  left  Akansea,  and  ascended  the  Mississippi. 

At  the  thirty-eighth  degree  of  latitude,  they  en 
tered  the  River  Illinois,  and  discovered  a  country 
without  its  paragon  for  the  fertility  of  its  beautiful 
prairies,  covered  with  buffaloes  and  stags, — for  the 
loveliness  of  its  rivulets,  and  the  prodigal  abun 
dance  of  wild  duck  and  swans,  and  of  a  species  of 
parrots  and  wild  turkeys.  The  tribe  of  Illinois, 
thai  tenanted  its  banks,  entreated  Marquette  to 
come  and  reside  among  them.  One  of  their  chiefs, 
with  their  young  men,  conducted  the  party,  by  way 
of  Chicago,  to  Lake  Michigan ;  and,  before  the  end 
of  September,  all  were  safe  in  Green  Bay. 


Joliet  returned  to  Quebec  to  announce  the  dis 
covery,  of  which  the  fame,  through  Talon,  quick 
ened  the  ambition  of  Colbert ;  the  unaspiring  Mar 
quette  remained  to  preach  the  gospel  to  the  Mia- 
mis,  who  dwelt  in  the  north  of  Illinois,  round 
Chicago.  Two  years  afterward,  sailing  from  Chi 
cago  to  Mackinaw,  he  entered  a  little  river  in 
Michigan.  Erecting  an  altar,  he  said  mass  after 
the  rites  of  the  Catholic  church ;  then,  begging 
the  men  who  conducted  his  canoe  to  leave  him 
alone  for  a  half  hour, 

"  in  the  darkling  wood, 

Amidst  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down. 
And  offered  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks 
And  supplication." 

At  the  end  of  the  half-hour,  they  went  to  seek  him, 
and  he  was  no  more.  The  good  missionary,  dis 
coverer  of  a  world,  had  fallen  asleep  on  the  margin 
of  the  stream  that  bears  his  name.  Near  its  mouth, 
the  canoemen  dug  his  grave  in  the  sand.  Ever 
after,  the  forest  rangers,  if  in  danger  on  Lake 
Michigan,  would  invoke  his  name.  The  people 
of  the  west  will  build  his  monument. 

CHARACTER  OF  FRANKLIN. 

FROM   THE   SAME. 


WITH  placid  tranquillity,  Benjamin  Franklin 
looked  quietly  and  deeply  into  the  secrets  of  nature. 
His  clear  understanding  was  never  perverted  by 
passion,  or  corrupted  by  the  pride  of  theory.  The 
son  of  a  rigid  Calvinist,  the  grandson  of  a  tolerant 
Quaker,  he  had  from  boyhood  been  familiar  not 
only  with  theological  subtilties,  but  with  a  catholic 
respect  for  freedom  of  mind.  Skeptical  of  tradition 
as  the  basis  of  faith,  he  respected  reason  rather 
than  authority  ;  and,  after  a  momentary  lapse  into 
fatalism,  escaping  from  the  mazes  of  fixed  decrees 
and  free  will,  he  gained,  with  increasing  years,  an 
increasing  trust  in  the  overruling  providence  of 
God.  Adhering  to  none  «  of  all  the  religions"  in 
the  colonies,  he  yet  devoutly,  though  without  form, 
adhered  to  religion.  But  though  famous  as  a  dis 
putant,  and  having  a  natural  aptitude  for  meta 
physics,  he  obeyed  the  tendency  of  his  age,  and 
sought  by  observation  to  win  an  insight  into  the 
mysteries  of  being.  Loving  truth,  without  preju 
dice  and  without  bias,  he  discerned  intuitively  the 
identity  of  the  laws  of  nature  with  those  of  which 
humanity  is  conscious ;  so  that  his  mind  was  like  a 
mirror,  in  which  the  universe,  as  it  reflected  itself, 
revealed  her  laws.  He  was  free  from  mysticism, 
even  to  a  fault.  His  morality,  repudiating  ascetic 
severities,  and  the  system  which  enjoins  them,  was 
indulgent  to  appetites  of  which  he  abhorred  the 
sway ;  but  his  affections  were  of  a  calm  intensity  ; 
in  all  his  career,  the  love  of  man  gained  the  mas 
tery  over  personal  interest.  He  had  not  the  imagi 
nation  which  inspires  the  bard  or  kindles,  the  ora 
tor;  but  an  exquisite  propriety,  parsimonious  of 
ornament,  gave  ease  of  expression  and  graceful 
simplicity  even  to  his  most  careless  writings.  In 
life,  also,  his  tastes  were  delicate.  Indifferent  to 
the  pleasures  of  the  table,  he  relished  the  delights 
of  music  and  harmony,  of  which  he  enlarged  the 
instruments.  His  blandness  of  temper,  his  modesty, 


GEORGE    BANCROFT. 


413 


the  benignity  of  his  manners,  made  him  the  favour 
ite  of  intelligent  society ;  and,  with  healthy  cheer 
fulness,  he  derived  pleasure  from  books,  from  phi 
losophy,  from  conversation, — now  calmly  adminis 
tering  consolation  to  the  sorrower,  now  indulging 
in  the  expression  of  light-hearted  gayety.     In  his 
intercourse,  the  universality  of  his  perceptions  bore, 
perhaps,  the  character  of  humour ;  but,  while  he 
clearly  discerned  the  contrast  between  the  grandeur 
of  the  universe  and  the  feebleness  of  man,  a  serene 
benevolence  saved  him  from  contempt  of  his  race, 
or  disgust  at  its  toils.     To  superficial  observers,  he 
might  have  seemed  as  an  alien  from  speculative 
truth,  limiting  himself  to  the  world  of  the  senses ; 
and  yet,  in  study,  and  among  men,  his  mind  al 
ways  sought,  with  unaffected  simplicity,  to  discover 
and  apply  the  general  principles  by  which  nature 
and  affairs  are  controlled, — now  deducing  from  the 
theory  of  caloric  improvements  in  fireplaces  and 
lanterns,  and  now  advancing  human  freedom  by  firm 
inductions    from   the    inalienable   rights  of  man. 
Never  professing  enthusiasm,  never  making  a  pa 
rade  of  sentiment,  his  practical  wisdom  was  some 
times  mistaken  for  the  offspring  of  selfish  prudence  ; 
yet  his  hope  was  steadfast,  like  that  hope  which 
rests  on  the  Rock  of  Ages,  and  his  conduct  was  as 
unerring  as  though  the  light  that  led  him  was  a 
light  from  heaven.     He  never  anticipated  action 
by  theories  of  self-sacrificing  virtue ;  and  yet,  in 
the  moments  of  intense  activity,  he,  from  the  high 
est  abodes  of  ideal  truth,  brought  down  and  ap 
plied  to  the  affairs  of  life  the  sublimest  principles  of 
goodness,  as  noiselessly  and  unostentatiously  as  be 
came  the  man  who,  with  a  kite  and  hempen  string, 
drew  the  lightning  from  the  skies.     He  separated 
himself  so  little  from  his  age,  that  he  has  been 
called  the  representative  of  materialism ;  and  yet, 
when  he  thought  on  religion,  his  mind  passed  be 
yond  reliance  on  sects  to  faith  in  God ;  when  he 
wrote  on  politics,  he  founded  the  freedom  of  his 
country  on  principles  that  know  no  change  ;  when 
he  turned  an  observing  eye  on  nature,  he  passed 
always  from  the  effect  to  the  cause,  from  individual 
appearances  to  universal  laws ;  when  he  reflected 
on  history,  his  philosophic  mind  found  gladness  and 
repose  in  the  clear  anticipation  of  the  progress  of 
humanity. 

THE  YOUTH  OF  WASHINGTON. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

AFTER  long  years  of  strife,  of  repose,  and  of 
strife  renewed,  England  and  France  solemnly  agreed 
to  be  at  peace.  The  treaties  of  Aix  la  Chapelle  had 
been  negotiated,  by  the  ablest  statesmen  of  Europe, 
in  the  splendid  forms  of  monarchical  diplomacy. 
They  believed  themselves  the  arbiters  of  mankind, 
the  pacificators  of  the  world, — reconstructing  the 
colonial  system  on  a  basis  which  should  endure  for 
•  ages, — confirming  the  peace  of  Europe  by  the  nice 
adjustment  of  material  forces.  At  the  very  time 
of  the  congress  of  Aix  la  Chapelle,  the  woods  of 
Virginia  sheltered  the  youthful  George  Washing 
ton,  the  son  of  a  widow.  Born  by  the  side  of  the 
Potomac,  beneath  the  roof  of  a  Westmoreland 


farmer,  almost  from  infancy  his  lot  had  been  the 
lot  of  an  orphan.  No  academy  had  welcomed  him 
to  its  shades,  no  college  crowned  him  with  its  ho 
nours  :  to  read,  to  write,  to  cipher — these  had  been 
his  degrees  in  knowledge.  And  now,  at  sixteen 
years  of  age,  in  quest  of  an  honest  maintenance,  en 
countering  intolerable  toil ;  cheered  onward  by  being 
able  to  write  to  a  schoolboy  friend,  «  Dear  Richard,  a 
doubloon  is  my  constant  gain  every  day,  and  some 
times  six  pistoles ;"  «  himself  his  own  cook,  having  no 
spit  but  a  forked  stick,  no  plate  but  a  large  chip ;" 
roaming  over  spurs  of  the  Alleghenies,  and  along 
the  banks  of  the  Shenandoah  ;  alive  to  nature,  and 
sometimes  «  spending  the  best  of  the  day  in  admir 
ing  the  trees  and  richness  of  the  land ;"  among 
skin-clad  savages,  with  their  scalps  and  rattles,  or 
uncouth  emigrants,  "that  would  never  speak  Eng 
lish  ;"  rarely  sleeping  in  a  bed ;  holding  a  bearskin 
a  splendid  couch ;  glad  of  a  resting-place  for  the 
night  upon  a  little  hay,  straw,  or  fodder^  and  often 
camping  in  the  forests,  where  the  place  nearest  the 
fire  was  a  happy  luxury; — this  stripling  surveyor 
in  the  woods,  with  no  companion  but  his  unlettered 
associates,  and  no  implements  of  science  but  his 
compass  and  chain,  contrasted  strangely  with  the 
imperial  magnificence  of  the  congress  of  Aix  la 
Chapelle.  And  yet  God  had  selected,  not  Kau- 
nitz,  nor  Newcastle,  not  a  monarch  of  the  house 
of  Hapsburg,  nor  of  Hanover,  but  the  Virginia 
stripling,  to  give  an  impulse  to  human  affairs,  and, 
as  far  as  events  can  depend  on  an  individual,  had 
placed  the  rights  and  the  destinies  of  countless  mil 
lions  in  the  keeping  of  the  widow's  son. 


PURITAN  INTOLERANCE. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

To  the  colonists  the  maintenance  of  their  reli 
gious  unity  seemed  essential  to  their  cordial  resist 
ance  to  English  attempts  at  oppression.  And 
why,  said  they,  should  we  not  insist  upon  this 
union  ]  We  have  come  to  the  outside  of  the 
world  for  the  privilege  of  living  by  ourselves ;  why 
should  we  open  our  asylum  to  those  in  whom  we 
can  repose  no  confidence  ]  The  world  cannot  call 
this  persecution.  We  have  been  banished  to  the 
wilderness ;  is  it  an  injustice  to  exclude  our  op 
pressors,  and  those  whom  we  dread  as  their  allies, 
from  the  place  which  is  to  shelter  us  from  their  in 
tolerance  1  Is  it  a  great  cruelty  to  expel  from  our 
abode  the  enemies  of  our  peace,  or  even  the  doubtful 
friend  1  Will  any  man  complain  at  being  driven 
from  among  banished  men,  with  whom  he  has  no 
fellowship ;  of  being  refused  admittance  to  a  gloomy 
place  of  exile  ?  The  wide  continent  of  America 
invited  colonization  ;  they  claimed  their  own  nar 
row  domains  for  "the  brethren."  Their  religion 
was  their  life ;  they  welcomed  none  but  its  adhe 
rents  ;  they  could  not  tolerate  the  scoffer,  the  in 
fidel,  or  the  dissenter ;  and  the  presence  of  the 
whole  people  was  required  in  their  congregation. 
Such  was  the  system  inflexibly  established  and  re 
garded  as  the  only  adequate  guarantee  of  the  ris 
ing  liberties  of  Massachusetts. 
2M2 


GEORGE  P.  MARSH. 


[Born  1801.]     " 


GEORGE  P.  MARSH,  late  envoy  otfche  United 
States  at  Constantinople,  was  born  in  the 
pleasant  village  of  Woodstock,  in  that  state, 
in  the  month  of  March,  1801,  and  was  edu 
cated  at  Dartmouth  college,  in  New  Hamp 
shire,  where  he  graduated  with  a  high  reputa 
tion  for  natural  abilities  and  scholarship,  in 
1820.  He  soon  after  removed  to  Burlington, 
in  Vermont,  (the  seat  of  the  University  of  that 
state,  of  which  his  cousin,  the  late  learned  and 
reverend  James  Marsh,*  was  soon  after  made 
president,)  and  entered  upon  the  study  of  the 
law ;  and  since  his  admission  to  the  bar  he  has 
resided  there,  in  the  successful  practice  of  his 
profession,  except  when  attending  to  the  duties 
which  have  been  devolved  upon  him  from  time 
to  time  in  the  state  and  national  legislatures. 
He  was  a  representative  in  Congress  from  1842 
to  1849. 

Mr.  Marsh  is  known  as  a  scholar  of  profound 
and  various  erudition,  and  as  a  writer  of  strong 
ly  marked  individuality  and  nationality.  His 
sympathies  are  with  the  Goths,  whose  presence 
he  recognizes  in  whatever  is  grand  and  pecu- 

*  James  Marsh,  D.  D.,  who  has  been  several  times  re 
ferred  to  in  this  volume,  was  born  at  Hartford  in  Ver 
mont  in  17U4,  was  graduated  at  Dartmouth  College  in 
1817,  and  soon  after  entered  the  seminary  at  Andover, 
•where  he  studied  divinity,  about  one  year,  at  the  end  of 
which  time  he  accepted  an  invitation  to  return  to  Han 
over  as  a  tutor.  He  again  went  to  Andover  in  1820,  to 
complete  his  professional  studies,  and  while  there  wrote 
a  few  articles  for  the  North  American  Review,  one  of 
which  is  that  on  Italian  Literature,  in  the  thirty-sixth 
number.  From  1823  to  1826  he  was  Professor  of  Lan 
guages  in  Hampden  Sydney  College  in  Virginia.  In  the 
latter  year  he  was  appointed  President  of  the  Universi 
ty  of  Vermont,  but  afterward  resigned  this  office  to  ac 
cept  that  of  Professor  of  Philosophy.  He  published  at 
Burlington  in  1829  the  first  American  edition  of  Cole 
ridge's  Aids  to  Reflection,  with  an  elaborate  Preliminary 
Essay,  which  attracted  a  great  deal  of  attention  among 
thinking  men  by  its  lucid  and  powerful  exposition  and 
assertion  of  the  highest  principles  in  philosophy.  In 
1830  he  published  Selections  from  Old  English  Writers 
on  Practical  Theology  ;  in  1833  his  translation  of  Herder 
on  the  Spirit  of  Hebrew  Poetry,  and  at  various  times 
many  articles  on  religion  and  philosophy  in  the  periodi 
cals.  He  died  in  the  forty-eighth  year  of  his  age,  in 

1842.  His  Remarks  on  Psychology,  Discourses  on  Sin, 
Conscience,  and  some  other  subjects,  with  a  selection 
from  his  tracts  and  letters,  were  published  in  Boston  in 

1843.  He  was  undoubtedly  the  first  of  our  metaphysi 
cians  except  Edwards. 

414 


liar  in  the  characters  of  the  founders  of  New 
England,  and  in  whatever  gives  promise  of  her 
integrity,  greatness,  and  permanence.  He  is 
undoubtedly  better  versed  than  any  American 
in  the  fresh  and  vigorous  literature  of  the  north 
of  Europe,  and  perhaps  is  so  also  in  that  fruit 
of  a  new  birth  of  genius  and  virtue,  the  Puri 
tan  literature  of  Great  Britain  and  continental 
Europe.  In  the  Goths  in  New  England,  (pub 
lished  in  1836,)  he  has  contrasted  in  a  strik 
ing  manner  the  characters  of  the  Goths  and  the 
Romans,  and  traced  the  presence  and  influ 
ence  of  the  former  in  the  origin  and  growth  of 
this  republic  ;  and  in  a  Discourse  recently  de 
livered  before  the  New  England  Society  of  the 
city  of  New  York,  he  enters  again  upon  the 
subject,  and  points  to  the  growth  among  us, 
of  the  Roman  element  which  is  as  antagonisti- 
cal  to  freedom  as  it  is  to  Gothicism. 

In  New  England,  more  than  in  any  other  part 
of  the  country,  the  popular  character  is  distinc 
tive  and  may  be  regarded  as  settled.  The  seed 
from  the  May  Flower  fell  upon  good  ground, 
and  sprung  up,  and  the  new  fruit,  modified  by 
climate,  and  other  influences,  constitutes  a  va 
riety  by  itself.  No  one  seems  to  have  been  so 
successful  as  Mr.  Marsh,  in  resolving  the  New 
England  character  into  its  elements,  and  in  dis 
cerning  in  it  what  is  transient  and  what  is  per 
manent  ;  or  with  so  sharp  and  well  instructed 
a  vision  to  have  seen  so  much  to  justify  hope 
of  the  future  destinies  of  the  country. 

Mr.  Marsh's  acquaintance  with  the  fine  arts 
is  very  extensive  and  accurate,  and  we  have 
few  better  linguists.  Among  the  fruits  of  his 
devotion  to  Gothic  learning  are  A  Compendi 
ous  Grammar  of  the  Old  Northern  or  Icelandic 
Language,  (modestly  announced  on  the  title 
page  as  "compiled  and  translated  from  the 
grammar  of  Rask,"  though  it  is  in  many  re 
spects  an  original  work,)  and  various  essays, 
literary  and  historical,  relating  to  the  Goths, 
and  their  connexion  with  this  country. 

Mr.  Marsh  has  also  published  The  Camel, 
his  introduction  into  the  U.  S. ;  2  vols.  of  Lec 
tures  on  the  English  Language  ;  and  Man  and 
Nature,  or  Physical  geography  modified. 


GEORGE    P.    MARSH. 


415 


THE  GOTH  AND  THE  ROMAN. 

FROM   THE   GOTHS  IN  NEW   ENGLAND. 

I  SHALL  do  my  audience  the  justice  to  suppose, 
that  they  are  too  well  instructed  to  be  the  slaves 
of  that  antiquated  and  vulgar  prejudice,  which 
makes  Gothicism  and  barbarism  synonymous.  The 
Goths,  the  common  ancestors  of  the  inhabitants  of 
North  Western  Europe,  are  the  noblest  branch  of 
the  Caucasian  race.  We  are  their  children.  It 
was  the  spirit  of  the  Goth  that  guided  the  May- 
Flower  across  the  trackless  ocean  ;  the  blood  of  the 
Goth  that  flowed  at  Bunker's  Hill. 

Nor  were  the  Goths  the  savage  and  destructive 
devastators  that  popular  error  has  made  them. 
They  indeed  overthrew  the  dominion  of  Rome, 
but  they  renovated  her  people  ;  they  prostrated  her 
corrupt  government,  but  they  respected  her  monu 
ments  ;  and  Theodoric  the  Goth  not  only  spread 
but  protected  many  a  precious  memorial,  which 
Italian  rapacity  and  monkish  superstition  have  since 
annihilated.  The  old  lamentation,  Quod  non  fere- 
runt  barbari,  fecere  Barberini,  contains  a  world  of 
truth,  and  had  not  Rome's  own  sons  been  her 
spoilers,  she  might  have  shone  at  this  day  in  all 
the  splendour  of  her  Augustan  age. 

England  is  Gothic  by  birth,  Roman  by  adoption. 
Whatever  she  has  of  true  moral  grandeur,  of  higher 
intellectual  power,  she  owes  to  the  Gothic  mother  ; 
while  her  grasping  ambition,  her  material  energies, 
her  spirit  of  exclusive  selfishness,  are  due  to  the 
Roman  nurse. 

The  Goth  is  characterized  by  the  reason,  the 
Roman  by  the  understanding ;  the  one  by  imagi 
nation,  the  other  by  fancy ;  the  former  aspires  to 
the  spiritual,  the  latter  is  prone  to  the  sensuous. 
The  Gothic  spirit  produced  a  Bacon,  a  Shaks- 
peare,  a  Milton ;  the  Roman,  an  Arkwright,  a 
Brindley,  and  a  Locke.  It  was  a  Roman,  that 
gathered  up  the  coals  on  which  St.  Lawrence  had 
been  broiled;  a  Goth,  who,  when  a  fellow  disciple 
of  the  great  Swiss  reformer  had  rescued  his  mas 
ter's  heart  from  the  enemy,  on  the  field  where  the 
martyr  fell,  snatched  that  heart  from  its  preserver, 
and  hurled  it,  yet  almost  palpitating  with  life,  into 
the  waters  of  a  torrent,  lest  some  new  superstition 
should  spring  from  the  relics  of  Zwingli. 

Rome,  it  is  said,  thrice  conquered  the  world  ;  by 
her  arms,  by  her  literature  and  art,  by  her  religion. 
But  Rome  was  essentially  a  nation  of  robbers. 
Her  territory  was  acquired  by  unjust  violence.  She 
plundered  Greece  of  the  choicest  productions  of  the 
pencil  and  the  chisel,  and  her  own  best  literature 
and  highest  art  are  but  imperfect  copies  of  the  mas- 
v  ter-pieces  of  the  creative  genius  of  the  Greek.  She 
Vnot  only  sacked  the  temples,  but  removed  to  the 
imperial  city  the  altars,  and  adopted  the  Gods  of 
the  nations  she  conquered.  Tiberius  even  pre 
pared  a  niche  for  the  Christian  Saviour  among  the 
heathen  idols  in  the  Pantheon,  and  when  Constan- 
tine  made  Christianity  the  religion  of  the  state,  he 
sanctioned  the  corruptions  which  Rome  had  en 
grafted  upon  it,  and  handed  it  down  to  his  succes 
sors,  contaminated  with  the  accumulated  supersti 
tions  of  the  whole  heathen  world. 


The  Goth  has  thrice  broken  her  sceptre.  The 
Goth  dispelled  the  charm  that  made  her  arms  in 
vincible.  The  Goth  overthrew  her  idolatrous  altar, 
and  the  Goth  is  now  surpassing  her  proudest  works 
in  literature  and  in  art. 

The  cardinal  distinction  between  these  conflict 
ing  elements,  as  exemplified  in  literature  and  art, 
government,  and  religion,  may  be  thus  stated.  The 
Roman  mistakes  the  means  for  the  end,  and  subor 
dinates  the*principle  to  the  form.  The  Goth,  valu 
ing  the  means  only  as  they  contribute  to  the  ad 
vancement  of  the  end,  looks  beneath  the  form,  and 
seeks  the  in-dwelling,  life-giving  principle,  of  which 
he  holds  the  form  to  be  but  the  outward  expression. 
With  the  Goth,  the  idea  of  life  is  involved  in  the 
conception  of  truth,  and  though  he  recognises  life 
as  an  immutable  principle,  yet  he  perceives  that  its 
forms  of  expression,  of  action,  of  suffering,  are  in 
finitely  diversified,  agreeing  however  in  this,  that 
all  its  manifestations  are  characterized  by  develop 
ment,  motion,  progress.  To  him  truth  is  symbol 
ized  by  the  phenomena  of  organic  life.  The  liv 
ing  plant  or  animal,  that  has  ceased  to  grow,  has 
already  begun  to  die.  Living  truth,  therefore,  though 
immutable  in  essence,  he  regards  as  active,  progres 
sive  in  its  manifestations ;  and  he  rejects  truths 
which  have  lost  their  vitality,  forms  divorced  from 
their  spirituality,  symbols  which  have  ceased  to 
be  expressive.  With  the  Goth,  all  truth  is  an  ever- 
living  principle,  whence  should  spring  the  outward 
expression,  fluctuating,  varying,  according  to  the 
circumstances  which  call  it  forth ;  with  the  Roman, 
its  organic  life  is  petrified,  frozen  into  inflexible 
forms,  inert.  To  the  one  it  is  a  perennial  fountain,  a 
living  stream,  which  murmurs,  and  flows,  and  winds 
"  at  its  own  sweet  will,"  refreshing  all  life  within 
the  sphere  of  its  influence,  and  perpetually  receiv 
ing  new  accessions  from  springs  that  are  fed  by  the 
showers  of  heaven,  as  it  hastens  onward  to  that 
unfathomable  ocean  of  divine  knowledge,  which  is 
both  its  primeval  source  and  its  ultimate  limit.  To 
the  other,  it  is  a  current  congealed  to  ice  by  the 
rigour  of  winter,  chilling  alike  the  landscape  and 
the  spectator,  or  a  pool,  that  stagnates,  putrefies, 
breeds  its  countless  swarms  of  winged  errors. 

In  literature  and  art  the  Goth  pursues  the  de 
velopment  of  a  principle,  the  expression  of  a 
thought,  the  realization  of  an  ideal;  the  Roman 
seeks  to  fix  the  attention,  and  excite  the  admira 
tion,  of  the  critic  or  the  spectator,  by  the  material 
and  sensuous  beauties  of  his  work. 

Thus,  in  poetry,  the  Roman  aims  at  smoothness 
of  versification,  harmonious  selection  and  arrange 
ment  of  words,  and  brilliancy  of  imagery ;  the 
Goth  strives  to  give  utterance  to  "  thoughts  that 
breathe,  in  words  that  burn." 

In  plastic  and  pictorial  art,  the  Roman  attracts 

I  the  spectator  by  the  grace  and  the  voluptuous  beau- 

;  ty  of  the  external  form,  the  harmony  of  colouring, 

the  fitness  and  proportion  of  the  accessories,  the 

excellence  of  keeping;  the  Goth  regards  these  but 

as  auxiliaries,  and  subordinates  or  even  sacrifices 

them  all  to  the  expression  of  the  thought  or  passion, 

which  dictates  the  action  represented. 

I       The  Goth  holds  that  goverment  springs  from  the 


416 


GEORGE    P.    MARSH. 


people,  is  instituted  for  their  behoof,  and  is  limited 
t'o  the  particular  objects  for  which  it  was  originally 
established ;  that  the  legislature  is  but  an  organ  for 
the  solemn  expression  of  the  deliberate  will  of  the 
nation,  that  the  coercive  power  of  the  executive 
extends  only  to  the  enforcement  of  that  will,  and 
that  penal  sanctions  are  incurred  only  by  resistance 
to  it  as  expressed  by  the  proper  organ.  The  Ro 
man  views  government  as  an  institution  imposed 
from  without,  and  independent  of  the  people,  and 
holds,  that  it  is  its  vocation  not  to  express  but  to 
control  the  public  will ;  and  hence,  by  a  ready  cor 
ruption,  government  comes  to  be  considered  as  es 
tablished  for  the  private  advantage  of  the  ruler, 
who  asserts  not  only  a  proprietary  right  to  the  emo 
luments  of  office,  but  an  ultimate  title  to  all  the 
possessions,  both  of  the  state  and  of  the  individual 
citizen. 

To  the  same  source  may  be  referred  the  poor 
fiction  of  divine  indefeasible  right,  and  that  other 
degrading  doctrine,  which  supposes  all  the  powers 
of  government,  legislative,  judicial  and  executive, 
to  have  been  originally  lodged  in  the  throne,  allow 
ing  to  the  subject  such  political  rights  only,  as 
have  been  conceded  to  him  by  the  sovereign ;  and 
hence  too  that  falsest  and  most  baneful  of  errors, 
the  incubus  of  the  British  constitution,  which  con 
solidates  or  rather  confounds  church  and  state,  con 
ceding  to  the  civil  ruler  supreme  authority  in  spiri 
tual  matters,  and  ascribing  temporal  power  to  re 
ligious  functionaries  and  ecclesiastical  jurisdictions. 
So  in  spiritual  things  we  find  a  like  antagonism.... 


INFLUENCE  OF  THE  BIBLE   ON  LITE- 
RATURE  AND  ART. 

FROM  AN  ADDRESS  BEFORE  THE    NEW  ENGLAND    SOCIETY. 

IT  was  long  ago  said,  that  the  most  efficient  men 
tal  training  is  the  thorough  and  long  continued 
study  of  some  one  production  of  a  master  mind, 
and  it  has  become  proverbial,  that  the  most  irresist 
ible  of  intellectual  gladiators  is  the  man  of  one  book, 
he  that  wields  but  a  single  weapon.  If  such  be 
the  effect  of  appropriating,  and  as  it  were,  assimi 
lating  and  making  connatural  with  ourselves,  the 
fruits  of  a  fellow  creature's  mental  efforts,  what 
may  we  not  expect  from  the  study  and  comprehen 
sion  of  that  book  which  is  a  revelation,  nay,  a  re 
flection,  of  the  mind  of  our  Maker  1  What  can 
withstand  a  champion  who  wields  a  naked  faul- 
chion  drawn  from  the  armory  of  the  most  High  1 
With  our  Puritan  ancestors  the  Bible  was  the  text 
book  of  parental  instruction  ;  it  was  regarded  with 
fond  and  reverent  partiality  as  the  choicest  classic 
of  the  school,  it  was  the  companion  of  the  closet, 
the  pillow  of  the  lonely  wayfarer,  the  only  guide 
to  happiness  beyond  the  tomb.  Of  all  Christian 
sects,  the  Puritans  were  most  profoundly  versed  in 
the  sacred  volume ;  of  all  men  they  have  best  ex 
emplified  the  spirit  of  its  doctrines ;  of  all  reli 
gious  communities,  they  have  most  abundantly  en 
joyed  those  blessings  wherewith  God  has  promised 
to  crown  his  earthly  church. 

It  is  to  early  familiarity  with  the  Bible,  to  its  perse 


vering  study,  and  its  daily  use,  that  we  must  chiefly 
ascribe  the  great  intellectual  power  of  the  English 
Puritans  of  the  seventeenth  century,  and  the  re 
markable  metaphysical  talent  of  many  of  their  Ame 
rican  descendants.  Intellectual  philosophy,  the 
knowledge  of  the  spiritual  in  man,  is  literally,  as 
well  as  figuratively,  a  divine  science.  It  can  be 
successfully  pursued  only  where  the  divine  word, 
undistorted  by  any  gloss  of  human  authority,  may 
be  both  freely  read  and  openly  discussed,  and  where 
the  relations  of  man  to  God  and  all  other  divine 
things  are  subject  to  investigation,  checked  by  no 
fear  of  legal  restraints,  the  condemnation  of  coun 
cils,  or  the  anathema  of  the  priest.  Where  the 
doctrine  of  overruling  human  jurisdiction  in  mat 
ters  of  faith  is  received,  there  may  be  scholastic 
subtlety  indeed,  but  no  metaphysical  acuteness  or 
depth.  The  tone  and  character  of  abstract  specu 
lation  are  always  influenced  by  the  subjects  with 
which  it  is  conversant,  and  the  mind,  which,  through 
fear  of  trenching  on  forbidden  ground,  is  forced  to 
exert  its  busy  energies  on  airy  trifles,  or  questions 
of  impossible  solution,  will  soon  become  as  frivo 
lous,  or  as  incapable  of  determination  as  the  puz- 
zles  it  idly  unriddles,  or  the  problems  it  vainly  seeks 
to  resolve.  All  higher  philosophy  is  essentially  re 
ligious,  and  its  fearless,  yet  reverent  study,  as  a  sci 
ence,  implied  if  not  revealed  in  the  Scriptures,  is 

"  Not  harsh  and  crabbed,  as  dull  fools  suppose," 
but  it  is  the  fittest  preparation  both  for  achieving 
and  appreciating  the  highest  triumphs  of  human 
genius,  whether  in  the  sublimest  flights  of  poesy, 
or  the  glorious  creations  of  plastic  and  pictorial  art. 
It  has  been  falsely  charged  upon  Puritanism, 
that  it  is  hostile  to  taste,  to  refinement,  and  to  art; 
and  this  because  its  equal  polity,  its  simple  rites, 
and  its  humble  temples,  adorned  with  no  pomp  of 
sculptured  imagery,  no  warm  creations  of  the  vo 
luptuous  pencil,  minister  not  to  the  ambitious  pas 
sions  of  those  who  serve  at  the  altar,  or  of  those 
who  "  only  stand  and  wait ;"  and  because  it  finds 
the  loftiest  poetry,  the  most  glowing  eloquence,  the 
most  terrible  sublimity,  the  tenderest  pathos,  and 
the  most  ravishing  beauty,  in  the  visions  of  the 
Psalmist  and  the  Prophets,  the  promises  and  me 
naces  of  the  old  and  new  covenant,  the  life  and  pas 
sion  of  the  Saviour,  the  gospel  delineations  of  the 
happiness  of  the  blessed. . . .  But  if  it  be  asked, 
what  human  spirit  has  been  most  keenly  alive  to 
feel,  and  most  abundantly  endowed  with  the  crea 
tive  power  to  realize,  in  living  and  imperishable 
forms,  all  that  is  lovely  or  terrible  in  nature,  all  that 
is  grand  or  beautiful  in  art,  all  that  is  noble  or  re 
fined  in  feeling,  all  that  is  glorious  in  humanity, 
and  all  that  is  sublime  in  religion,  all  men  unhesi 
tatingly  answer,  the  soul  of  John  Milton,  the  Chris 
tian  and  the  Puritan.  The  source  whence  Milton 
drew  his  inspiration  was  the  Sacred  Book.  With 
out  a  thorough  familiarity  with  that  volume,  such 
poetry  and  such  prose  as  that  of  Milton  can  neither 
be  produced,  nor  comprehended,  for  the  knowledge 
of  the  Bible  is  not  merely  suggestive  of  the  loftiest 
conceptions,  but,  in  awakening  the  mind  to  the 
idea  of  the  infinite,  it  confers  the  power  of  originat 
ing  as  well  as  of  appreciating  them. 


HERMAN   HOOKER. 

[Born  1804.    Died  1865.] 


MR.  HOOKER  is  a  native  of  Poultney,  Rut 
land  county,  Vermont.  He  was  graduated  at 
Middlebury  College  in  1825,  and  soon  after 
entered  upon  the  study  of  divinity  at  the  Pres 
byterian  Theological  Seminary  in  Princeton. 
He  subsequently  took  orders  in  the  Episcopal 
Church,  and  acquired  considerable  reputation 
as  a  preacher ;  but  at  the  end  of  a  few  years  ill 
health  compelled  him  to  abandon  the  pulpit, 
and  he  has  since  resided  in  Philadelphia. 

Mr.  Hooker  published  in  1835  The  Portion 
of  the  Soul,  or  Thoughts  on  its  Attributes  and 
Tendencies  as  Indications  of  its  Destiny ;  in 
the  same  year  Popular  Infidelity,  which  in  later 
editions  is  entitled,  The  Philosophy  of  Unbe 
lief  in  Morals  and  Religion,  as  discernible  in 
the  Faith  and  Character  of  Men;  and  in  1846 
The  Uses  of  Adversity  and  the  Provisions  of 
Consolation.  Besides  these  volumes,  he  has 
published  much  in  reviews  and  religious  mis 
cellanies.  Thoughts  and  Maxims.  1847. 

Upon  meeting  with  qualities  like  Mr.  Hook 
er's  in  one  not  known  among  the  popular  au 
thors  of  the  country,  we  are  prompted  to  say 
with  Wordsworth,  "  Strongest  minds  are  often 
those  of  whom  the  world  hears  least,"  or  in 
the  bolder  words  of  Henry  Taylor, "  The  world 
knows  nothing  of  its  greatest  men."  It  is 
surprising  that  a  voice  like  his  should  have 
awakened  no  echoes.  He  deserves  a  place 
among  the  first  religious  writers  of  the  age: 
for  he  has  been  faithful  to  the  great  mission 
laid  upon  the  priesthood,  which  is,  not  to  la 
bour  upon  "  forms,  modes,  shews"  of  devo 
tion,  nor  to  dispute  of  systems,  schools  and 
theories  of  faith,  but  to  be  witnesses  of  a  law 
above  the  world,  and  prophets  of  a  consolation 
that  is  not  of  mortality.  When  we  take  up 
one  of  his  books  we  could  imagine  that  we  had 
fallen  upon  one  of  those  great  masters  in  divi 
nity  who  in  the  seventeenth  century  illustrated 
the  field  of  moral  relations  and  affections  with 
a  power  and  splendour  peculiar  to  that  age. 
These  great  writers  possessed  an  apprehension 
of  spiritual  subjects,  sensitive,  yet  profoundly 
rational ;  a  vision  on  which  the  rays  of  a  higher 

consciousness  streamed  in  lustre  so  transcend- 
53 


ing  that  the  light  of  earth  seemed  like  a  sha- 
i  dow  thrown  across  its  course ;  which  differed 
from  inspiration  in  degree  rather  than  in  kind. 
The  resemblance  of  Mr.  Hooker  to  these  great 
authors  is  obviously  not  an  affectation.  It  is 
not  confined  to  style,  but  reaches  to  the  con 
stitution  and  tone  of  the  mind.  His  produc 
tions  indicate  the  same  temper  of  deep  thought- 
fulness  upon  man's  estate  and  destiny ;  the 
same  union  of  a  personal  sympathy  with  a  judi 
cial  superiority,  which  suffers  in  all  the  human 
weaknesses  which  it  detects  and  condemns ;  the 
same  earnest  sense  of  their  subjects  as  realities, 
clear,  present  and  palpable;  the  same  quick 
feeling,  toned  into  dignity  by  pervading,  essen 
tial  wisdom ;  and  that  direct  cognisance  of  the 
substances  of  religion,  which  does  not  deduce 
its  great  moral  truths  as  consequences  of  an 
assumed  theory,  but  seizes  them  as  primary 
elements  that  verify  themselves  and  draw  the 
theories  after  them  by  a  natural  connection. 
Fretted  and  wearied  with  metaphysical  theolo 
gies  ;  vexed  by  the  self-illustration,  the  want 
of  candour,  the  fierceness,  the  ungenial  and  un 
satisfying  hollowness  of  popular  religionism, 
we  turn  with  a  grateful  relief  to  this  soothing 
and  impressive  system  which  speculates  not, 
wrangles  not,  reviles  not,  but,  while  it  every 
where  testifies  of  the  degradation  we  are  un 
der,  touches  our  spirits  to  power  and  purity  by 
the  constant  exhortation  of  "  sursurn  corda !" 
The  style  of  Mr.  Hooker  abounds  in  spon 
taneous  interest  and  unexpected  graces.  It 
seems  to  result  immediately  from  his  charac 
ter,  and  to  be  an  inseparable  part  of  it.  It  is 
free  from  all  the  commonplaces  of  fine  writ 
ing  ;  has  nothing  of  the  formal  contrivance  of 
the  rhetorician,  the  balanced  period,  the  point 
ed  turn,  the  recurring  cadence.  Yet  the  charms 
of  a  genuine  simplicity,  of  a  directness  almost 
quaint,  of  primitive  gravity,  and  calm,  native 
good  sense,  renders  it  singularly  agreeable  to 
a  cultivated  taste.  Undoubtedly  there  is  in 
spiritual  sensibility  something  akin  to  genius, 
and  like  it  tending  to  utterance  in  language 
significant  and  beautiful.  We  meet  at  times 

in  Mr.  Hooker's  writings  with  phrases  of  the 

417 


418 


HERMAN    HOOKER. 


rarest  felicity  and  of  great  delicacy  and  ex 
pressiveness  ;  in  which  we  know  not  whether 
most  to  admire  the  vigour  which  has  con 


ceived  so  striking  a  thought,  or  the  refine 
ment  of  art  which  has  fixed  it  in  words  so 
beautifully  exact.  He  died,  1865. 


INFIDELITY  AND  GUILT  INFERRED 
FROM  THE  VIRTUES  OF  MEN. 

FROM  THE    PHILOSOPHY   OF   UNBELIEF. 

IF  you  take  from  them  the  diction  and  metre  of 
fashion,  the  thoughts  and  affections  which  are  bred 
in  worldly  fancies  and  amusements,  what  do  you 
leave  them  but  empty  vessels,  mansions  whose  great 
inhabitants  are  kept  in  chains  by  usurpers,  or  pre 
sented  as  strung  up  in  bones,  with  no  heart,  no 
flashes  of  wit  and  conscience,  shadowing  life  and 
hope.  They  are  "  without  God  in  the  world  ;"  that 
is,  they  are  without  that  influence  from  him,  enter 
ing  into  their  affections,  joys,  plans,  hopes,  and 
shaping  the  conduct,  which  a  belief  of  his  word 
would  impart.  They  are  infidels,  no  better  in  con 
dition  and  prospect,  than  those  who  acknowledge 
they  are  so  ;  and  if  they  do  not  know  it,  it  is  be 
cause  they  have  not  taken  the  trouble  to  be  in 
formed:  they  want  the  reflection  necessary  to 
conviction 

Sin,  considered  abstractly,  is  no  evil  in  their 
view.  They  never  think  that  its  nature  is  to  ob 
struct  all  faith  in  the  word  of  God, — that  low  ap 
prehensions  of  its  evil  nature  tend  dkectly  to  pro 
duce  diminishing  impressions  of  the  excellency  of 
the  divine  law,  and  of  the  worth  of  the  privileges 
and  blessings  of  the  gospel.  In  short,  their  views 
make  "the  manifold  wisdom  of  God"  in  the  great 
plan  of  redemption  by  the  sufferings  and  death  of 
Christ,  foolishness,  a  downright  misconception  of 
their  condition  and  necessities.  Entertaining  these 
notions  of  sin,  and  affected  by  them  in  this  manner, 
no  wonder  they  are  not  troubled  by  it,  and  do  not 
seek  deliverance  from  it.  Who  will  apply  for  grace 
when  he  feels  that  he  has  strength  enough  without 
it  1  Who  that  is  whole  will  seek  a  physician  1  Who 
that  is  in  no  danger  will  fly  to  a  refuge  1  Who  can 
be  penetrated  with  shame  and  sorrow  for  that  which 
he  deems  no  crime,  or  discredit  to  himself  1  Who 
will  learn  to  depend  on  a  foreign  agency  to  live 
virtuously,  when  virtue  is  his  boast,  and  considered 
to  be  his  birthright?  No  persons  are  in  greater 
danger  of  falling  into  these  views  of  sin,  and  the 
unbelief  they  engender,  than  those  to  whom  we 
have  alluded.  They  are  not,  generally,  addicted  to 
distinguished  iniquities, — things  that  expose  them 
selves,  abash  pride,  and  endanger  character.  They 
are  strict  observers  of  decency  and  moderation  in 
sinning.  They  are  only  devoted  to  pleasures  and 
amusements  called  innocent.  They  are  not  pious 
co  be  sure,  but  that  is  no  crime,  not  a  thing  to  be 
repented  of  or  alarmed  at.  Nothing  is  more  com 
mon,  say  they,  and  we  may  safely  and  without  re 
proach  go  with  the  multitude  in  one  respect,  if  we 
shun  their  vices  in  others.  Thus  they  are  confi 
dent  ;  no  temptations  scare  them,  no  danger  of  be 
ing  brought  near  great  offences  along  an  inclined 


road  of  evil  is  apprehended,  and  the  only  wonder 
is,  that  they  last  so  long,  that  they  do  not  sooner 
and  oftener  slide,  break  through  all  restraint,  and 
stand  out  as  matured  criminals.  There  is  crimi 
nality  in  all  they  do,  for  they  do  nothing  well ;  and 
not  to  do  well,  is  to  do  wrong.  Their  great  error 
is,  that  they  do  not  see  the  sinfulness  of  sin  in  their 
forgetfulness  of  God ;  in  their  not  rating  and  loving 
objects  according  to  the  measure  of  their  worth  and 
excellence.  These  things  show  that  their  nature  has 
run  wild  from  goodness, — that  they  ate  estranged 
from  God ;  and  to  be  estranged  from  him  is  the  sum 
and  essence  of  all  sin,  the  very  heart  of  infidelity, — 
that  keeper  of  the  conscience  that  shuts  out  the  en 
trance  of  truth,  and  cries  peace,  peace,  when  all  the 
peace  there  is,  is  only  that,  when  pains  and  fears 
give  way  to  death. 

If  we  examine  the  best  virtues  of  unconverted 
men  generally,  and  particularly  of  such  as  we  have 
last  described,  we  shall  find  new  light  on  the  sub 
ject.  It  requires  no  great  insight  into  human  na 
ture,  to  discover  the  remnants  of  a  now  fallen,  but 
once  glorious,  structure ;  and,  what  is  most  remark 
able,  to  see  that  the  remains  of  this  ancient  great 
ness  are  more  apt  to  be  quickened  and  drawn  out 
by  their  semblances  and  qualities,  found  in  crea 
tures,  than  by  the  bright  and  full  perfection  of  them 
which  is  in  the  Creator; — that  the  heart  puts  on 
its  most  benign  face,  and  sends  forth  prompt  re 
turns  of  gratitude  and  love  to  creatures  who  have 
bestowed  on  us  favour  and  displayed  other  amiable 
qualities,  while  He,  whose  goodness  is  so  great,  so 
complete,  so  pervading,  that  there  is  none  besides 
it,  is  unrequited,  unheeded,  unseen,  though  hang 
ing  out  his  glory  from  the  heavens,  and  coming 
down  to  us  in  streams  of  compassion  and  love, 
which  have  made  an  ocean  on  earth  that  is  to  over 
flow  and  fdl  it.  How  strange  it  is,  that  all  this  love, 
so  wonderful  in  itself,  so  undeserved,  so  diffused, 
that  we  see  it  in  every  beauty,  and  taste  it  in  every 
enjoyment, — should  be  lost  on  creatures  whose  love 
for  the  gentler  and  worthier  qualities  of  each  other, 
runs  so  often  into  rapture  and  devotion !  How 
strange  that  they  should  be  so  delighted  with  streams 
which  have  gathered  such  admixtures  of  earth, 
which  cast  up  such  "  mire  and  dirt,"  and  have  such 
shallows  and  falls  that  we  often  wreck  our  hopes 
in  them, — as  not  to  be  reminded  by  them  of  the 
great  and  unmixed  fountain  whence  they  have 
flowed,  or  of  the  great  ocean,  to  whose  dark  and 
unbottomed  depths  they  will  at  last  settle,  as  too 
earthy  to  rise  to  its  pure  and  glorious  surface ! 
There  are  many  mysteries  in  human  nature,  but 
none  greater  than  this :  for  while  it  shows  man  is 
so  much  a  creature  of  sense  and  so  devoid  of  faith, 
tbat  objects,  to  gain  his  attention  and  affection,  must 
not  only  be  present  to  him,  but  have  something  of 
sense  and  self  in  them,  we  are  still  left  to  wonder 


HERMAN    HOOKER. 


419 


how  he  could,  with  such  manifestations  of  divine 
goodness  in  him,  around  him,  and  for  him,  have 
failed  to  see  and  adore  them,  and  become  so  like  a 
brute,  as  not  to  think  of  God,  the  original  of  all 
that  is  lovely,  when  thinking  of  those  his  qualities 
which  so  please  and  affect  him  in  creatures ;  and 
this,  though  they  be  so  soiled  and  defaced  by  sin, 
that  his  unmixed  fondness  for  any  the  most  agreea 
ble  of  them,  instead  of  being  an  accomplishment,  is 
a  sure  indication  of  a  mind  sunk  greatly  below  the 
standard  allotted  to  it  by  the  Creator. 

Our  wonder  will  be  raised  higher  still,  if  we  con 
sider  that  our  nature,  when  most  corrupt  and  per 
verse,  is  not  wholly  lost  to  all  sense  of  gratitude, 
but  may  be  wrought  upon  by  human  kindness,  when 
all  the  amazing  compassion  and  love  of  God  fail  to 
affect  it ;  if  we  consider  that  the  very  worst  of  men 
who  set  their  faces  against  the  heavens,  affronting 
the  mercy  and  defying  the  majesty  thereof,  are 
sometimes  so  softened  with  a  sense  of  singular  and 
undeserved  favours,  that  their  hearts  swell  with 
grateful  sentiments  towards  their  benefactors,  and 
something  akin  to  virtue  is  kindled  up  where  no 
thing  of  the  kind  was  seen  before ;  we  might  think 
it  incredible,  if  there  was  any  doubting  of  what  we 
see  and  know.  When  we  see  such  men  so  ready 
to  acknowledge  their  obligations  to  their  fellows, 
and  to  return  service  for  service;  so  impatient  ot 
being  thought  ungrateful,  when  they  have  any  cha 
racter  or  interest  to  promote  by  it,  and  sometimes, 
when  they  have  not ;  so  strongly  affected  with  the 
goodness  of  him  who  has  interposed  between  them 
and  temporal  danger  or  death,  and  yet  so  little  moved 
by  the  love  of  God  in  Christ,  which  has  undertaken 
their  rescue  from  eternal  and  deserved  woes,  and 
not  merely  their  rescue,  but  their  exaltation  to  fel 
lowship  with  himself,  and  to  the  pleasures  for  ever 
more  at  his  right  hand, — a  love  compared  with 
which  the  greatest  love  of  creatures  is  as  a  ray  of 
light  to  the  sun,  and  that  ray  mixed  and  darkened, 
while  this  is  so  disinterested  and  free  in  the  grounds 
and  motives  of  it,  that  it  is  exercised  towards  those 
who  have  neither  merit  to  invite,  nor  disposition  to 
receive  it ;  when  we  see  this,  and  find  that  this 
love,  so  worthy  in  itself,  so  incomprehensible  in  its 
degree  and  in  the  benefits  it  would  confer,  is  the 
only  love  to  which  they  make  no  returns  of  thank 
fulness  or  regard,  we  may  ascribe  as  much  of  it  as 
we  please  to  the  hardness  and  corruption  of  their 
hearts,  but  that  will  not  account  for  such  conduct. 
Depravity,  considered  by  itself,  will  not  enable  us 
fully  to  understand  it.  Depraved,  sensual,  and  per 
verse  as  they  are,  they  have  something  in  them 
that  is  kindled  by  human  kindness,  and  why  should 
it  not  be  kindled  by  the  greater  "  kindness  of  God 
our  Saviour  1"  It  is  not  because  it  is  a  divine 
kindness ;  not  that  it  is  less  needed — not  that  it  is 
bestowed  in  less  measure,  or  at  less  expense.  And 
if  it  is  because  they  do  not  apprehend  this  kind 
ness,  do  not  feel  their  need  of  it,  do  not  see  any 
thing  affecting  in  the  measure  and  expense  of  it, 
this  is  infidelity ;  and  it  grows  out  of  an  entire 
misconception  of  their  own  character,  arid  of  the 
character  and  law  of  God.  It  is  a  total  blindness 
to  distant  and  invisible  good  and  evil.  It  is  a  ven 


turing  of  every  thing  most  important  to  themselves 
on  an  uncertainty,  which  they  would  not  and  could 
not  do,  if  they  had  any  understanding  of  the  value 
of  the  interests  at  stake.  They  really  see  nothing 
important  but  the  gratifications  of  sense  and  time : 
still  they  have  the  remains  of  a  capacity  for  some 
thing  higher.  These  may  be  contemplated  with 
profit,  if  not  with  admiration.  They  resemble  the 
motions  in  the  limbs  and  heart  of  animals,  when 
the  head  is  severed  from  the  body.  They  are 
symptoms  of  a  life  that  of  itself  must  come  to  no 
thing  ;  a  life  that  is  solely  pouring  itself  out  on  the 
ground.  But  as  this  is  all  the  life  they  have,  an 
image  of  life,  and  that  only  of  life  in  death ;  and 
as  the  motions  of  it  are  only  excited  by  the  crea 
ture's  kindness,  we  discover  in  their  best  virtues, 
or  rather,  in  their  only  breathings  and  indications 
of  virtue,  the  evidence  of  a  faithless  heart. 

The  different  classes  of  people  brought  to  our 
view  in  this  chapter,  generally  consider  themselves 
very  innocent ;  some,  because  they  are  free  from 
great  vices,  and  others,  because  great  vices  have 
blinded  their  eyes  to  guilt.  But  it  is  observable 
that  the  ground  of  this  supposed  innocence  is  the 
same  in  all,  and  lies  in  mistaken  views  of  the  evil 
nature  of  sin,  and  of  the  gospel  plan  of  delivering 
them  both  from  its  pollution  and  curse ;  so  that 
the  most  virtuous  one  of  them  is  as  much  an  in 
fidel  in  this  as  the  most  vicious,  that  he  does  not 
believe  himself  to  be  totally  ruined  by  sin,  totally 
destitute  of  any  thing  acceptable  to  a  holy  God, 
and  totally  dependent  on  him  for  grace  to  renew 
and  fit  the  soul  for  the  bliss  of  heaven.  Their 
virtues,  too,  though  in  some  more  clearly  mani 
fested  than  in  others,  are  in  all  the  same  as  to  the 
grounds  and  objects  of  them.  They  are  such  as 
love,  gratitude,  sympathy  with  the  distresses,  and 
patient  endurance  of  the  welfare,  of  others.  We 
see  much  of  these  in  one  way  and  another,  and 
sometimes  very  attractive  examples  of  them.  But, 
as  has  been  shown,  their  aptest,  if  not  their  only 
exercise,  is  in  view  of  the  favours,  claims,  and  vir 
tues  of  creatures.  These  display  acts  of  love,  gra 
titude,  and  self-denial,  strongly  fastening  on  and 
ending  in  the  creatures,  while  they  are  in  no  degree 
moved  by  the  greater  occasions  and  excitements 
of  these  virtues,  found  in  the  dispensations  and 
perfections  of  the  Creator.  These  very  virtues, 
then,  which  arc  more  the  distinction  of  some  than 
of  others,  yet  in  some  way  the  boast  of  all,  are,  as 
truly  as  their  vices,  the  proof  of  rank  infidelity — 
that  mixture  of  folly  and  estrangement  which  seems 
to  say,  "  there  is  no  God." 


THE  VICTORIES  OF  LOVE. 

FROM  THE  USES  OF  ADVERSITY. 

LOVE  is  represented  as  the  fulfilling  of  the  aw 
— a  creature's  perfection.  All  other  graces,  all  di 
vine  dispensations  contribute  to,this,  and  are  lost  in 
it  as  in  a  heaven.  It  expels  the  dross  of  our  nature  ; 
it  overcomes  sorrow ;  it  is  the  full  joy  of  our  Lord. 

Let  us  contemplate  its  capacities  and  resources 


420 


HERMAN    HOOKER. 


as  applied  to  the  experience  of  life.  Property  and 
business  may  fail,  and  still  the  eye  of  hope  may 
fix  itself  on  other  objects,  and  confidence  may 
strengthen  itself  in  other  schemes,  but  when  death 
enters  into  our  family  and  loved  ones  are  missing 
from  our  sight,  though  God  may  have  made  their 
bed  in  sickness,  and  established  their  hope  in  death, 
nothing  can  then  relieve  us  but  trust  and  love. 
Philosophy  and  pleasure  do  but  intrude  upon  and 
aggravate  our  grief.  But  love,  the  light  of  God, 
may  chase  away  the  gloom  of  this  hour,  and  start 
up  in  the  soul  trusts,  which  give  the  victory  over 
ourselves.  The  harp  of  the  spirit,  though  its  cords 
be  torn,  never  yields  such  sweet  notes,  such  swell 
ing  harmony,  as  when  the  world  can  draw  no  mu 
sic  from  it.  How  often  do  we  see  strokes  fall  on  the 
heart,  which  it  would  be  but  mockery  for  man  to  at 
tempt  to  relieve,  and  which  yet  served  to  unlock  the 
treasures  of  that  heart  and  reveal  a  sweetness  to  it, 
which  it  had  not  known  before.  See  that  mother. 
She  loves  and  mourns  as  none  but  a  mother  can. 
Behold  the  greatness  and  the  sweetness  of  her 
grief!  Her  child  is  dead,  and  she  says  "  It  is  well 
with  me,  and  it  is  well  with  my  child.  It  is  well 
because  God  has  taken  him  ;  He  has  said  <  of  such 
is  the  kingdom  of  heaven,'  that  he  doth  not  will 
ingly  afflict,  and  I  know  it  must  be  well."  Can 
there  be  any  greatness  greater  than  this  1  Did 
ever  any  prince  at  the  head  of  invincible  armies 
win  a  victory  like  it  1  Her  heart  is  in  heaviness 
and  her  home  is  desolated,  but  she  has  been  to  her 
heavenly  Father  and  unbosomed  her  griefs  before 
him.  There  is  peace  on  her  saddened  counte 
nance,  peace  in  her  gentle  words,  the  peace  of  God 
has  come  down  and  is  filling  her  trusting  soul. 
How  sweet  and  soft  is  her  sorrow,  and  how  it  soft 
ens  and  awes  without  agitating  others ! 

It  is  related  that  on  a  small,  and  rocky,  and  al 
most  inaccessible  island,  is  the  residence  of  a  poor 
widow.  The  passage  of  the  place  is  exceedingly 
dangerous  to  vessels,  and  her  cottage  is  called  the 
«'  Lighthouse,"  from  the  fact  that  she  uniformly 
keeps  a  lamp  burning  in  her  little  window  at  night. 
Early  and  late  she  may  be  seen  trimming  her  lamp 
with  oil,  lest  some  misguided  bark  may  perish 
through  her  neglect.  For  this  she  asks  no  reward. 
But  her  kindness  stops  not  here.  When  any  ves 
sel  is  wrecked,  she  rests  not  till  the  chilled  mariners 
come  ashore  to  share  her  little  board,  and  be  warmed 
by  her  glowing  fire.  This  poor  woman  in  her 
younger,  perhaps  not  happier  days,  though  happy 
they  must  have  been,  for  sorrow  cannot  lodge  in 
such  a  heart,  witnessed  her  husband  struggling  with 
the  waves  and  swallowed  up  by  the  remorseless 
billows, 

"  In  sight  of  home  and  friends  who  thronged  to  save." 
This  directed  her  benevolence  towards  those  who 
orave  the  dangers  of  the  deep ;  this  prompted  her 
present  devoted  and  solitary  life,  in  which  her  only, 
h  er  sufficient  enjoyment  is  in  doing  good.  Sweet  and 
blessed  fruit  of  bereavement !  What  beauty  is  here ! 
a  loveliness  I  would  little  speak  of,  but  more  revere ! 
a  flower  crushed  indeed,  yet  sending  forth  its  fra 
grance  to  all  around  !  Truly,  as  the  sun  seems 
greatest  in  his  lowest  estate,  so  did  sorrow  enlarge 


her  heart  and  make  her  appear  the  more  noble,  the 
lower  it  brought  her  down.  We  cannot  think  she 
was  unhappy,  though  there  was  a  remembered 
grief  in  her  heart.  A  grieved  heart  may  be  a  richly 
stored  one.  Where  charity  abounds,  misery  cannot. 

"  Such  are  the  tender  woes  of  love, 
Fost'ring  the  heart,  they  bend." 

A  pious  lady  who  had  lost  her  husband,  was  for 
a  time  inconsolable.  She  could  not  think,  scarcely 
could  she  speak  of  any  thing  but  him.  Nothing 
seemed  to  take  her  attention  but  the  three  promising 
children  he  had  left  her,  imaging  to  her  his  presence, 
his  look,  his  love.  But  soon  these  were  all  taken 
ill  and  died  within  a  few  days  of  each  other,  and 
now  the  childless  mother  was  calmed  even  by  the 
greatness  of  the  stroke.  The  hand  of  God  was 
thus  made  visible  to  her.  She  could  see  nothing 
but  his  work  in  the  dispensation.  Thus  was  the 
passion  of  her  grief  allayed.  Her  indisposition  to 
speak  of  her  loss,  her  solemn  repose,  was  the  ad 
miration  of  all  beholdefs.  The  Lord  had  not  slain 
her ;  he  had  slain  what  to  some  mothers  is  more 
than  life,  that  in  which  the  sweets  of  life  were  trea 
sured  up,  that  which  she  would  give  life  to  redeem, 
and  yet  could  she  say,  "  I  will  trust  in  Him."  As 
the  lead  that  goes  quickly  down  to  the  ocean's 
depth,  ruffles  its  surface  less  than  lighter  things,  so 
the  blow  which  was  strongest,  did  not  so  much  dis 
turb  her  calm  of  mind,  but  drove  her  to  its  proper 
trust. 

We  had  a  friend  loved  and  lovely.  He  had  ge 
nius  and  learning.  He  had  all  qualities,  great  and 
small,  blending  in  a  most  attractive  whole — a  cha 
racter  as  much  to  be  loved  as  admired,  as  truly  gen 
tle  as  it  was  great,  and  so  combining  opposite  ex 
cellencies  that  each  was  beautified  by  the  other. 
Between  him  and  her  who  survives  him  there  was 
a  reciprocity  of  taste  and  sympathy — a  living  in 
each  other,  so  that  her  thoughts  seemed  but  the 
pictures  of  his — her  mind  but  a  glass  that  showed 
the  very  beauty  that  looked  into  it,  or  rather  be 
came  itself  that  beauty.  Dying  in  his  dying,  she 
did  not  all  die.  Her  love,  the  heart's  animation, 
lifted  her  up ;  her  sense  of  loss  was  merged  for  a 
while  in  her  love  and  confidence  of  his  good  estate. 
In  strong  and  trusting  thoughts  of  him  as  a  happy 
spirit,  and  of  God  as  his  and  her  portion,  she  rested 
as  in  a  cloud.  A  falling  from  this  elevation,  was 
truly  a  coming  to  one's  self  from  God — a  leaving 
of  heaven  for  earth.  Let  her  tell  the  rest  in  words 
as  beautiful  as  they  are  true  to  nature.  "My  de 
solating  loss  I  realize  more  and  more.  For  many 
weeks  his  peaceful  and  triumphant  departure  left 
such  an  elevating  influence  on  my  mind,  that  I 
could  only  think  of  him  as  a  pure  and  happy  spirit. 
But  now  my  feelings  have  become  more  selfish,  and 
I  long  for  the  period  to  arrive,  when  I  may  lie  down 
by  his  side  and  be  reunited  in  a  nobler  and  more  en 
during  union  than  even  that  which  was  ours  here." 

Thus  does  the  mind,  when  it  ceases  to  look  up 
ward,  fall  from  its  elevation.  Thus  is  the  low  note 
of  sadness  heard  running  through  all  the  music  of 
life,  when  ourselves  are  the  instruments  we  play 
upon.  The  sorrow  that  deepens  not  love,  and  runs 
not  off  with  it,  must  ever  flood  the  spirit  and  bear 


HERMAN    HOOKER. 


421 


it  down.  Our  best  and  sweetest  life,  that  which 
we  live  in  the  good  of  others,  is  richly  stocked  with 
charities.  The  life  which  we  live  in  ourselves, 
that  which  depends  on  our  stores,  is  master  only 
of  chaff  and  smoke,  when  they  are  taken  away,  and 
destitute  of  that  last  relieving  accommodation,  a  re 
signed  spirit.  The  young  man  whom  Jesus  told 
to  sell  all  his  goods  and  give  to  the  poor,  and  he 
should  have  treasure  in  heaven,  should  be  truly  en 
riched — "  was  sad  at  that  saying."  He  understood 
not  the  riches  of  love,  which  never  feels  itself  so 
wealthy  as  when  it  has  expended  all  in  obedience 
to  the  commands  it  honours ;  never  so  well  fur 
nished  against  want  and  sorrow,  as  when  best  as 
sured  of  the  approbation  of  its  object.  In  that  we 
are  creatures,  we  see  how  poor  we  must  be,  having 
nothing  laid  up  in  the  Creator.  Selfishness  is  po 
verty  ;  it  is  the  most  utter  destitution  of  a  human 
being.  It  can  bring  nothing  to  his  relief;  it  adds 
soreness  to  his  sorrows;  it  sharpens  his  pains;  it 
aggravates  all  the  losses  he  is  liable  to  endure,  and 
when  goaded  to  extremes,  often  turns  destroyer  and 
strikes  its  last  blows  on  himself.  It  gives  us  no 
thing  to  rest  in  or  to  fly  to,  in  trouble ;  it  turns  our 
affections  on  ourselves,  self  on  self,  as  the  sap  of  a 
tree  descending  out  of  season  from  its  heavenward 
branches,  and  making  not  only  its  life  useless,  but 
its  growth  downward. 

If  there  is  any  thing  about  us  which  good  hearts 
will  reverence,  it  is  our  grief  on  the  loss  of  those 
we  love.  It  is  a  condition  in  which  we  seem  to 
be  smitten  by  a  Divine  hand,  and  thus  made  sa 
cred.  It  is  a  grief,  too,  which  greatly  enriches  the 
heart,  when  rightly  borne.  There  may  be  no  re 
bellion  of  the  will,  the  sweetest  sentiments  towards 
God  and  our  fellow  beings  may  be  deepened,  and 
still  the  desolation  caused  in  the  treasured  sympa 
thies  and  hopes  of  the  heart  gives  a  new  colour  to 
the  entire  scene  of  life.  The  dear  affections  which 
grew  out  of  the  consanguinities  and  connections 
of  life,  next  to  those  we  owe  to  God,  are  the  most 
sacred  of  our  being ;  and  if  the  hopes  and  revela 
tions  of  a  future  state  did  not  come  to  our  aid,  our 
grief  would  be  immoderate  and  inconsolable,  when 
these  relations  are  broken  by  death. 

But  we  are  not  left  to  sorrow  in  darkness.  Death 
is  as  the  foreshadowing  of  life.  We  die  that  we 
may  die  no  more.  So  short  too  is  our  life  here,  a 
mortal  life  at  best,  and  so  endless  is  the  life  on 
which  we  enter  at  death,  an  immortal  life,  that  the 
consideration  may  well  moderate  our  sorrow  at 
parting.  All  who  live  must  be  separated  by  the 
great  appointment,  and  if  the  change  is  their  gain, 
we  poorly  commend  our  love  to  them,  more  poorly 
our  love  to  Christ,  who  came  to  redeem  them  and 
us,  for  the  end  of  taking  us  to  his  rest,  if  we  refuse 
to  !)e  comforted.  Yes,  it  is  selfish  to  dwell  on  our 
griefs,  as  though  some  strange  thing  had  happened 
to  us,  as  though  they  were  too  important  to  be  re 
lieved,  or  it  were  a  virtue  to  sink  under  them.  I 
would  revere  all  grief  of  this  kind,  yet  I  would  say 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  will  of  cherishing  it, 
which  makes  it  rather  killing  than  improving  in 
its  effect.  This  may  be  done  under  a  conceit  of 
duty  or  gratitude  to  the  dead.  It  may  be  done  as 


a  sacrifice  to  what  we  deem  is  expected  of  us,  or 
as  a  thing  becoming  in  the  eyes  of  others.  But 
that  bereavement  seems  rather  sanctified  which 
saddens  not  the  heart  over  much,  and  softens  with 
out  withering  it ;  which  refuses  no  comfort  or  im 
provement  we  can  profitably  receive,  and  imposes 
no  restraints  on  the  rising  hopes  of  the  heart ; 
which,  in  short,  gives  way  and  is  lost  in  an  over 
growth  of  kind  and  grateful  affections. 


OUR  ONLY  SATISFYING  PORTION. 

FROM   THE   PORTION    OF    TIIK   SOUL. 


WE  have  generous  and  noble  emotions,  we  are 
capable  of  a  devotion  to  one  of  our  kind  that  makes 
us  forget  all  that  is  due  to  ourselves,  and  exacts 
nothing  but  the  reception  of  its  gifts  and  honours, 
and  yet  all  this  treasure,  more  than  we  are,  and 
more  far  than  we  can  call  qur  own  or  have  a  right 
to  bestow,  may  be  treated  as  a  trifle ;  the  perisha 
ble  work  of  our  hands  may  be  more  prized  than  the 
purest,  the  largest  devisings  of  the  heart ;  yea,  what 
we  are,  and  more  than  we  can  ever  be  in  affection, 
may  be  rejected  and  despised  as  less  than  nothing; 
but  let  one  such  aspiring  thought  go  out  after  God, 
and  he  will  fly  to  meet  it  as  of  more  value  than  all 
treasures.  He  will  call  in  angels  to  rejoice  over  it, 
will  reward  it  with  what,  yea  mote  than,  it  intends 
towards  him,  and  give  it  a  place  in  his  bosom. 
Our  best  aims  towards  him  can  never  fail  of  their 
end  ;  towards  all  other  objects  they  must  fall  short 
of  it,  if  not  entirely  yet  partially,  for  their  incapa 
city  to  impart  that  happiness  which  our  devotion 
would  expect  as  well  as  confer.  No  creature  can 
reward  so  great  a  capacity  as  that  we  have ;  and 
the  suffering  it  may  cause  us  may  equal  in  degree 
the  happiness  it  craves.  There  are  wrongs  and 
losses,  of  which  our  nature  is  capable,  which  dis 
qualify  the  mind  and  heart  for  their  proper  place 
and  influence,  and  cast  a  gloom  upon  every  pros 
pect,  and  which  we  should  be  quite  unable  to  bear, 
if  we  were  obliged  to  estimate  them  as  annihila 
tions,  or  suspensions  of  the  proper  and  rightful  in 
terests  of  our  being.  The  smallest  injury  of  this 
description  could  never  occur  in  a  just  government, 
without  an  equivalent  provided  somewhere,  and  to 
be  realized,  we  may  not  know  in  what  manner. 
The  view,  however,  that  has  been  taken  of  this  sub 
ject,  promises  not  merely  an  equivalent,  but  a  gain, 
and  this,  though  it  cannot  take  away  pain,  endows 
submission  with  reason,  and  relieves  oui  darkness 
with  the  sun-light  of  hope. 


THOUGHTS. 


SELF-LOVE  is  the  parent  of  presumption.  We 
are  never  so  bad  or  so  old  but  self-love  may  keep  us 
in  favour  with  ourselves. 

Vanity  is  a  refined  selfishness,  which  is  ever  ex 
acting  homage,  but  never  paying  any. 

If  a  vain  person  flatter  you,  it  is  to  try  his  power 
on  you,  and  you  must  be  made  his  tool,  or  he  your 
enemy. 

2N 


ORESTES  A.  BROWNSON. 


[Born  about  1802.] 


MR.BRowNSONisanativeofWindsorcounty 
in  Vermont.  Except  that  he  lost  his  father 
while  he  was  an  infant  I  know  little  of  his 
early  life.  It  is  understood  however  that  it 
was  passed  in  scenes  foreign  to  the  pursuits 
of  literature,  and  that  he  owes  nothing  to  the 
culture  of  the  schools.  He  was  at  one  time 
a  minister  of  the  Presbyterian  church,  then 
a  Universalist,  then  a  Deist.  The  sermon 
preached  by  Dr.  Channing  at  the  ordination 
of  Mr.  Farley,  in  1828,  awakened  in  his  mind 
a  train  of  thought  which  led  him  again  to 
believe  himself  a  Christian,  and  resume  his 
profession  as  a  preacher.  One  Abner  Krieel- 
and,  an  infidel  of  the  more  vulgar  description, 
had  been  for  some  time  exciting  considerable 
attention  in  Boston  by  harangues  against  the 
Christian  religion,  and  Mr.  Brownson,  who 
had  now  outlived  this  sort  of  stuff,  went  to 
that  city  to  oppose  him,  with  his  own  experi 
ence  and  reason,  and  to  gather  about  him  such 
as  were  troubled  with  doubts  and  asking  for 
more  certain  grounds  of  religious  faith.  It  is 
a  proof  of  his  success,  that  the  infidel  organi 
zation  was  broken  up,  its  press  stopped,  and 
its  leader  compelled,  to  find  a  new  home. 

About  this  time  Mr.  Brownson  became  an 
admirer  and  a  student  of  the  contemporary 
French  philosophers,  and  introduced  himself 
to  the  public  as  a  writer  by  a  series  of  bold 
and  eloquent  articles  in  the  Christian  Exami 
ner.  In  1836  he  published  a  small  volume 
entitled  New  Views  of  Christianity,  Society, 
and  the  Church.  In  the  following  year  we 
find  that  he  was  minister  of  a  "Society  for 
Christian  Union  and  Progress,"  some  of  his 
discourses  before  which  were  printed  and  had 
a  wide  circulation.  In  1838  he  commenced  the 
Boston  Quarterly  Review,  and  in  1840  pub 
lished  Charles  Elwood,  or  the  Infidel  Convert 
ed,  a  metaphysical  novel,  which  was  intended 
to  be  substantially  the  history  of  his  own  reli 
gious  experience.  He  has  since  given  to  the 
press  many  discourses,  letters,  and  other  tracts, 
upon  metaphysical,  theological,  and  political 
subjects,  but  by  far  the  largest  portion  of  his 
writings  has  appeared  in  the  Boston  Quarterly 


Review.  This  work  he  conducted  almost 
single-handed  for  five  years,  with  a  freedom 
and  an  energy  which  gained  him  a  wide  repu 
tation.  At  the  close  of  the  volume  for  1842 
he  was  induced  to  merge  it  in  the  Democratic 
Review,  published  in  New  York,  "  on  condi 
tion  of  becoming  a  free  and  independent  con 
tributor  to  its  pages  for  two  years."  The 
character  of  his  articles  proved  unacceptable 
to  a  large  portion  of  the  subscribers  to  that 
work,  and  his  connection  with  it  ceased  be 
fore  the  expiration  of  the  time  agreed  upon. 
In  the  beginning  of  1844  he  revived  his  own 
periodical  under  the  title  of  Brownson's  Quar 
terly  Review,  and  has  ever  since  continued 
it,  writing  himself  nearly  all  its  contents.  He 
had  modified  his  politics,  and  philosophy, and 
changed  his  religion;  and  in  the  Roman  Ca 
tholic  church,  with  which  he  now  united  him 
self,  he  found  a  new  audience,  more  numerous 
than  any  he  had  before  addressed. 

When  our  attention  is  first  engaged  by  this 
ardent  and  earnest  schemer,  we  are  caught 
by  the  luxuriance  of  mental  production  with 
which  his  pages  appear  to  be  teeming.  There 
is  a  profusion  of  speculative  suggestion,  a  pro 
digality  of  bright  hypothesis,  and  a  seeming 
energy  of  logical  analysis,  which  make  us  be 
lieve  for  the  moment  that  we  have  met  with 
an  inexhaustible  storehouse  of  thought.  But 
when  the  perusal  of  one  of  his  papers  is  ended, 
we  are  surprised  to  observe  how  little  we  have 
appropriated  of  that  which  we  have  read  ;  how 
slightly  our  own  faculties  have  been  either 
enriched  or  strengthened  by  what  they  have 
gone  through;  to  how  small  an  extent  the 
speculations  of  the  author  have  become  assi 
milated  with  our  mental  consciousness.  The 
operations  of  Mr.  Brownson's  mind  want  a  re 
lation  to  definite  and  settled  reason.  They  lack 
some  pervading  principle  or  quality  by  which 
they  might  be  linked  to  the  general  sense  of 
men.  We  desire  to  give  them  a  fixity  in  the 
field  of  human  interests  by  determining  from 
what  element  of  nature  they  take  their  origin, 
or  in  what  results  of  life  they  propose  to  ter 
minate.  As  it  is,  they  seem  to  be  lost  in  the 


ORESTES    A.    BROWNSON. 


423 


infinitude  of  mental  space.  His  reflective 
faculties  are  morbidly  susceptible  to  every 
suggestion  that  comes  upon  the  field  of  their 
action.  He  possesses  an  irritability  of  intel 
ligence  that  reacts  on  every  subject  with  an 
energy  as  quick  as  it  is  copious.  But  that 
common  sense,  which  is  the  unison  of  the  in 
dividual  intellect  with  the  general  reason  of 
life, — the  organizing  influence  which  tends  to 
ally  particular  speculations  to  the  great  body 
of  human  understanding, — the  magnetism  of 
mind  by  which  thought  is  inclined  always  to 
move  around  the  axis  of  truth — that  great,  ra 
tionalizing  power  is  wanting.  The  mind  of 
Mr.  Brownson  displays  a  preternatural  acti 
vity.  But  its  action  is  heated,  and  the  play 
of  the  judgment  sometimes  a  little  irregular. 
It  is  not  the  energy  of  health,  but  the  restless 
ness  of  fever ;  he  is  ever  moving  onward,  be 
cause  he  has  lost  the  ability  to  remain  in  re 
pose.  He  inquires,  not  to  satisfy  reason,  but 
.to  stimulate  speculation ;  and  his  processes 
contemplate,  not  the  establishment  of  truth, 
but  the  generation  of  theories.  He  is  acute, 
even  to  super-subtlety ;  but  is  wanting  in  com 
prehensiveness  of  view.  He  sees  far  along  a 
narrow  line  of  vision,  but  the  capacity  of  see 
ing  many  different  things  at  the  same  time, 
and  of  embracing  in  one  expanded  conception 
a  great  compass  of  considerations, — which  is 
the  royal  faculty  of  Understanding, — he  does 
not  possess.  His  faculties  are  intensely  "  vi 
tal  in  every  part;"  but  want  that  calmness, 
that  self-balanced  composure,  that  spontane 
ous  tendency  to  simple,  permanent  principles, 
which  give  to  human  intelligence  an  aspect 
of  greatness. 

With  regard  to  Mr.  Brownson's  merits  as 
a  cultivator  of  that  philosophy  of  society 
which  he  professes,  a  candid  estimate  would 
probably  determine  that  his  own  contributions 
to  it  amount  to  nothing  :  we  cannot  discover 
any  one  element  of  opinion,  any  one  definite 
view,  any  single  principle  of  arrangement  or 
detail,  which  a  future  historian  will  refer  to 
his  name  as  connected  with  its  first  appear 
ance  in  the  science.  It  is  indeed  a  little  diffi 
cult  for  minds  of  that  extreme  susceptibility 
which  we  have  noted  in  Mr.  Brownson  ever 
to  be  original :  they  are  so  impressible  to  the 
force  of  others,  that  they  rarely  can  develope 
forms  from  their  own  reason  against  surround 
ing  things  ;  they  multiply  the  suggestions  of 
others  into  a  thousand  variations,  but  they  do 


not  invent.  Accordingly,  through  life,  he  has 
played  the  part  of  a  parasite  mind,  which 
passes  on  from  system  to  system,  clasping 
each  in  succession  as  a  part  of  itself.  Ar 
ranged  in  the  order  of  time,  his  writings  now 
constitute  a  sort  of  Philosophical  Almanac, 
with  a  new  scheme  of  truth  for  every  day  in 
the  year :  but  the  explanation  is  to  be  found 
in  that  absence  of  genuineness  which  I  have 
just  referred  to.  It  would  be  impossible  to 
link  his  former  opinions  with  his  present  ones, 
by  any  connexion,  either  logical  or  psycho 
logical.  No  method  of  reasoning  could  de 
rive  one  from  the  other ;  and  no  process  of 
mental  experience  can  be  conceived  of  by 
which  an  understanding  adapted  to  originate 
the  former  class  of  views  could  be  matured 
into  a  capacity  to  originate  the  later  class. 
But  in  fact  neither  in  one  case  nor  in  the  other 
was  Mr.  Brownson  writing  his  own  opinions. 
He  once  wrote  La  Mennais ;  he  afterward 
wrote  Jouffroy;  and  now  he  writes  Comte. 
The  development  of  the  last  phase  of  his  views 
is  more  creditable  to  his  judgment  than  to  his 
candour;  for  I  do  not  recollect  that  he  has 
once  mentioned  the  name  of  an  author  from 
whom  he  has  rather  compiled  than  borrowed. 
Those  who  are  familiar  with  one  of  the  great 
est  productions  which  the  intellect  of  Europe 
has  evolved  since  the  Novum  Organon,  will 
not  fail  to  recognise  in  Mr.  Brownson's  theo 
ries  of  the  organic  unity  of  the  human  race,  the 
progressive  development  of  society,  and  its 
subordination  to  inherent  laws,  the  necessity 
of  government,  the  fallacy  of  obedience  to  the 
will  of  the  majority,  and  many  other  similar 
positions,  imperfect  and  confused  renderings 
of  those  great  views  that  appear  in  a  power 
so  irresistible,  an  order  so  majestic,  and  a  pre 
cision  and  certainty  so  absolute,  in  the  Cours 
de  Philosophic  Positive.  But  in  the  papers 
of  Mr.  Brownson  the  beautiful  conceptions  of 
M.  Comte  are  depraved  by  the  metaphysical 
propension  of  a  mind  incapable  of  apprehend 
ing  truth  in  a  purely  positive  form;  in  the 
reproduction,  for  example,  of  the  French  wri 
ter's  views,  in  the  article  on  The  Community 
System,  the  scientific  conception  of  the  so 
cial  unity  of  the  race  degenerates  into  the 
chimera  of  Platonic  ideas.  That  method,  of 
which  the  philosophical  character  was  de 
fined  by  Bacon,  which  was  first  applied  to 
social  phenomena  by  the  prophetical  sagacity 
of  Vico,  and  which  is  illustrated  with  system- 


424 


ORESTES   A.   BROWNSON. 


atic  extension  in  the  comprehensive  exposi 
tions  of  Comte,  undoubtedly  is  the  scheme 
upon  which  in  future  times  truth  will  be  de 
veloped  and  society  arranged  :  it  is  to  be 
regretted  that  its  discoveries  in  politics  first 
became  known  to  American  readers  in  this 
fragmentary  and  imperfect  manner,  curtailed 
of  their  fair  proportions,  marred  and  defeatured 
by  the  confusing  dimness  of  the  medium  in 
which  they  are  reflected.  Mr.  Brownson's 
mind  is  essentially  an  imitative  one,  and  in 
all  its  displays  shows  the  stamp  of  a  second 
ary  character. 


The  style  of  Mr.  Brownson  has  some  good 
qualities.  It  is  commonplace,  without  purity, 
and  destitute  of  any  characteristic  brilliancy  or 
elegance;  but  it  is  natural,  direct,  and  plain. 
It  is  that  simple  and  unaffected  manner  which 
has  the  appearance  of  being  formed,  not  upon 
any  plan,  but  merely  by  practice  and  use. 
Occasionally  his  better  taste  is  overcome  by 
the  faults  of  Carlyle,  or  some  other  favourite 
of  the  hour;  but  when  he  uses  his  own  style,  it 
would  be  difficult  fo  name  an  author  who  ren 
ders  abstruse  subjects  so  familiar,  or  conducts 
the  most  arduous  discussions  with  greater  ease. 


IMMORTALITY. 

FROM    CHARLES    ELWOOD. 

I  PASS  over  several  months  in  which  nothing  I 
can  bring  myself  to  relate,  of  much  importance  oc 
curred.  Elizabeth  and  I  met  a  few  times  after  the 
interview  I  have  mentioned.  She  was  ever  the 
same  pure-minded,  affectionate  girl ;  but  the  view 
which  she  had  taken  of  her  duty  to  God,  and  the 
struggle  which  thence  ensued  between  religion 
and  love,  surrounded  as  she  was  by  pious  friends, 
whose  zeal  for  the  soul  hereafter  far  outran  their 
knowledge  of  what  would  constitute  its  real  well- 
being  here,  preyed  upon  her  health,  and  threatened 
the  worst  results.  From  those  results  I  raise  not 
the  veil. 

One  tie  alone  was  left  me,  one  alone  bound  me 
to  mv  race  -^ind  to  virtue.  My  mother,  bowed  with 
years  and  afflictions,  still  lived,  though  in  a  distant 
part  of  the  country.  A  letter  from  a  distant  rela 
tive  with  whom  she  resided,  informed  me  that  she 
was  very  ill,  and  demanded  my  presence,  as  she 
could  not  survive  many  days.  I  need  not  say  this 
letter  afflicted  me.  I  had  not  seen  my  mother  for 
several  years;  not  because  I  wanted  filial  affection, 
but  I  had  rarely  been  able  to  do  as  I  would.  Po 
verty  is  a  stern  master,  and  when  combined  with 
talent  and  ambition,  often  compels  us  to  seem 
wanting  in  most  of  the  better  and  more  amiable 
affections  of  our  nature.  I  had  always  loved  and 
reverenced  my  mother ;  but  her  image  rose  before 
me  now  as  it  never  had  before.  It  looked  mourn 
fully  upon  me,  and  in  the  eloquence  of  mute  sor 
row  seemed  to  upbraid  me  with  neglect,  and  to  tell 
me  that  I  had  failed  to  prove  myself  a  good  son. 

I  lost  no  time  in  complying  with  my  mother's 
request.  I  found  her  still  living,  but  evidently  near 
her  la<st  .She  recognised  me,  brightened  up  a  mo 
ment,  tnanked  me  for  coming  to  see  her,  thanked 
her  God  that  he  had  permitted  her  to  look  once 
more  upor.  the  face  of  her  son,  her  only  child,  and 
to  God,  the  God  in  whom  she  believed,  who  had 
protected  her  through  life,  and  in  whom  she  had 
found  solace  and  support  under  all  her  trials  and 
sorrows,  she  commended  me,  with  all  the  fervour 
of  undoubting  piety  and  the  warmth  of  maternal 


love,  for  time  and  eternity.  The  effort  exhausted 
her ;  she  sunk  into  a  sort  of  lethargy,  which  in  a 
few  hours  proved  to  be  the  sleep  of  death. 

I  watched  by  the  lifeless  body ;  I  followed  it  to 
its  resting-place  in  the  earth :  went  at  twilight  and 
stood  by  the  grave  which  had  closed  over  it.  Do 
you  ask  what  were  my  thoughts  and  feelings'? 

I  was  a  disbeliever,  but  I  was  a  man,  and  had  a 
heart ;  and  not  the  less  a  heart  because  few  shared 
its  affections.  But  the  feelings  with  which  pro 
fessed  believers  and  unbelievers  meet  death,  either 
for  themselves  or  for  others,  arc  very  nearly  similar. 
When  death  comes  into  the  circle  of  our  friends 
and  sunders  the  cords  of  affection,  it  is  backward 
we  look,  not  forward,  and  we  are  with  the  departed 
as  he  lives  in  our  memories,  not  as  he  may  be  in 
our  hopes.  The  hopes  nurtured  by  religion  are 
very  consoling  when  grief  exists  only  in  anticipa 
tion,  or  after  time  has  hallowed  it;  but  they  have 
little  power  in  the  moment  when  it  actually  breaks 
in  upon  the  soul,  and  pierces  the  heart.  Besides, 
there  are  few  people  who  know  how  to  use  their 
immortality.  Death  to  the  great  mass  of  believers 
as  well  as  of  unbelievers  comes  as  the  king  of  ter 
rors,  in  the  shape  of  a  Total  Extinction  of  being. 
The  immortality  of  the  soul  is  assented  to  rather 
than  believed, — believed  rather  than  lived.  And 
withal  it  is  something  so  far  in  the  distant  future, 
that  till  long  after  the  spirit  has  left  the  body,  we 
think  and  speak  of  the  loved  ones  as  no  more. 
Rarely  does  the  believer  find  that  relief  in  the  doc 
trine  of  immortality,  which  he  insists  on  with  so 
much  eloquence  in  his  controversy  with  unbe 
lievers.  He  might  find  it,  he  ought  to  find  it,  and 
one  day  will ;  but  not  till  he  learns  that  man  is 
immortal,  and  not  merely  is  to  be  immortal. 

I  lingered  several  weeks  around  the  grave  of  my 
mother,  and  in  the  neighbourhood  where  she  had 
lived.  It  was  the  place  where  I  had  passed  my 
own  childhood  and  youth.  It  was  the  scene  of 
those  early  associations  which  become  the  dearer 
to  us  as  we  leave  them  the  farther  behind.  I  stood 
where  I  had  sported  in  the  freedom  of  early  child 
hood  ;  but  I  stood  alone,  for  no  one  was  (here  with 
whom  I  could  speak  of  its  frolics.  One  feels  sin 
gularly  desolate  when  he  sees  only  strange  faces. 


ORESTES    A.    BROWNSON. 


425 


and  hears  only  strange  voices  in  what  was  the 
home  of  his  early  life. 

I  returned  to  the  village  where  I  resided  when 
I  first  introduced  myself  to  my  readers.  But  what 
was  that  spot  to  me  now  1  Nature  had  done  much 
for  it,  but  nature  herself  is  very  much  what  we 
make  her.  There  must  be  beauty  in  our  souls,  or 
we  shall  see  no  loveliness  in  her  face ;  and  beauty 
had  died  out  of  mv  soul.  She  who  might  have 
recalled  it  to  life,  and  thrown  its  hues  over  all  the 
world  was but  of  that  I  will  not  speak. 

It  was  now  that  I  really  needed  the  hope  of  im 
mortality.  The  world  was  to  me  one  vast  desert, 
and  life  was  without  end  or  aim.  The  hope  of 
immortality  is  not  needed  to  enable  us  to  bear 
grief,  to  meet  great  calamities.  These  can  be,  as 
they  have  been,  met  by  the  atheist  with  a  serene 
brow  and  a  tranquil  pulse.  We  need  not  the  hope 
of  immortality  in  order  to  meet  death  with  com 
posure.  The  manner  in  which  we  meet  death  de 
pends  altogether  more  on  the  state  of  our  nerves 
than  the  nature  of  our  hopes.  But  we  want  it 
when  earth  has  lost  its  gloss  of  novelty,  when  our 
hopes  have  been  blasted,  our  affections  withered, 
and  the  shortness  of  life  and  the  vanity  of  all  hu 
man  pursuits  have  come  home  to  us,  and  made  us 
exclaim,  «  Vanity  of  vanities,  all  is  vanity ;"  we 
want  then  the  hope  of  immortality  to  give  to  life 
an  end,  an  aim. 

We  all  of  us  at  times  feel  this  want.  The  infidel 
feels  it  early  in  life.  He  learns  all  too  soon,  what 
to  him  is  a  withering  fact,  that  man  does  not  com 
plete  his  destiny  on  earth.  Man  never  completes 
any  thing  here.  What  then  shall  he  do  if  there 
be  no  hereafter]  With  what  courage  can  I  be 
take  myself  to  my  task?  I  may  begin — but  the 
grave  lies  between  me  and  the  completion.  Death 
will  come  to  interrupt  .my  work,  and  compel  me 
to  leave  it  unfinished.  This  is  more  terrible  to 
me  than  the  thought  of  ceasing  to  be.  I  could 
almvst, — at  least,  I  think  I  could — consent  to  be 
no  more,  after  I  had  finished  my  work,  achieved 
my  destiny;  but  to  die  before  my  work  is  com 
pleted,  while  that  destiny  is  but  begun, — this  is 
the  death  which  comes  to  me  indeed  as  a  "  King 
of  Terrors." 

The  hope  of  another  life  to  be  the  complement 
of  this,  steps  in  to  save  us  from  this  death,  to  give 
us  the  courage  and  the  hope  to  bes;in.  Tte  rough 
sketch  shall  hereafter  become  the  finished  picture, 
the  artist  shall  give  it  the  last  touch  at  his  easel ; 
the  science  we  had  just  begun  shall  be  completed, 
and  the  incipient  destiny  shall  be  achieved.  Fear 
not  to  begin,  thou  hast  eternity  before  thee  in  which 
to  end. 

I  wanted,  at  the  time  of  which  I  speak,  this  hope. 
I  had  no  future.  I  was  shut  up  in  this  narrow  life 
as  in  a  cage.  All  for  whom  I  could  have  lived, 
laboured,  and  died,  were  gone,  or  worse  than  gone. 
I  had  no  end,  no  aim.  My  affections  were  driven 
back  to  stagnate  and  become  putrid  in  my  own 
breast.  I  had  no  one  to  care  for.  The  world  was 
to  me  as  if  it  were  not ;  and  yet  a  strange  restless 


ness  came  over  me.  I  could  be  still  nowhere.  I 
roved  listlessly  from  object  to  object,  my  body  was 
carried  from  place  to  place,  I  knew  not  why,  and 
asked  not  myself  wherefore.  And  yet  change  of 
object,  change  of  scene  wrought  no  change  within 
me.  I  existed,  but  did  not  live.  He  who  has  no 
future,  has  no  life. 


THE  BIBLE. 

FROM   THE   BOSTON   QUARTERLY  REVIEW. 

I  REMEMBER  well  the  time  when  the  Bible  was 
to  me  a  revolting  book,  when  I  could  find  no  mean 
ing  in  it,  and  when  I  could  not  believe  that  reli 
gious  people  could  honestly  regard  it  as  they  pro 
fessed  to  regard  it.  Its  very  style  and  language 
were  offensive,  and  if  I  was  called  upon  to  write 
upon  religious  topics,  I  took  good  care  to  avoid,  as 
much  as  possible,  the  use  of  its  phraseology.  But 
it  is  not  so  with  me  now.  Life  has  developed 
within  me  wants  which  no  other  book  can  satisfy. 
Say  nothing  now  of  the  divine  origin  of  the  Bible; 
take  it  merely  as  an  ancient  writing  which  has 
come  down  to  us,  and  it  is  to  me  a  truly  wonderful 
production.  I  take  up  the  writings  of  the  most 
admired  geniuses  of  ancient  or  modern  times ;  I 
read  them,  and  relish  them ;  and  yet  there  is  a 
depth  in  my  experience  they  do  not  fathom.  This 
is  much,  I  say  ;  but  I  have  lived  more  than  is  here ; 
I  have  wants  this  does  not  meet ;  it  records  only  a 
moiety  of  my  experience.  But  with  the  Bible  it 
is  not  so.  Whatever  my  state,  its  authors  seem 
to  have  anticipated  it.  Whatever  anomaly  in  my 
experience  I  note,  they  seem  to  have  recorded  it. 
What  experience  these  men  had,  if  indeed  they 
spoke  from  experience  !  It  is  well  called  the  Book, 
for  it  is  the  book  in  which  seems  to  be  registered 
all  that  the  individual  or  the  race  ever  has  lived, 
or  ever  can  live.  It  is  all  here.  If  I  would  bow 
down  with  sorrow  for  sin,  and  pour  out  my  soul 
in  deep  contrition  for  my  wanderings,  here  are  the 
very  words  I  want,  and  words  terribly  expressive. 
If  I  would  break  forth  in  thanksgiving  for  release 
from  the  bonds  of  iniquity,  and  shout  in  exulting 
strains  my  forgiveness,  here  is  the  hymn  already 
composed,  which  exactly  meets  the  temper  of  my 
mind.  Then,  again,  even  the  language  of  our 
common  English  version,  ridiculed  as  it  often  has 
been,  is  after  all  the  only  language  in  which  I  can 
utter  the  spiritual  facts  which  are  developed  within 
me.  I  seek  to  vary  the  expression,  to  select  what 
I  may  regard  as  an  equivalent  but  more  elegant 
term,  and  some  how  or  other  the  soul  of  the  pas 
sage  escapes,  and  I  find  remaining  nothing  but  a 
lifeless  form  of  words.  It  does  not  therefore  seem 
strange  to  me  now,  though  it  once  did,  the  attach 
ment  the  Christian  world  has  to  this  venerable 
Book,  nor  the  tenacity  with  which  they,  who  speak 
the  English  tongue,  hold  on  to  our  common  ver 
sion,  in  spite  of  the  defects  which  criticism  justly 
points  out. 


2N2 


LYDIA  M.  CHILD. 


[Born  18—.] 


LVDIA  MARIA  FRANCIS,  now  Mrs.  DAVID 
LEE  CHILD,  commenced  her  literary  life  with 
Hobomok,  a  Tale  of  Early  Times,  published 
in  1824.  She  had  resided  several  years  in 
Maine,  far  removed  from  all  literary  associa 
tions,  but  was  then  on  a  visit  to  her  brother, 
the  Reverend  Conyers  Francis,  minister  of  the 
Unitarian  church  in  Watertown,  and  now  of 
Harvard  University.  One  Sunday  noon,  soon 
after  her  arrival  there,  she  took  up  a  number 
of  the  North  American  Review,  and  read  Doc 
tor  Palfrey's  article  on  Yamoyden,  in  which 
he  eloquently  describes  the  adaptation  of  early 
New  England  history  to  the  purposes  of  fiction. 
She  had  never  written  a  word  for  the  press, — 
never  had  dreamed  of  turning  author, — but 
the  spell  was  on  her,  and  seizing  a  pen,  before 
the  bell  rung  for  the  afternoon  meeting  she 
had  composed  the  first  chapter  of  the  novel,  just 
as  it  is  printed.  When  it  was  shown  to  her 
brother,  her  young  ambition  was  flattered  by 
the  exclamation,  "  But,  Maria,  did  you  really 
write  this?  do  you  mean  what  you  say,  that 
it  is  entirely  your  own  1"  The  excellent  doc 
tor  little  knew  the  effect  of  his  words.  Her 
fate  was  fixed :  in  six  weeks  Hobomok  was 
finished.  It  is  a  story  of  the  Pilgrim  times, 
and  the  scene  is  chiefly  in  Salem  and  Plymouth. 
Among  the  characters  are  Lady  Arabella  John 
son,  Governor  Endicott,  and  others  known  in 
history.  They  are  very  well  drawn,  and  the 
sketches  of  manners  and  scenery  are  truthful 
and  spirited.  But  the  plot  is  unnatural,  and  is 
not  very  skilfully  managed.  There  were  then, 
however,  very  few  American  books  of  this  sort; 
Cooper  had  just  begun  his  brilliant  career,  and 
Miss  Sedgwick's  first  novel  had  been  out  but 
two  or  three  weeks ;  and  Hobomok  therefore 
attracted  much  attention.  It  was  followed,  in 
the  next  year,  by  The  Rebels,  a  Tale  of  the 
Revolution,  which  has  about  the  same  kind 
and  degree  of  merit.  It  is  worth  mentioning, 
that  the  speech  of  James  Otis,  in  this  novel, 
which  is  often  quoted  in  school  books,  and  has 
found  its  way  into  histories,  as  authentic,  as 
well  as  Whitfield's  celeb  rated  "sermon,  in  the 

same  work,  was  coined  entirely  by  Mrs.  Child. 
4:26 


In  1831  she  published  The  Mother's  Book, 
and  in  1832  The  Girl's  Book,  two  volumes  de 
signed  to  exhibit  the  reciprocal  duties  of  pa 
rent  and  child,  in  their  several  relations  to  each 
other,  which  had  a  large  and  well  deserved 
success. 

About  the  same  time,  for  the  Ladies'  Family 
Library,  published  in  Boston,  of  which  she 
was  editor,  she  wrote  Lives  of  Madame  de 
Stael  and  Roland,  in  one  volume;  Lives  of 
Lady  Russel  and  Madame  Guyon,  in  one  vo 
lume  ;  Biographies  of  Good  Wives,  in  one 
volume ;  and  The  History  and  Condition  of 
Women,  in  two  volumes.  These  are  all  in 
teresting  and  valuable  books,  exhibiting  taste 
and  judgment,  but  marked  by  little  of  the  in 
dividuality  which  distinguishes  her  more  ori 
ginal  productions. 

In  1833  Mrs.  Child  published  The  Coronal,  a 
collection  of  miscellaneous  pieces  in  prose  and 
verse,  many  of  which  had  before  been  printed, 
in  the  literary  annuals ;  and  in  the  same  year 
her  Appeal  for  that  Class  of  Americans  called 
Africans,  which  was  the  first  work  that  ap 
peared  in  this  country  in  favour  of  the  imme 
diate  emancipation  of  the  slaves.  It  was  earn 
est  and  able,  and  was  read  with  deep  interest 
both  at  home  and  in  Europe.  A  copy  of  it 
falling  into  the  hands  of  Doctor  Channing, 
who  had  not  before  been  acquainted  with  her, 
he  walked  from  Boston  to  Roxbury  to  intro 
duce  himself  and  to  thank  her  for  writing  it. 

In  1835  appeared  the  most  beautiful  of  her 
works,  Philothea,  a  romance  of  Greece  in  the 
days  of  Pericles.  It  had  been  four  or  five 
years  in  its  progress,  "  for  the  practical  ten 
dencies  of  the  age,  and  particularly  of  the 
country  in  which  I  lived,"  she  says  in  her  pre 
face,  "  have  so  continually  forced  me  into  the 
actual,  that  my  mind  has  seldom  obtained  free 
dom  to  rise  into  the  ideal."  She  had  made  a 
strong  effort  to  throw  herself  into  the  spirit  of 
the  times,  "  which  is  prone  to  neglect  beau 
tiful  and  fragrant  flowers,  unless  their  roots 
will  answer  for  vegetables,  and  their  leaves 
for  herbs."  But  there  were  seasons  when  her 
soul  felt  restless  in  this  bondage ;  in  these  she 


LYDIA    M.   CHILD. 


427 


abandoned  herself  to  pursuits  of  a  more  con 
genial  sort;  and,  led  by  love  of  the  romantic 
and  beautiful,  among 

'•The  intelligible  forms  of  ancient  poets,  , 
The  fair  humanities  of  old  religion," 

she  attempted  to  depict  the  life  of  Athens  in  its 
most  glorious  age,  when  Pericles  presided  over 
the  destinies  of  the  state,  Plato  taught  in  the 
Academy,  Phidias  built  temples  and  carved  sta 
tues  of  the  gods,  and  Aspasia  captivated  sages 
by  her  beauty,  and  overthrew  the  severity  of 
female  manners  by  appearing  unveiled  at  the 
symposia  of  the  wits.  Except  Mr.  Ware's 
Zenobia  and  Probus,  Philothea  is  the  only 
classical  romance  deserving  any  consideration 
that  has  been  produced  in  this  country,  and  it 
is  worthy  to  be  ranked  with  those  admirable 
works.  The  scenery  is  purely  Grecian;  all 
the  externals  are  in  keeping ;  the  narrative  is 
interesting  and  clearly  defined  ;  and  the  style 
is  elevated  and  chaste,  abounding  in  unlooked- 
for  turns  and  spontaneous  beauties.  But  the 
author  seems  hardly  to  have  caught  the  an 
tique  spirit :  the  philosophical  tone  of  Philo 
thea  reminds  us  quite  as  much  of  Boston  as  of 
Athens. 

In  1841  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Child  went  to  reside 
in  New  York,  where  they  conducted  for  some 
time  The  National  Anti-Slavery  Standard,  a 
weekly  gazette  of  which  the  title  indicated 
the  object  and  general  character.  For  this 
she  wrote  much,  not  of  the  subject  of  slavery 
only,  but  of  many  others  that  belong  to  the 
country  and  to  the  age,  and  in  all  her  articles 
showed  an  earnest  spirit,  generous  sympathies, 
and  wide  knowledge.  In  the  summer  of  1841 
she  commenced  a  series  of  Letters  to  the  edi 
tor  of  the  Boston  Courier,  which  were  so  fresh, 
so  spirited,  and  familiar,  and  had  about  them 
so  much  of  pleasing  individuality,  that  they 
were  reprinted  in  all  parts  of  the  country,  and 
came  to  be  looked  for  with  as  much  interest 
as  the  new  numbers  of  the  magazines.  Up 
on  the  publication  of  the  fortieth  letter  they 
were  collected  and  issued  in  a  volume,  under 
the  title  of  Letters  from  New  York.  None 
of  the  booksellers  seemed  willing  to  publish 
them,  but  the  indications  of  their  popularity 
were  such  as  could  not  be  mistaken  by  the 
author,  and  she  therefore  printed  the  first  edi 
tion  on  her  own  account ;  and  the  rapid  sale  of 
thousand  after  thousand  copies,  secured  a  ready 
market  for  the  second  series,  which  appeared 
in  1845. 


7'hese  Letters  are  on  every  variety  of  sub- 
|  jects  that  would  be  suggested  to  a  thoughtful, 
earnest  and  benevolent  mind,  in  the  houses, 
thoroughfares,  and  public  assemblies  of  a  city, 
in  a  period  of  excitement  and  transition,  and 
every  one  of  them  strikes  a  chord  to  which  the 
heart  of  some  reader  will  vibrate  in  unison. 

Fact  and  Fiction,  the  last  fiction  which 
Mrs.  Child  has  given  to  the  public,  is  a  collec 
tion  of  tales,  of  various  kinds,  but  all  charac 
teristic  and  excellent,  which  she  had  previous 
ly  published  in  the  periodicals.  The  Children 
of  Mount  Ida,  and  A  Legend  of  the  Apostle 
John,  relate  to  classical  times,  and  have  the 
marble  polish  and  chasteness  of  her  Philothea. 
To  another,  Hilda  Silfverling,  a  fantasy,  she 
has  imparted  the  interest  and  imagery  that  be 
long  to  Scandinavian  manners  and  scenery. 
But  perhaps  those  which  have  most  of  her 
own  individuality  are  The  Neighbour-in-Law, 
an  admirable  illustration  of  the  power  of  kind 
ness  in  softeningand  moulding  natures  beyond 
all  other  influences,  and  the  Beloved  Tune, 
an  expression  of  mental  experiences,  resem 
bling  some  of  the  fine  pieces  of  imagination 
interspersed  with  the  second  series  of  her  Let 
ters  from  New  York. 

Mrs.  Child  has  a  large  acquaintance  with 
common  life,  which  she  describes  with  a  ge 
nial  sympathy  and  fidelity, — a  generous  love 
of  freedom,  extreme  susceptibility  of  impres 
sions  of  beauty,  and  an  imagination  which 
bodies  forth  her  feelings  in  forms  of  peculiar 
distinctness  and  freshness.  Her  works  abound 
in  bright  pictures  and  fanciful  thoughts,  which 
seem  to  be  of  the  atmosphere  in  which  she 
lives.  She  transfuses  into  them  something  of 
her  own  spirit,  which,  though  meditative  and 
somewhat  mystical,  is  always  cheerful  and 
radiant.  In  her  revelations  on  music,  illustra 
tions  of  the  doctrine  of  correspondences,  and 
all  the  more  speculative  parts  of  her  various 
writings,  she  has  shown  that  fine  perception 
of  the  mysterious  analogy  which  exists  be 
tween  the  physical  and  moral  world,  and  of 
the  mode  in  which  the  warp  and  woof  of  life 
are  mingling,  which  is  among  the  first  attri 
butes  of  the  true  poet. 

She  also  published,  Flowers  for  Children, 
3  parts  ;  The  Frugal  Housewife  ;  The  Family 
Nurse  ;  Power  of  Kindness  ;  Rose  Marion;  Life 
of  Isaac  T.  Hopper;  and  the  Progress  of  Religi 
ous  Ideas  through  successive  Ages,  1855,  3 
vols.,  the  most  elaborate  of  all  her  works,  of 
which  a  new  edition  was  issued  in  1869. 


428 


LYD1A    M.   CHILD. 


A  BANQUET  AT  ASPASIA'S. 

FROM  PHILOTHEA. 

THE  room  in  which  the  guests  were'  assembled, 
was  furnished  with  less  of  Asiatic  splendour  than 
the  private  apartment  of  Aspasia ;  but  in  its  mag 
nificent  simplicity,  there  was  a  more  perfect  mani 
festation  of  ideal  beauty.  It  was  divided  in  the 
middle  by  eight  Ionic  columns  alternately  of  Phry 
gian  and  Pentelic  marble.  Between  the  central 
pillars  stood  a  superb  statue  from  the  hand  of  Phi 
dias,  representing  Aphrodite  guided  by  love  and 
crowned  by  the  goddess  of  Persuasion.  Around 
the  walls  were  Phoebus  and  Hermes  in  Parian  mar 
ble,  and  the  nine  Muses  in  ivory.  A  fountain  of 
perfumed  water  from  the  adjoining  room  diffused 
coolness  and  fragrance  as  it  passed  through  a  num 
ber  of  concealed  pipes,  and  finally  flowed  into  a 
magnificent  vase,  supported  by  a  troop  of  Naiades. 

In  a  recess  stood  the  famous  lion  of  Myron,  sur 
rounded  by  infant  loves,  playing  with  his  paws, 
climbing  his  back,  and  decorating  his  neck  with 
garlands.  This  beautiful  group  seemed  actually 
to  live  and  move  in  the  clear  light  and  deep  sha 
dows  derived  from  a  silver  lamp  suspended  above. 

The  walls  were  enriched  with  some  of  the  choicest 
paintings  of  Apollodorus,  Zeuxis,  and  Polygno- 
tus.  Near  a  fine  likeness  of  Pericles,  by  Aris- 
tolaus,  was  Aspasia,  represented  as  Chloris  scatter 
ing  flowers  over  the  earth,  and  attended  by  winged 
Hours. 

It  chanced  that  Pericles  himself  reclined  beneath 
his  portrait,  and  though  political  anxiety  had  taken 
from  his  countenance  something  of  the  cheerful 
freshness  which  characterized  the  picture,  he  still 
retained  the  same  elevated  beauty — the  same  deep, 
quiet  expression  of  intellectual  power.  At  a  short 
distance,  with  his  arm  resting  on  the  couch,  stood 
his  nephew,  Alcibiades,  deservedly  called  the  hand 
somest  man  in  Athens.  He  was  laughing  with 
Hermippus,  the  comic  writer,  whose  shrewd,  sar 
castic  and  mischievous  face  was  expressive  of  his 
calling.  Phidias  slowly  paced  the  room,  talking  of 
the  current  news  with  the  Persian  Artaphernes. 
Anaxagoras  reclined  near  the  statue  of  Aphrodite, 
listening  and  occasionally  speaking  to  Plato,  who 
leaned  against  one  of  the  marble  pillars,  in  earnest 
conversation  with  a  learned  Ethiopian. 

The  gorgeous  apparel  of  the  Asiatic  and  African 
guests  contrasted  strongly  with  the  graceful  sim 
plicity  of  Grecian  costume.  A  saffron-coloured 
mantle  and  a  richly  embroidered  Median  vest  glit 
tered  on  the  person  of  the  venerable  Artaphernes. 
Tithonus,  the  Ethiopian,  wore  a  skirt  of  ample 
folds,  which  scarcely  fell  below  the  knee.  It  was 
of  the  glorious  Tyrian  hue,  resembling  a  crimson 
light  shining  through  transparent  purple.  The 
edge  of  the  garment  was  curiously  wrought  with 
golden  palm  leaves.  It  terminated  at  the  waist  in 
a  large  roll,  twined  with  massive  chains  of  gold, 
and  fastened  by  a  clasp  of  the  far-famed  Ethiopian 
topaz.  The  upper  part  of  his  person  was  unco 
vered  and  unornamented,  save  by  broad  bracelets 
of  gold,  which  formed  a  magnificent  contrast  with 


the   sable  colour  of  his  vigorous  and  finely-pro 
portioned  limbs. 

As  the  ladies  entered,  the  various  groups  came 
forward  to  meet  them ;  and  all  were  welcomed  by 
Aspasia  with  earnest  cordiality  and  graceful  self- 
possession.  While  the  brief  salutations  were  pass 
ing,  Hipparete,  the  wife  of  Alcibiades,  came  from 
an  inner  apartment,  where  she  had  been  waiting  for 
her  hostess.  She  was  a  fair,  amiable  young  matron, 
evidently  conscious  of  her  high  rank.  The  short 
blue  tunic,  which  she  wore  over  a  lemon-coloured 
robe,  was  embroidered  with  golden  grasshoppers; 
and  on  her  forehead  sparkled  a  jewelled  insect  of 
the  same  species.  It  was  the  emblem  of  unmixed 
Athenian  blood  ;  and  Hipparete  alone,  of  all  the 
ladies  present,  had  a  right  to  wear  it.  Her  man 
ners  were  an  elaborate  copy  of  Aspasia;  but  de 
prived  of  the  powerful  charm  of  unconsciousness, 
which  flowed  like  a  principle  of  life  into  every  mo 
tion  of  that  beautiful  enchantress 

At  a  signal  from  Plato,  slaves  filled  the  goblets 
with  wine,  and  he  rose  to  propose  the  usual  liba 
tion  to  the  gods.  Every  Grecian  guest  joined  in 
the  ceremony,  singing  in  a  recitative  tone : 

Dionysus,  this  to  thee, 

God  of  warm  festivity  ! 

Giver  of  the  fruitful  vine, 

To  thee  we  pour  the  rosy  wine  ! 

Music,  from  the  adjoining  room,  struck  in  with 
the  chorus,  and  continued  for  some  moments  after 
it  had  ceased. 

For  a  short  time,  the  conversation  was  confined 
to  the  courtesies  of  the  table,  as  the  guests  partook 
of  the  delicious  viands  before  them.  Plato  eat 
olives  and  bread  only  ;  and  the  water  he  drank 
was  scarcely  tinged  with  Lesbian  wine.  Alcibiades 
rallied  him  upon  this  abstemiousness;  and  Peri 
cles  reminded  him  that  even  his  great  pattern,  So 
crates,  gave  Dionysus  his  dues,  while  he  worshipped 
the  heaven-born  Pallas. 

The  philosopher  quietly  replied,  "  I  can  worship 
the  fiery  God  of  Vintage  only  when  married  with 
Nymphs  of  the  Fountain." 

"But  tell  me,  O  Anaxagoras  and  Plato,"  ex 
claimed  Tithonus,  "  if,  as  Hermippus  hath  said,  the 
Grecian  philosophers  discard  the  theology  of  the 
poets'?  Do  you  not  believe  in  the  gods?" 

Plato  would  have  smiled,  had  he  not  reverenced 
the  simplicity  that  expected  a  frank  and  honest 
answer  to  a  question  so  dangerous.  Anaxagoras 
briefly  replied,  that  the  mind  which  did  not  believe 
in  divine  beings,  must  be  cold  and  dark  indeed. 

"  Even  so,"  replied  Artaphernesdevoutly ;  "  bless 
ed  be  Oromasdes,  who  sends  Mithras  to  warm  and 
enlighten  the  world  !  But  what  surprises  me  most 
is,  that  you  Grecians  import  new  divinities  from 
other  countries  as  freely  as  slaves,  or  papyrus,  or 
marble.  The  sculptor  of  the  gods  will  scarcely  be 
able  to  fashion  half  their  images." 

"If  the  custom  continues,"  rejoined  Phidias,  «  it 
will  indeed  require  a  lifetime  as  long  as  that  con 
ferred  upon  the  namesake  of  Tithonus." 

"  Thanks  to  the  munificence  of  artists,  every 
deity  has  a  representative  in  my  dwelling,"  observed 
Aspasia. 

"I  have  heard  strangers  express  their  surprise 


LYDIA    M.    CHILD. 


429 


that  the  Athenians  have  never  erected  a  statue  to 
the  principle  of  Modesty"  said  Hermippus. 

"  So  much  the  more  need  that  we  enshrine  her 
image  in  our  own  hearts,"  rejoined  Plato. 

The  sarcastic  comedian  made  no  reply  to  this 
juiet  rehuke.  Looking  toward  Artaphernes,  he 
continued :  "  Tell  me,  O  servant  of  the  great  king, 
wherein  the  people  of  your  country  are  more  wise 
in  worshipping  the  sun  than  we  who  represent  the 
same  divinity  in  marble  1" 

"  The  principles  of  the  Persian  religion  are  sim 
ple,  steady,  and  uniform,5'  replied  Artaphernes ; 
"  but  the  Athenian  are  always  changing.  You 
not  only  adopt  foreign  gods,  but  sometimes  create 
new  ones,  and  admit  them  into  your  theology  by 
solemn  act  of  the  great  council.  The  circumstances 
have  led  me  to  suppose  that  you  worship  them 
as  mere  forms.  The  Persian  Magi  do  indeed  pros 
trate  themselves  before  the  rising  Sun ;  but  they 
do  it  in  the  name  of  Oromasdes,  the  universal 
Principle  of  Good,  of  whom  that  great  luminary 
is  the  visible  symbol.  In  our  solemn  processions, 
the  chariot  sacred  to  Oromasdes  precedes  the  horse 
dedicated  to  Mithras ;  and  there  is  deep  meaning 
in  the  arrangement.  The  Sun  and  the  Zodiac, 
the  Balance  and  the  Rule,  are  but  emblems  of 
truths,  mysterious  and  eternal.  As  the  garlands 
we  throw  on  the  sacred  tire  feed  the  flame,  rather 
than  extinguish  it,  so  the  sublime  symbols  of  our 
religion  are  intended  to  preserve,  not  to  conceal, 
the  truths  within  them." 

"  Though  you  disclaim  all  images  of  divinity," 
rejoined  Aspasia,  "  yet  we  hear  of  your  Mithras  pic 
tured  like  a  Persian  king,  trampling  on  a  prostrate 
ox." 

With  a  smile,  Artaphernes  replied,  » I  see,  lady, 
that  you  would  fain  gain  admittance  to  the  Mith- 
raic  cave ;  but  its  secrets,  like  those  of  your  own 
Eleusis,  are  concealed  from  all  save  the  initiated." 

"They  tell  us,"  said  Aspasia,  "that  those  who 
are  admitted  to  the  Eleusinian  mysteries  die  in 
peace,  and  go  directly  to  the  Elysian  fields;  while 
the  uninitiated  wander  about  in  the  infernal  abyss." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Anaxagoras,  "  Alcibiades  will 
go  directly  to  Elysium,  though  Solon  groped  his 
way  in  darkness." 

The  old  philosopher  uttered  this  with  imperturb 
able  gravity,  as  if  unconscious  of  satirical  mean 
ing  ;  but  some  of  the  guests  could  scarcely  repress 
a  smile,  as  they  recollected  the  dissolute  life  of  the 
young  Athenian. 

"  If  Alcibiades  spoke  his  real  sentiments,"  said 
Aspasia,  "I  venture  to  say  he  would  tell  us  that 
the  mystic  baskets  of  Demeter,  covered  with  long 
purple  veils,  contain  nothing  half  so  much  worth 
seeing,  as  the  beautiful  maidens  who  carry  them." 

She  looked  at  Pericles,  and  saw  that  he  again 
cautionsd  her,  by  raising  the  rose  toward  his  face, 
as  if  inhaling  its  fragrance. 

There  was  a  brief  pause ;  which  Anaxagoras 
interrupted,  by  saying,  "The  wise  can  never  reve 
rence  images  merely  as  images.  There  is  a  mys 
tical  meaning  in  the  Athenian  manner  of  suppli 
cating  the  gods  with  garlands  on  their  heads,  and 
bearing  in  their  hands  boughs  of  olive  twined  with 


wool.  Pallas,  at  whose  birth  we  are  told  gold 
rained  upon  the  earth,  was  unquestionably  a  per 
sonification  of  wisdom.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed 
that  the  philosophers  of  any  country  consider  the 
sun  itself  as  any  thing  more  than  a  huge  ball  of 
fire ;  but  the  sight  of  that  glorious  orb  leads  the 
contemplative  soul  to  the  belief  in  one  Pure  In 
telligence,  one  Universal  Mind,  which  in  mani 
festing  itself  produces  order  in  the  material  world, 
and  preserves  the  unconfused  distinction  of  infinite 
varieties." 

"  Such,  no  doubt,  is  the  tendency  of  all  reflect 
ing  minds,"  said  Phidias ;  « but  in  general,  the 
mere  forms  are  worshipped,  apart  from  the  sacred 
truths  they  represent.  The  gods  we  have  intro 
duced  from  Egypt  are  regarded  by  the  priests  of 
that  learned  land  as  emblems  of  certain  divine 
truths  brought  down  from  ancient  times.  They 
are  like  the  Hermae  at  our  doors,  which  outwardly 
appear  to  rest  on  inexpressive  blocks  of  stone ;  but 
when  opened,  they  are  found  to  contain  beautiful 
statues  of  the  gods  within  them.  It  is  not  so  with 
the  new  fables  which  the  Greeks  are  continually 
mixing  with  their  mythology.  Pygmalion,  as  we 
all  know,  first  departed  from  the  rigid  outline  of 
ancient  sculpture,  and  impressed  life  and  motion 
upon  marble.  The  poets,  in  praise  of  him,  have 
told  us  that  his  ardent  wishes  warmed  a  statue  into 
a  lovely  and  breathing  woman.  The  fable  is  fan 
ciful  arid  pleasing  in  itself;  but  will  it  not  hereafter 
be  believed  as  reality  1  Might  not  the  same  history 
be  told  of  much  that  is  believed  ]  It  is  true,"  added 
he,  smiling,  « that  I  might  be  excused  for  favouring 
a  belief  in  images,  since  mortals  are  ever  willing  to 
have  their  own  works  adored." 

«  What !  does  Plato  respond  to  the  inquiries  of 
Phidias'?"  asked  Artaphernes. 

The  philosopher  replied  :  «  Within  the  holy  mys 
teries  of  our  religion  is  preserved  a  pure  and  deep 
meaning,  as  the  waters  of  Arethusa  flow  uncon- 
taminated  beneath  the  earth  and  the  sea.  I  do  not 
presume  to  decide  whether  all  that  is  believed  has 
the  inward  significancy.  I  have  ever  deemed  such 
speculations  unwise.  If  the  chaste  daughter  of 
Latona  always  appears  to  my  thoughts  veiled  in 
heavenly  purity,  it  is  comparatively  unimportant 
whether  I  can  prove  that  Acteon  was  torn  by  his 
dogs,  for  looking  on  the  goddess  with  wanton  eyes. 
Anaxagoras  said  wisely  that  material  forms  lead 
the  contemplative  mind  to  the  worship  of  ideal 
good,  which  is  in  its  nature  immortal  and  divine 
Homer  tells  us  that  the  golden  chain  resting  upon 
Olympus  reaches  even  to  the  earth.  Here  we  see 
but  a  few  of  the  last  links,  and  those  imperfectly. 
We  are  like  men  in  the  subterranean  cave,  so 
chained  that  they  can  look  only  forward  to  the  en 
trance.  Far  above  and  behind  us  is  a  glowing 
fire :  and  beautiful  beings,  of  every  form,  are  mov 
ing  between  the  light  and  us  poor  fettered  mortals. 
Some  of  these  bright  beings  are  speaking,  and 
others  are  silent.  We  see  only  the  shadows  cast 
on  the  opposite  wall  of  the  cavern,  by  the  reflec 
tion  of  the  fire  above ;  and  if  we  hear  the  echo  of 
voices,  we  suppose  it  belongs  to  those  passing 
shadows.  The  soul,  in  its  present  condition,  is  an 


LYDIA    M.    CHILD. 


exile  from  the  orb  of  light ;  its  ignorance  is  forget- 
fulness ;  and  whatever  we  can  perceive  of  truth, 
or  imagine  of  beauty,  is  but  a  reminiscence  of  our 
former  more  glorious  state  of  being.  He  who  re 
verences  the  gods,  and  subdues  his  own  passions, 
returns  at  last  to  the  blest  condition  from  which  he 
fell.  But  to  talk,  or  think,  about  these  things  with 
proud  impatience,  or  polluted  morals,  is  like  pour 
ing  pure  water  into  a  miry  trench ;  he  who  does 
it  disturbs  the  mud,  and  thus  causes  the  clear  water 
to  become  defiled.  When  Odysseus  removed  his 
armor  from  the  walls,  and  carried  it  to  an  inner 
apartment,  invisible  Pallas  moved  before  him  with 
her  golden  lamp,  and  filled  the  place  with  radiance 
divine.  Telemachus,  seeing  the  light,  exclaimed, 
«  Surely,  my  father,  some  of  the  celestial  gods  are 
present.'  With  deep  wisdom,  the  king  of  Ithaca 
replied,  'Be  silent.  Restrain  your  intellect,  and 
speak  not.' " 

"  I  am  rebuked,  O  Plato,"  answered  Phidias ; 
"  and  from  henceforth,  when  my  mind  is  dark  and 
doubtful,  I  will  remember  that  transparent  drops 
may  fall  into  a  turbid  well.  Nor  will  I  forget  that 
sometimes,  when  I  have  worked  on  my  statues  by 
torch-light,  I  could  not  perceive  their  real  expres 
sion,  because  I  was  carving  in  the  shadow  of  my 
own  hand." 

"  Little  can  be  learned  of  the  human  soul  and 
its  connection  with  the  Universal  Mind,"  said  An- 
axagoras;  "these  sublime  truths  seem  vague  and 
remote,  as  Phoeacia  appeared  to  Odysseus  like  a 
vast  shield  floating  on  the  surface  of  the  distant 
ocean." 

"  The  glimmering  uncertainty  attending  all  such 
speculations,  has  led  me  to  attach  myself  to  the 
Ionic  sect,  who  devote  themselves  entirely  to  the 
study  of  outward  nature." 

"  And  this  is  useful,"  rejoined  Plato  :  "  The  man 
who  is  to  be  led  from  a  cave  will  more  easily  see 
what  the  heavens  contain  by  looking  to  the  light 
of  the  moon  and  the  stars,  than  by  gazing  on  the 
sun  at  noon-day." 


THE  BELOVED  TUNE. 
FRAGMENTS  OF  A  LIFE,  IN  SMALL  PICTURES. 

FROJI   FACT   AND    FICTION. 

A  child,  a  friend,  a  wife,  whose  soft  heart  sings 

In  unison  with  ours,  breeding  its  future  wings. — Leigh  Hunt. 

IN  a  pleasant  English  garden,  on  a  rustic  chair 
of  intertwisted  boughs,  are  seated  two  happy  human 
beings.  Beds  of  violets  perfume  the  air,  and  the 
verdant  hedge-rows  stand  sleepily  in  the  moonlight. 
A  guitar  lies  ojn  the  greensward,  but  it  is  silent 
now,  for  all  is  hushed  in  the  deep  stillness  of  the 
heart.  That  youthful  pair  are  whispering  their 
first  acknowledgment  of  mutual  love.  With  them 
is  now  unfolding  life's  best  and  brightest  blossom, 
so  beautiful  and  so  transient,  but  leaving,  as  it  passes 
into  fruit,  a  fragrance  through  all  the  paths  of  me 
mory. 

And  now  the  garden  is  alone  in  the  moonlight. 
The  rustic  bench,  and  the  whispering  foliage  of  the 
tree,  tell  each  other  no  tales  of  those  still  kisses, 


those  gentle  claspings,  and  all  the  fervent  language 
of  the  heart.  But  the  young  man  has  carried  them 
away  in  his  soul ;  and  as  he  sits  alone  at  his  cham 
ber  window,  gazing  in  the  mild  face  of  the  moon, 
he  feels,  as  all  do  who  love  and  are  beloved,  that  he 
is  a  better  man,  and  will  henceforth  be  a  wiser  and 
j  a  purer  one.  .  The  worlds  within  and  without  are 
j  veiled  in  transfigured  glory,  and  breathe  together 
|  in  perfect  harmony.  For  all  these  high  aspirations, 
this  deep  tide  of  tenderness,  this  fulness  of  beauty, 
i  there  is  but  one  utterance ;  the  yearning  heart 
must  overflow  in  music.  Faint  and  uncertain  come 
the  first  tones  of  the  guitar,  breathing  as  softly  as 
if  they  responded  to  the  mere  touch  of  the  moon 
beams.  But  now  the  rich  manly  voice  has  united 
with  them,  and  a  clear  spiritual  melody  flows  forth, 
plaintive  and  impassioned,  the  modulated  breath  of 
indwelLng  life  and  love.  All  the  secrets  of  the  gar 
den,  secrets  that  painting  and  poetry  had  no  power 
to  reveal,  have  passed  into  the  song. 

At  first,  the  young  musician  scarcely  noticed  the 
exceeding  beauty  of  the  air  he  was  composing. 
But  a  passage  that  came  from  the  deepest  of  the 
heart,  returned  to  the  heart  again,  arid  filled  it  with 
its  own  sweet  echoes.  He  lighted  a  lamp,  and  ra 
pidly  transferred  the  sounds  to  paper.  Thus  has 
he  imbodied  the  floating  essence  of  his  soul,  and 
life's  brightest  inspiration  cannot  pass  away  with 
the  moonlight  and  the  violet-fragrance  that  veiled 
its  birth. 

But  obstacles  arise  in  the  path  of  love.  Dora's 
father  has  an  aversion  to  foreigners,  and  Alessan- 
dro  is  of  mingled  Italian  and  German  parentage. 
He  thinks  of  worldly  substance,  as  fathers  are 
wont  to  do ;  and  Alessandro.is  simply  leader  of  an 
orchestra,  and  a  popular  composer  of  guitar  music. 
There  is  a  richer  lover  in  question,  and  the  poor 
musician  is  sad  with  hope  deferred,  though  he 
leans  ever  trustfully  on  Dora's  true  heart.  He  la 
bours  diligently  in  his  vocation,  gives  lessons  day 
by  day,  and  listens  with  all  patience  to  the  learner's 
trip-hammer  measurement  of  time,  while  the  soul 
within  him  yearns  to  pour  itself  forth  in  floods  of 
improvised  melody.  He  composes  music  indus 
triously,  too ;  but  it  is  for  the  market,  and  slowly 
and  reluctantly  the  offended  tones  take  their  places 
per  order.  Not  thus  came  they  in  that  inspired 
song,  where  love  first  breathed  its  bright  but  timid 
joy  over  vanished  doubts  and  fears.  The  manu 
script  of  that  melody  is  laid  away,  and  seldom  can 
the  anxious  lover  hear  its  voice. 

But  two  years  of  patient  effort  secures  his  prize. 
The  loved  one  has  come  to  his  humble  home,  with 
her  bridal  wreath  of  jessamine  and  orange-buds. 
He  sits  at  the  same  window,  and  the  same  moon 
shines  on  him ;  but  he  is  no  longer  alone.  A  beau 
tiful  head  leans  on  his  breast,  and  a  loving  voice 
says,  «  Dearest  Alessandro,  sing  me  a  song  of  thine 
own  composing."  He  was  at  that  moment  think 
ing  of  the  rustic  seat  in  her  father's  garden,  of  vio 
lets  breathing  to  the  moonlight,  of  Dora's  first  bash 
ful  confession  of  love;  and  smiling  with  a  happy 
consciousness,  he  sought  for  the  written  voice  of 
that  blissful  hour.  But  he  will  not  tell  her  when 
it  was  composed,  lest  it  should  not  say  so  much  to 


LYDIA   M.   CHILD. 


431 


her  heart,  as  it  does  to  his.  He  begins  by  singing 
other  songs,  which  drawing-room  misses  love  for 
their  tinkling  sweetness.  Dora  listens  well  pleased, 
and  sometimes  says,  «  That  is  pretty,  Alessandro ; 
play  it  again."  But  now  comes  the  voice  of  melt 
ing,  mingling  souls.  That  melody,  so  like  sun 
shine,  and  rainbows,  and  bird-warbling,  after  a 
summer  shower,  with  rain-drops  from  the  guitar  at 
intervals,  and  all  subsiding  into  blissful,  dreamy 
moonlight.  Dora  leans  forward,  gazir/g  earnestly 
in  his  face,  and  with  beaming  tearful  eyes,  exclaims, 
"  Oh,  that  is  very  beautiful !  That  is  my  tune." 
"  Yes,  it  is  indeed  thy  tune,"  replied  the  happy 
husband  ;  and  when  she  had  heard  its  history,  she 
knew  why  it  had  seemed  so  like  echoes  of  her  own 
deepest  heart. 

Time  has  passed,  and  Alessandro  sits  by  Dora's 
bed-side,  their  eyes  looking  into  each  other  through 
happy  tears.  Their  love  is  crowned  with  life's 
deepest,  purest  joy,  its  most  heavenly  emotion. 
Their  united  lives  have  re-appeared  in  a  new  exist 
ence;  and  they  feel  that  without  this  rich  experi 
ence  the  human  heart  can  never  know  one-half  its 
wealth  of  love.  Long  sat  the  father  in  that  happy 
stillness,  and  wist  not  that  angels  near  by  smiled 
when  he  touched  the  soft  down  of  the  infant's  arm, 
or  twined  its  little  finger  over  his,  and  looked  his 
joyful  tenderness  into  the  mother's  eyes.  The  tear- 
dew  glistened  on  those  long  dark  fringes,  when  he 
took  up  his  guitar  and  played  the  beloved  tune. 
He  had  spoken  no  word  to  his  child.  These  tones 
were  the  first  sounds  with  which  he  welcomed  her 
into  the  world. 

A  few  months  glide  away,  and  the  little  Fioretta 
knows  the  tune  for  herself.  She  claps  her  hands 
and  crows  at  sight  of  the  guitar,  and  all  changing 
emotions  show  themselves  in  her  dark  melancholy 
eyes,  and  on  her  little  tremulous  lips.  Play  not 
too  sadly,  thou  fond  musician ;  for  this  little  soul 
is  a  portion  of  thine  own  sensitive  being,  more  de 
licately  tuned.  Ah,  see  now  the  grieved  lip,  and 
the  eyes  swimming  in  tears !  Change,  change  to  a 
gayer  measure !  for  the  little  heart  is  swelling  too 
big  for  its  bosorn.  There,  now  she  laughs  and 
crows  again  !  Yet  plaintive  music  is  her  choice, 
and  especially  the  beloved  tune.  As  soon  as  she 
can  toddle  across  the  room,  she  welcomes  papa 
with  a  shout,  and  runs  to  bring  the  guitar,  which 
mother  must  help  her  carry,  lest  she  break  it  in  her 
zeal.  If  father  mischievously  tries  other  tunes  than 
her  favourites,  she  shakes  her  little  curiy  head,  and 
trots  her  feet  impatiently.  But  when  he  touches 
the  first  notes  he  ever  played  to  her,  she  smiles  and 
listens  seriously,  as  if  she  heard  her  own  being  pro 
phesied  in  music.  As  she  grows  older,  the  little 
lady  evinces  a  taste  right  royal ;  for  she  must  needs 
eat  her  supper  to  the  accompaniment  of  sweet 
sounds.  It  is  beautiful  to  see  her  in  her  night-gown, 
seated  demurely  in  her  small  arm-chair,  one  little 
naked  foot  unconsciously  beating  time  to  the  tune. 
But  if  the  music  speaks  too  plaintively,  the  big 
tears  roll  silently  down,  and  the  porringer  of  milk, 
all  unheeded,  pours  its  treasures  on  the  floor. 
Then  come  smothering  kisses  from  the  happy  fa 
ther  and  mother,  and  love-claspings  with  her  little 


soft  arms.  As  the  three  sit  thus  intertwined,  the 
musician  says  playfully,  "  Ah,  this  is  the  perfect 
chord  !" 

Three  years  pass  away,  and  the  scene  is  changed. 
There  is  discord  now  where  such  sweet  harmony 
prevailed.  The  light  of  Dora's  eyes  is  dim  with 
weeping,  and  Fioretta  "has  caught  the  trick  of 
grief,  and  sighs  amid  her  playthings."  Once,  when 
she  had  waited  long  for  the  beloved  father,  she  ran 
to  him  with  the  guitar,  and  he  pushed  her  away, 
saying  angrily,  "  Go  to  bed  ;  why  did  your  mother 
keep  you  up  so  long  1"  The  sensitive  little  being, 
so  easily  repulsed,  went  to  her  pillow  in  tears ;  and 
after  that,  she  no  more  ran  to  him  with  music  in 
her  hand,  in  her  eye,  and  in  her  voice.  Hushed 
now  is  the  beloved  tune.  To  the  unhappy  wife  it 
seems  a  mockery  to  ask  for  it ;  and  Alessandro  sel 
dom  touches  his  guitar;  he  says  he  is  obliged  to 
play  enough  for  his  bread,  without  playing  to  his 
family  at  hom.e.  At  the  glee-club  the  bright  wine 
has  tempted  him,  and  he  is  slowly  burying  heart 
and  soul  in  the  sepulchre  of  the  body.  Is  there  no 
way  to  save  this  beautiful  son  of  genius  and  feel 
ing  1  Dora  at  first  pleads  with  him  tenderly ;  but 
made  nervous  with  anxiety  and  sorrow,  she  at  last 
speaks  words  that  would  have  seemed  impossible 
to  her  when  she  was  so  happy,  seated  on  the  rustic 
chair,  in  the  moonlighted  garden ;  and  then  comes 
the  sharp  sorrow,  which  a  generous  heart  always 
feels  when  it  has  so  spoken  to  a  cherished  friend. 
In  such  moments  of  contrition,  memory  turns  with 
fond  sadness  to  the  beloved  tune.  Fioretta,  whose 
little  fingers  must  stretch  wide  to  reach  an  octave, 
is  taught  to  play  it  on  the  piano,  while  mother 
sings  to  her  accompaniment,  in  their  lonely  hours. 
After  such  seasons,  a  tenderer  reception  always 
greets  the  wayward  husband;  but  his  eyes,  dulled 
by  dissipation,  no  longer  perceive  the  delicate  shad- 
ings  of  love  in  those  home  pictures,  once  so  dear 
to  him.  The  child  is  afraid  of  her  father,  and  this 
vexes  him ;  so  a  strangeness  has  grown  up  between 
the  two  playmates,  and  casts  a  shadow  over  all 
their  attempts  at  joy.  One  day,  Alessandro  came 
home  as  twilight  was  passing  into  evening.  Fio 
retta  had  eaten  her  supper,  and  sat  on  her  mother's 
lap,  chatting  merrily  ;  but  the  little  clear  voice 
hushed,  as  soon  as  father's  step  was  heard  ap 
proaching.  He  entered  with  flushed  cheek  and 
unsteady  motions,  and  threw  himself  full  length 
on  the  sofa,  grumbling  that  it  was  devilish  dismal 
there.  Dora  answered  hastily, "  When  a  man  has 
made  his  home  dismal,  if  he  don't  like  it,  he  had 
better  stay  where  he  finds  more  pleasure."  The 
next  moment,she  would  have  given  worlds  if  she  had 
not  spoken  such  words.  Her  impulse  was  to  go  and 
fall  on  his  neck,  and  ask  forgiveness ;  but  he  kicked 
over  Fioretta's  little  chair  with  such  violence  that 
the  kindly  impulse  turned  back,  and  hid  itself  in 
her  widowed  heart.  There  sat  they  silently  in 
the  twilight,  and  Dora's  tears  fell  on  the  little  head 
that  rested  on  her  bosom.  I  know  not  what  spirit 
guided  the  child  ;  perhaps  in  her  busy  little  heart 
she  remembered  how  her  favourite  sounds  used  to 
heighten  all  love,  and  cheer  all  sorrow ;  perhaps 
angels  came  and  took  her  by  the  hand.  But  so  it 


432 


LYDIA    M.    CHILD. 


was,  she  slipped  down  from  mother's  lap,  and 
scrambling  up  on  the  music-stool,  began  to  play  the 
tune  which  had  been  taught  her  in  private  hours, 
and  which  the  father  had  not  heard  for  many 
months.  Wonderfully  the  little  creature  touched 
the  keys  with  her  tiny  fingers,  and  ever  and  anon 
her  weak  but  flexible  voice  chimed  in  with  a  plea 
sant  harmony.  Alessandro  raised  his  head,  and 
looked  and  listened.  «  God  bless  her  dear  little 
soul !"  he  exclaimed ;  «  can  she  play  it  1  God  bless 
her  !  God  bless  her  !"  He  clasped  the  darling  to 
his  breast,  and  kissed  her  again  and  again.  Then 
seeing  the  little  overturned  chair,  once  so  sacred  to 
his  heart,  he  caught  it  up,  kissed  it  vehemently, 
and  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  Dora  threw  her 
arms  round  him,  and  said  softly,  "  Dear  Alessan 
dro,  forgive  me  that  I  spoke  so  unkindly."  He 
pressed  her  hand,  and  answered  in  a  stifled  voice, 
"  Forgive  me,  Dora.  God  bless  the  little  angel ! 
Never  again  will  father  push  away  her  little  chair." 
As  they  stand  weeping  on  each  other's  necks,  two 
little  soft  arms  encircle  their  knees,  and  a  small 
voice  says, «  Kiss  Fietta."  They  raise  her  up,  and 
fold  her  in  long  embraces.  Alessandro  carries  her 
to  her  bed,  as  in  times  of  old,  and  says  cheerfully, 
"  No  more  wine,  dear  Dora ;  no  more  wine.  Our 
child  has  saved  me." 

But  when  discord  once  enters  a  domestic  para 
dise,  it  is  not  easily  dispelled.  Alessandro  occa 
sionally  feels  the  want  of  the  stimulus  to  which  he 
has  become  accustomed,  and  the  corroding  appetite 
sometimes  makes  him  gloomy  and  petulant.  Dora 
does  not  make  sufficient  allowance  for  this,  and  her 
own  nature  being  quick  and  sensitive,  she  some 
times  gives  abrupt  answers,  or  betrays  impatience 
by  hasty  motions.  Meanwhile  Alessandro  is  busy, 
with  some  secret  work.  The  door  of  his  room  is 
often  locked,  and  Dora  is  half-displeased  that  he 
will  not  tell  her  why ;  but  all  her  questions  he  an 
swers  only  with  a  kiss  and  a  smile.  And  now  the 
Christmas  morning  comes,  and  Fioretta  rises  bright 
and  early  to  see  what  Santa  Glaus  has  put  in  her 
stocking.  She  comes  running  with  her  apron  full, 
and  gives  mother  a  package,  on  which  is  written, 
"  A  merry  Christmas,  and  a  Happy  New  Year  to 
my  beloved  wife."  She  opens  it,  and  reads  "  Dear 
est  Dora,  I  have  made  thee  a  music-box.  When 
I  speak  hastily  to  my  loved  ones,  I  pray  thee  wind 
it  up ;  and  when  I  see  the  spark  kindling  in  thy 
eyes,  I  will  do  the  same.  Thus,  dearest,  let  me 
mory  teach  patience  unto  love."  Dora  winds  up 
the  music-box,  and  lo,  a  spirit  sits  within,  playing 
the  beloved  tune  !  She  puts  her  hand  within  her 
husband's,  and  they  look  at  each  other  with  affec 
tionate  humility.  But  neither  of  them  speak  the 
resolution  they  form,  while  the  voice  of  their  early 
love  falls  on  their  ears,  like  the  sounds  of  a  fairy 
guitar. 

Memory , thus  aided,  does  teach  patience  unto  love. 
No  slackened  string  now  sends  discord  through  the 
domestic  tune.  Fioretta  is  passing  into  maiden 
hood,  beautiful  as  an  opening  flower.  She  prac 
tises  on  the  guitar,  while  the  dear  good  father  sits 
with  his  arm  across  her  chair,  singing  from  a  manu 
script  tune  of  her  own  composing.  In  his  eyes, 


this  first  effort  of  her  genius  cannot  seem  other 
wise  than  beautiful.  Ever  and  anon  certain  notes 
recur,  and  they  look  at  each  other  and  smile,  and 
Dora  smiles  also.  "  Fioretta  could  not  help  bring 
ing  in  that  theme,"  she  says,  "for  it  was  sung  to 
her  in  her  cradle."  The  father  replies,  "  But  the 
variations  are  extremely  pretty  and  tasteful ;"  and 
a  flush  of  delight  goes  over  the  expressive  face  of 
his  child.  The  setting  sun  glances  across  the  gui 
tar,  and  juSt  touches  a  rose  in  the  maiden's  bosom. 
The  happy  mother  watches  the  dear  group  earn 
estly,  and  sketches  rapidly  on  the  paper  before  her. 
And  now  she,  too,  works  privately  in  her  own  room, 
and  has  a  secret  to  keep.  On  Fioretta's  fifteenth 
birth-day,  she  sends  by  her  hands  a  covered  pre 
sent  to  the  father.  He  opens  it,  and  finds  a  lovely 
picture  of  himself  and  daughter,  the  rose  and  the 
guitar.  The  sunlight  glances  across  them  in  a 
bright  shower  of  fine  soft  rays,  and  touches  on 
the  manuscript,  as  with  a  golden  finger,  the  few 
beloved  notes,  which  had  made  them  smile.  As 
the  father  shrined  within  his  divine  art  the  memory 
of  their  first  hour  of  mutual  love,  so  the  mother 
has  embalmed  in  her  beautiful  art  the  first  musical 
echo  from  the  heart  of  their  child. 

But  now  the  tune  of  life  passes  into  a  sadder 
mode.  Dora,  pale  and  emaciated,  lies  propped  up 
with  pillows,  her  hand  clasped  within  Fioretta's, 
her  head  resting  on  her  husband's  shoulder. 

All  is  still — still.  Their  souls  are  kneeling  re 
verently  before  the  Angel  of  Death.  Heavy  sun 
set  guns,  from  a  neighbouring  fort,  boom  through 
the  air.  The  vibrations  shake  the  music-box,  and 
it  starts  up  like  a  spirit,  and  plays  the  cherished 
tune.  Dora  presses  her  daughter's  hand,  and  she, 
with  a  faint  smile,  warbles  the  words  they  have  so 
often  sung.  The  dying  one  looks  up  to  Alessan 
dro,  with  a  deep  expression  of  unearthly  tender 
ness.  Gazing  thus,  with  one  long-drawn  sigh,  her 
affectionate  soul  floats  away  on  the  wings  of  that 
etherial  song.  The  memory  that  taught  endurance 
unto  love  leaves  a  luminous  expression,  a  farewell 
glory,  on  the  lifeless  countenance.  Attendant  an 
gels  smile,  and  their  blessing  falls  on  the  mourners' 
hearts,  like  dew  from  heaven.  Fioretta  remains  to 
the  widowed  one,  the  graceful  blossom  of  his  lone 
ly  life,  the  incarnation  of  his  beloved  tune. 


A  STREET  SCENE. 

FROM  LETTERS  FROM  NEW  YORK. 

THE  other  day,  as  I  came  down  Broome-street, 
I  saw  a  street  musician,  playing  near  the  door  of  a 
genteel  dwelling.  The  organ  was  uncommonly 
sweet  and  mellow  in  its  tones,  the  tunes  were  slow 
and  plaintive,  and  I  fancied  that  I  saw  in  the 
woman's  Italian  face  an  expression  that  indicated 
sufficient  refinement  to  prefer  the  tender  and  the 
melancholy,  to  the  lively  « trainer  tunes"  in  vogue 
with  the  populace.  She  looked  like  one  who  had 
suffered  much,  and  the  sorrowful  music  seemed 
her  own  appropriate  voice.  A  little  girl  clung  to 
her  scanty  garments,  as  if  afraid  of  all  things  but 


LYDIA   M.   CHILD. 


433 


her  mother.  As  I  looked  at  them,  a  young  lady 
of  pleasing  countenance  opened  the  window,  and 
oegan  to  sing  like  a  bird,  in  Keeping  with  the  street 
organ.  Two  other  young  girls  came  and  leaned 
on  her  shoulder;  and  still  she  sang  on.  Blessings 
on  her  gentle  heart !  It  was  evidently  the  spon 
taneous  gush  of  human  love  and  sympathy.  The 
beauty  of  the  incident  attracted  attention.  A  group 
of  gentlemen  gradually  collected  round  the  organ 
ist;  and  ever  as  the  tune  ended,  they  bowed  re 
spectfully  toward  the  window,  waved  their  hats, 
and  called  out,  "  More,  if  you  please  !"  One,  whom 
I  knew  well  for  the  kindest  and  truest  soul,  passed 
round  his  hat ;  hearts  were  kindled,  and  the  silver 
fell  in  freely.  In  a  minute,  four  or  five  dollars 
were  collected  for  the  poor  woman.  She  spoke  no 
word  of  gratitude,  but  she  gave  such  a  look  !  "  Will 
you  go  to  the  next  street,  and  play  to  a  friend  of 
mine  V'  said  my  kind-hearted  friend.  She  an 
swered,  in  tones  expressing  the  deepest  emotion, 
"  No,  sir,  God  bless  you  all — God  bless  you  all," 
(making  a  courtesy  to  the  young  lady,  who  had 
stept  back,  and  stood  sheltered  by  the  curtain  of 
the  window,)  « I  will  play  no  more  to-day ;  I  will 
go  home,  now."  The  tears  trickled  down  her  cheeks, 
and  as  she  walked  away,  she  had  ever  and  anon 
wiped  her  eyes  with  the  corner  of  her  shawl.  The 
group  of  gentlemen  lingered  a  moment  to  look  after 
her,  then  turning  toward  the  now  closed  window, 
they  gave  three  enthusiastic  cheers,  and  departed, 
better  than  they  came.  The  pavement  on  which 
they  stood  had  been  a  church  to  them ;  and  for  the 
next  hour,  at  least,  their  hearts  were  more  than 
usually  prepared  for  deeds  of  gentleness  and  mer 
cy.  Why  are  such  scenes  so  uncommon!  Why 
do  we  thus  repress  our  sympathies,  and  chill  the 
genial  current  of  nature,  by  formal  observances 
and  restraints  1 

UNSELFISHNESS. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

I  FOUND  the  Battery  unoccupied,  save  by  chil 
dren,  whom  the  weather  made  as  merry  as  birds. 
Every  thing  seemed  moving  to  the  vernal  tune  of 
"Brignal  banks  are  fresh  and  fair, 
And  Greta  woods  are  green." 

To  one  who  was  chasing  her  hoop,  I  said,  smil 
ing,  "  You  are  a  nice  little  girl."  She  stopped, 
looked  up  in  my  face,  so  rosy  and  happy,  and  lay 
ing  her  hand  on  her  brother's  shoulder,  exclaimed 
earnestly,  "  And  he  is  a  nice  little  boy,  too  !"  It 
was  a  simple,  child-like  act,  but  it  brought  a  warm 
gush  into  my  heart.  Blessings  on  all  unselfish 
ness  !  on  all  that  leads  us  in  love  to  prefer  one 
another.  Here  lies  the  secret  of  universal  harmo 
ny  ;  this  is  the  diapason,  which  would  bring  us  all 
into  tune.  Only  by  losing  ourselves  can  we  find 
ourselves.  How  clearly  does  the  divine  voice  with 
in  us  proclaim  this,  by  the  hymn  of  joy  it  sings, 
whenever  we  witness  an  unselfish  deed,  or  hear  an 
unselfish  thought.  Blessings  on  that  loving  little 
one  !  She  made  the  city  seem  a  garden  to  me.  I 
kissed  my  hand  to  her,  as  I  turned  off  in  quest  of 


the  Brooklyn  ferry.  The  sparkling  waters,  swarmed 
with  boats,  some  of  which  had  taken  a  big  ship  by 
the  hand,  and  were  leading  her  out  to  sea,  as  the 
prattle  of  childhood  often  guides  wisdom  into  the 
deepest  and  broadest  thought. 


FLOWERS. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

How  the  universal  heart  of  man  blesses  flow 
ers!  They  are  wreathed  round  the  cradle,  the 
marriage  altar,  and  the  tomb.  The  Persian  in  the 
far  East,  delights  in  their  perfume,  and  writes  his 
love  in  nosegays;  while  the  Indian  child  of  the 
far  west  clasps  his  hands  with  glee,  as  he  gathers 
the  abundant  blossoms — the  illuminated  scripture 
of  the  prairies.  The  Cupid  of  the  ancient  Hin 
doos  tipped  his  arrows  with  flowers,  and  orange 
buds  are  the  bridal  crown  with  us,  a  nation  of  ves- 
terday.  Flowers  garlanded  the  Grecian  altar,  and 
they  hang  in  votive  wreaths  before  the  Christian 
shrine. 

All  these  are  appropriate  uses.  Flowers  should 
deck  the  brow  of  the  youthful  bride,  for  they  are 
in  themselves  a  lovely  type  of  marriage.  They 
should  twine  round  the  tomb,  for  their  perpetually 
renewed  beauty  is  a  symbol  of  the  resurrection. 
They  should  festoon  the  altar,  for  their  fragrance 
and  their  beauty  ascend  in  perpetual  worship  be 
fore  the  Most  High. 


THE  SELF-CONSCIOUS  AND  TriE  UN 
CONSCIOUS. 

WITH  whizz  and  glare  the  rocket  rushed  upward 
proclaiming  to  all  men, "  Lo,  I  am  coming !  Look  at 
me  !"  Gracefully  it  bent  in  the  air,  and  sprinkled 
itself  in  shining  fragments;  but  the  gem-like  sparks 
went  out  in  the  darkness,  and  a  stick  on  the  ground 
was  all  that  remained  of  the  rocket. 

High  above  the  horizon  a  radiant  star  shone  in 
quiet  glory,  making  the  night  time  beautiful.  Men 
knew  not  when  it  rose ;  for  it  went  up  in  the  still 
ness. 

In  a  rich  man's  garden  stands  a  pagoda.  The 
noise  of  the  hammers  told  of  its  progress,  and  all 
men  knew  how  much  was  added  to  it  day  by  day. 
It  was  a  pretty  toy,  with  curious  carving  and  gilded 
bells.  But  it  remained  as  skill  had  fashioned  it, 
and  grew  not,  nor  cast  seed  into  the  future. 

An  oak  noiselessly  dropped  an  acorn  near  by, 
and  two  leaves  sprang  from  the  ground,  and  be 
came  a  fair  young  tree.  The  gardener  said  to  the 
hawthorn,  "  When  did  the  oak  go  above  you?" 
The  hawthorn  answered,  "  I  do  not  know ;  for  it 
passed  quietly  by  in  the  night." 

Thus  does  mere  talent  whizz  and  hammer,  to 
produce  the  transient  forms  of  things,  while  genius 
unconsciously  evolves  the  great  and  the  beautiful, 
and  »« casts  it  silently  into  everlasting  time." 


55 


20 


EGBERT  MONTGOMERY  BIRD. 


[Born  1803.  Lied  1854.] 


DR.  BIRD  was  born  at  Newcastle,  in  Dela 
ware,  and  received  his  classical  and  professional 
education  in  Philadelphia.  It  is  now  seven  or 
eight  years'  since,  after  about  as  long  a  period 
of  active  and  various  literary  employment,  he 
laid  aside  his  pen,  apparently  with  an  intention 
never  to  resume  it,  and  retired  from  the  city  to 
the  quiet  of  his  native  town. 

His  history  is  in  this  respect  somewhat  pe 
culiar.  After  the  production  of  three  tragedies,* 
each  successful  on  the  stage,  and  one  perma 
nently  so,  for  it  has  maintained  possession  of 
the  theatre  for  nearly  fourteen  years,  and  is 
still  acted  with  applause ;  with  no  failure  to 
annoy  him  and,  at  that  time,  no  rival ;  still  in 
youth,  and  full  of  resources  ;  with  a  portfolio 
filled  with  plays,  written  and  half-written,  and 
plans,  plots,  and  fables,  without  number ;  in 
the  midst  of  his  popularity ;  he  suddenly  de 
serted  the  drama  altogether,  resisting  the  per 
suasions  of  his  friends,  and  rejecting  numerous 
liberal  offers  which  were  made  to  him  by  actors 
and  managers.  Turning  from  the  drama  to 
prose  fiction,  and  seeming  to  be  as  much  at 
home  in  one  field  of  composition  as  the  other, 
he  produced  in  rapid  succession  his  various  ro 
mances,  writing  and  publishing  the  fourteen 
volumes  of  which  they  consist  within  a  period 
of  five  years,  at  the  end  of  which  he  sudden 
ly  and  without  any  apparent  reason,  entirely 
abandoned  the  field  of  letters,  f 

The  first  work  which  Dr.  Bird  published, — 
for  not  one  of  his  plays  has  even  yet  been  given 
to  the  press, — was  Calavar,  or  the  Knight  of 
the  Conquest,  a  Romance  of  Mexico,  wh ich  ap 
peared  in  1834.  The  scene  was  before  untried 
by  the  novelist,  and  the  events  and  characters, 
which  are  chiefly  historical,  are  admirably 
adapted  to  the  purposes  of  fiction.  Mr.  Pres- 


*Tbp  Gladiator,  Oraloosa,  and  the  Broker  of  Bogota. 

t  ii  is  prouable  that  Dr.  Bird,  like  many  others  in  this 
country,  was  compelled  by  the  foolish  and  wicked  law 
of  literary  piracy  which  deprives  the  foreign  author  of 
copyright,  to  abandon  the  field.  It  will  be  observed  that 
his  latest  work  appeared  about  the  time  of  the  com 
mencement  of  the  system  of  cheap  publishing,  since 
which  there  have  been  comparatively  few  original 
books  issued  in  America. 
434 


cott,  in  a  note  to  his  History  of  the  Conquest, 
alluding  to  this  picturesque  romance,  remarks 
that  the  author  "has  studied  with  great  care 
the  costume,  manners,  and  military  usages  of 
the  natives,"  and  "  has  done  for  them  what 
Cooper  has  done  for  the  wild  tribes  of  the 
north, — touched  their  rude  features  with  the 
bright  colouring  of  a  poetic  fancy.  He  has 
been  equally  fortunate  in  his  delineation  of  the 
picturesque  scenery  of  the  land,"  Mr.  Prescott 
continues,  "and  if  he  has  been  less  so  in  at 
tempting  to  revive  the  antique  dialogue  of  the 
Spanish  cavalier,  we  must  not  be  surprised : 
nothing  is  more  difficult  than  the  skilful  exe 
cution  of  a  modern  antique."  I  quote  this  as 
the  judgment  of  the  most  competent  of  all  cri 
tics  respecting  whatever  relates  to  Spanish- 
American  history.  Dr.  Bird  evidently  prepared 
himself  in  the  most  thorough  manner  for  his 
task,  and  until  the  appearance  of  the  admira 
ble  history  of  Mr.  Prescott,  there  was  perhaps 
in  the  English  language  no  work  from  which 
could  be  obtained  a  more  just  impression  of 
the  subjugation  of  the  empire  of  Aztecs  than 
from  Calavar. 

Early  in  1835  Dr.  Bird  published  The  Infi 
del,  or  the  Fall  of  Mexico,  a  romance  in  which 
reappear  many  of  the  characters  of  his  earlier 
work,  and  which  may  be  regarded  as  its  se 
quel,  although  each  is  independent  and  com 
plete.  The  Infidel  is  marked  by  the  traits 
which  distinguished  Calavar,  but  was  appa 
rently  written  with  much  more  care.  A  collo 
quy  at  its  beginning  brings  all  the  persons  of 
the  drama  in  a  masterly  manner  before  the 
reader, — each  with  his  peculiar  lineaments, 
with  his  passions,  interests,  and  designs, — 
and  their  individuality  is  happily  preserved 
throughout  the  work,  which  abounds  in  dra 
matic  situations,  brilliantly  executed  dialogues, 
and  graphic  descriptions  of  nature.  It  has 
more  concentration  of  action  and  a  more  inge 
niously  contrived  plot  than  Calavar,  and  was 
less  successful  only  because  the  subject  had 
now  lost  something  of  its  novelty. 

The  Hawks  of  Hawk  Hollow,  a  Tradition 
of  Pennsylvania,  appeared  in  the  same  year 


ROBERT    MONTGOMERY    BIRD. 


435 


and  is  as  different  in  style  as  in  subject  from 
the  romances  of  Mexico.  It  contains  some 
vigorous  writing,  and  original  and  powerful 
sketches  of  character ;  but  more  of  the  tumult 
and  brutality  of  border  life  than  is  worth  pre 
serving  in  literature. 

Sheppard  Lee  came  out  anonymously  in 
New  York  in  1836,  and  though  never  claimed 
or  acknowledged  by  Dr.  Bird,  I  have  reasons 
for  being  confident  that  he  is  its  author.  The 
hero,  when  first  introduced  to  the  reader,  is  a 
New  Jersey  farmer,  in  moderate  circumstances, 
envious  of  every  one  richer  or  happier  than 
himself,  and  dreaming  of  wealth  and  ease  which 
he  lacks  the  industry  and  wit  to  acquire.  He 
at  last  resolves  to  search  for  buried  treasures, 
and  just  as  he  fancies  that  a  fortune  is  within 
his  grasp,  an  accident  stretches  him  a  corpse 
upon  the  scene  of  his  labours.  His  spirit  en 
ters  into  the  body  of  a  sporting  squire,  who  had 
iroken  his  neck  just  in  time,  and  who  had  been, 
when  living,  the  object  of  Lee's  especial  envy. 
He  soon  finds  that  some  things  in  his  new 
sphere  are  less  agreeable  than  he  had  supposed ; 
and  that  he  may  have  the  largest  experience 
of  conditions,  his  soul  is  adroitly  shifted  into 
new  forms,  until,  having  been  a  dandy, a  miser, 
a  quaker  philanthropist,  a  slave,  and  a  planter, 
he  once  more  becomes  plain  Sheppard  Lee, 
with  thirty  acres  of  the  soil  of  New  Jersey, 
and  enough  skill  as  a  ploughman  to  turn  it  to 
good  account.  The  book  abounds  with  whirn 
and  burlesque,  pointed  but  playful  satire,  and 
felicitous  sketches  of  society.  The  various 
metempsychoses,  in  the  end,  are  declared  by  the 
hero's  sister  to  be  the  result  of  delirium,  occa 
sioned  by  harassing  pecuniary  difficulties ;  but 
Mr.  Lee  has  some  doubt  upon  the  subject,  and 
determines  to  make  public  his  own  version  of 
the  matter,  with  a  view  of  letting  everybody 
decide  for  himself. 

In  the  spring  of  1837  Dr.  Bird  gave  to  the 
public,  through  his  regular  publishers  in  Phi 
ladelphia,  Nick  of  the  Woods,  or  the  Jibbe- 
nainosay.  It  is  a  tale  of  early  border  life,  the 
period  of  its  incidents  being  about  ten  years  be 
fore  the  admission  of  Kentucky  to  the  Union; 
and  its  characters  present  such  motley  con 
trasts  as  are  brought  together  in  the  tessellated 
society  of  our  extreme  western  frontier.  One 
of  them  is  Roaring  Ralph  Stackpole,  a  wild, 
lawless  fellow,  and  the  original,  as  the  author 
surmises,  of  a  race  since  very  numerous,  and 
knjwn  on  the  Mississippi  as  creatures  of  the 


half  horse  and  half  alligator  species,  or  "  ring 
tail  roarers  from  Salt  River."  The  Indians  of 
Dr.  Bird  are  very  different  from  those  of  Mr. 
Cooper,  and  it  may  be,  as  has  been  often  con 
tended,  that  they  are  more  accurately  drawn ; 
but  I  think  not.  Brown  gave  us  glimpses  of 
Indian  life;  and  they  were  remarkably  pictur 
esque  and  truthful.  Since  he  wrote,  Cooper's 
Indian  characters  are  the  most  natural  as  well 
as  the  most  interesting  that  have  appeared  in 
our  fictitious  literature,  unless  the  tribes  of  the 
Mississippi  region  are  essentially  unlike  those 
of  the  St.  Lawrence  and  the  Mohawk.  Bird's 
Nick  of  the  Woods  is,  however,  a  singularly 
original  and  bold  conception,  executed  with 
remarkable  ability. 

Under  the  title  of  Peter  Pilgrim,  or  a  Ram 
bler's  Recollections,  Dr.  Bird,  in  1838,  pub 
lished  a  collection  of  magazine  papers,  among 
which  are  an  account  of  the  Mammoth  Cave, 
and  various  stories  illustrative  of  life  on  the 
western  border. 

In  1839  appeared  the  last  of  his  novels,  The 
Adventures  of  Robin  Day.  The  hero,  who 
relates  his  own  story,  came  ashore  with  the 
wreck  of  a  schooner,  one  wild  night  in  the 
month  of  September,  1796,  upon  the  coast  of 
New  Jersey,  and  lives  a  life 

"Of  most  disastrous  chances, 
Of  moving  accidents  by  flood  and  field," 

until  he  is  enabled  by  some  happy  accidents 
to  settle  in  peace  and  affluence,  and  write  his 
"  travel's  history." 

Dr.  Bird's  historical  romances  have  the  me 
rit  of  truthfulness,  a  phrase  which  implies  fide 
lity,  not  merely  of  narrative,  but  of  impersona 
tion,  feeling  and  manners,  and  a  nice  observ 
ance  of  all  the  elements  which  contribute  to 
the  costume  and  develope  the  spirit  of  an  age. 
His  characters  are  well  sketched  and  shaded, 
and  his  scenes  have  an  air  of  verisimilitude 
that  impresses  the  reader  with  an  idea  that  he 
is  perusing  a  narrative  of  real  events.  There 
is  in  each  of  his  novels  a  plot,  ingenious,  in 
tricate,  and  so  managed  as  to  produce  an  in 
tense  curiosity,  and  a  succession  of  surprises 
in  its  development.  His  style  is  varied  with 
the  nature  of  his  subjects.  In  Calavar  and  The 
Infidel  it  has  a  certain  stateliness  and  occasional 
pomp  which  is  suitable  to  scenes  so  grand  and 
romantic,  and  to  the  characters  of  the  time  and 
country.  Of  his  other  works,  the  diction  is 
simple  and  familiar,  and  sometimes  needlessly 
careless  and  inelegant.  He  died  in  1854. , 


436 


ROBERT    MONTGOMERY    BIRD. 


FIRST  APPROACH  TO   MEXICO  FROM 
THE  MOUNTAINS. 


FROM   CALAVAR. 


"  I  H.AVE  heard  that  the  cold  which  freezes  men 
to  death,  begins  by  setting  them  to  sleep.  Sleep 
brings  dreams ;  and  dreams  are  often  most  vivid 
and  fantastical,  before  we  have  yet  been  wholly 
lost  in  slumber.  Perhaps  'tis  this  most  biting  and 
benumbing  blast,  that  brings  me  such  phantoms. 
Art  thou  not  very  cold  ?" 

«  Not  very,  serior :  methinks  we  are  descending; 
and  now  the  winds  are-not  so  frigid  as  before." 

"  I  would  to  heaven,  for  the  sake  of  us  all,  that 
we  were  descended  yet  lower ;  for  night  approaches, 
and  still  we  are  stumbling  among  these  clouds,  that 
seem  to  separate  us  from  earth,  without  yet  advanc 
ing  us  nearer  to  heaven." 

While  the  cavalier  was  yet  speaking,  there  came 
from  the  van  of  the  army,  very  far  in  the  distance, 
a  shout  of  joy,  that  was  caught  up  by  those  who 
toiled  in  his  neighbourhood,  and  continued  by  the 
squadrons  that  brought  up  the  rear,  until  finally 
lost  among  the  echoes  of  remote  cliffs.  He  pressed 
forward  with  the  animation  shared  by  his  com 
panions,  and,  still  leading  Jacinto,  arrived,  at  last, 
at  a  place  where  the  mountain  dipped  downwards 
with  so  sudden  and  so  precipitous  a  declivity,  as  to 
interpose  no  obstacle  to  the  vision.  The  mists 
were  rolling  away  from  his  feet  in  huge  wreaths, 
which  gradually,  as  they  became  thinner,  received 
and  transmitted  the  rays  of  an  evening  sun,  and 
were  lighted  up  with  a  golden  and  crimson  ra 
diance,  glorious  to  behold,  and  increasing  every 
moment  in  splendour.  As  this  superb  curtain  was 
parted  from  before  him,  as  if  by  cords  that  went  up 
to  heaven,  and  surged  voluminously  aside,  he  looked 
over  the  heads  of  those  that  thronged  the  side  of 
the  mountain  beneath,  and  saw,  stretching  away 
like  a  picture  touched  by  the  hands  of  angels,  the 
fair  valley  imbosomed  among  those  romantic  hills, 
whose  shadows  were  stealing  visibly  over  its  west 
ern  slopes,  but  leaving  all  the  eastern  portion 
dyed  with  the  tints  of  sunset.  The  green  plains 
studded  with  yet  greener  woodlands;  the  little 
mountains  raising  their  fairy-like  crests :  the  love 
ly  lakes,  now  gleaming  like  floods  of  molten  sil 
ver,  where  they  stretched  into  the  sunshine,  and 
now  vanishing  away,  in  a  shadowy  expanse,  un 
der  the  gloom  of  the  growing  twilight ;  the  struc 
tures  that  rose,  vaguely  and  obscurely,  here  from 
their  verdant  margins,  and  there  from  their  very 
bosom,  as  if  floating  on  their  placid  waters,  seem 
ing  at  one  time  to  present  the  image  of  a  city  crowned 
with  towers  and  pinnacles,  and  then  again  broken 
by  some  agitation  of  the  element,  or  confused  by 
some  vapour  swimming  through  the  atmosphere, 
into  the  mere  fragments  and  phantasms  of  edifices, 
— these,  seen  in  that  uncertain  and  fading  light, 
and  at  that  misty  and  enchanting  distance,  un 
folded  such  a  spectacle  of  beauty  and  peace  as 
plunged  the  neophyte  into  a  revery  of  rapture. 
The  trembling  of  the  page's  hand,  a  deep  sigh  that 
breathed  from  his  lips,  recalled  him  to  conscious 
ness,  without  however  dispelling  his  delight. 


"By  the  cross  which  I  worship!"  he  cried,  "it 
fills  me  with  amazement,  to  think  that  this  cursed 
and  malefactious  earth  doth  contain  a  spot  that  is 
so  much  like  a  paradise  !  Now  do  I  remember  me 
of  the  words  of  the  Serior  Gomez,  that  '  no  man 
could  conceive  of  heaven,  till  he  had  looked  upon 
the  valley  of  Mexico,' — -an  expression  which,  at 
that  time,  1  considered  very  absurd,  and  somewhat 
profane ;  yet,  if  I  am  not  now  mistaken,  I  shall 
henceforth,  doubtless,  when  figuring  to  my  imagi 
nation  the  seats  of  bliss,  begin  by  thinking  of  this 
very  prospect." 


A  NIGHT  VIEW  IN  MEXICO. 

FROM   THE   SAME. 


,  serior,  from  these  pigmy  vases  to  the 
great  censers,  which  God  has  himself  raised  to  his 
majesty!" 

As  De  Morla  spoke,  he  turned  from  the  altars, 
and  Don  Amador,  following  with  his  eyes  the  di 
rection  in  which  he  pointed,  beheld  a  spectacle 
which  instantly  drove  from  his  mind  the  thought 
of  the  idolatrous  urns.  Far  away  in  the  south 
west,  at  the  distance  of  eight  or  ten  leagues,  among 
a  mass  of  hills  that  upheld  their  brows  in  gloomy 
obscurity,  a  colossal  cone  elevated  its  majestic  bulk 
to  heaven,  while  the  snows  which  invested  its  re 
splendent  sides  glittered  in  the  fires  that  crowned 
its  summit.  A  pillar  of  smoke,  of  awful  hue  and 
volume,  rose  to  an  enormous  altitude  above  its  head, 
and  then  parting  and  spreading  on  either  side 
through  the  serene  heaven,  lay  still  and  solemn, 
like  a  funeral  canopy,  over  its  radiant  pedestal. 
From  the  crater,  out  of  which  issued  this  portent 
ous  column,  arose  also,  time  by  time,  great  flames 
with  a  sort  of  lambent  playfulness,  in  strange  and 
obvious  contrast  with  their  measureless  mass  and 
power  ;  while  ever  and  anon  globes  of  fire,  rushing 
up  through  the  pillar  of  vapour,  as  through  a  trans 
parent  cylinder,  burst  at  the  top,  and  spangled  the 
grim  canopy  with  stars.  No  shock  creeping  through 
the  earth,  no  heavy  roar  stealing  along  the  atmo 
sphere,  attested  the  vigour  of  this  sublime  furnace  ; 
but  all  in  silence  and  solemn  tranquillity,  the  spec 
tacle  went  on,  —  now  darkling,  now  waxing  tem 
porarily  into  an  oppressive  splendour,  as  if  for  the 
amusement  of  those  shadowy  phantoms  who  seemed 
to  sit  in  watch  upon  the  neighbouring  peaks. 

"  This  is  indeed,"  said  Don  Amador,  reverent 
ly,  "  if  God  should  require  an  altar  of  fire,  such  a 
high  place  as  might  be  meeter  for  his  worship  than 
any  shrine  raised  by  the  hands  of  man.  God  is 
very  great  and  powerful  !  The  sight  of  such  a  spec 
tacle  doth  humble  me  in  mine  own  thoughts:  for 
what  is  man,  though  full  of  vanity  and  arrogance, 
in  the  sight  of  Him  who  builds  the  fire-mountains  ]" 

"  Padre  Olmedo,"  said  his  companion,  "  will  ask 
you,  what  is  this  fire-mountain,  though  to  the  eye 
so  majestic,  and  to  appearance  so  eternal,  to  the 
creeping  thing  whose  spark  of  immortality  will 
burn  on,  when  the  flames  of  yonder  volcano  are 
quenched  for  ever  1" 

"  It  is  very  true,"  said  the  neophyte,  "  the  moun 


ROBERT    MONTGOMERY    BIRD. 


437 


tains  burn  away,  the  sea  wastes  itself  into  air,  but 
the  soul  that  God  has  given  us  consumes  not.  The 
life  of  the  body  passes  away  like  these  flames ;  the 
vitality  that  is  in  the  spirit  is  a  gift  that  heaven 
has  not  extended  to  the  stars  !" 


RALPH  STACKPOLE  AND  THE 
QUAKER. 

FROM  NICK    OF   THE   WOODS. 

ROARING  RALPH  was  a  stout,  bandy-legged, 
broad-shouldered,  and  bull-headed  tatterdemalion, 
ugly,  mean,  and  villanous  of  look;  yet  with  an  im 
pudent,  swaggering,  joyous  self-esteem  traced  in 
every  feature  and  expressed  in  every  action  of  body, 
that  rather  disposed  the  beholder  to  laugh  than  to 
be  displeased  at  his  appearance.  An  old  blanket- 
coat,  or  wrap-rascal,  once  white,  but  now  of  the 
same  muddy  brown  hue  that  stained  his  visage,  and 
once  also  of  sufficient  length  to  defend  his  legs, 
though  the  skirts  had  long  since  been  transferred 
to  the  cuffs  and  elbows,  where  they  appeared  in 
huge  patches,  covered  the  upper  part  of  his  body  ; 
while  the  lower  boasted  a  pair  of  buckskin  breeches 
and  leather  wrappers,  somewhat  its  junior  in  age, 
but  its  rival  in  mud  and  maculation.  An  old  round 
fur  hat,  intended  originally  for  a  boy,  arid  only 
made  tolfit  his  head  by  being  slit  in  sundry  places 
at  the  bottom,  thus  leaving  a  dozen  yawning  gaps, 
through  which,  as  through  the  chinks  of  a  lattice, 
i-tole  out  as  many  stiff  bunches  of  black  hair,  gave 
to  the  capital  excrescence  an  air  as  ridiculous  as  it 
was  truly  uncouth,  which  was  not  a  little  increased 
by  the  absence  of  one  side  of  the  brim,  and  by  a 
loose  fragment  of  it  hanging  down  on  the  other. 
To  give  something  martial  to  an  appearance  in 
other  respects  so  outlandish  and  ludicrous,  he  had 
his  rifle,  and  other  usual  equipments  of  a  woods 
man,  including  the  knife  and  tomahawk,  the  first 
of  which  he  carried  in  his  hand,  swinging  it  about 
at  every  moment,  with  a  vigour  and  apparent  care 
lessness  well  fit  to  discompose  a  nervous  person, 
had  any  such  happened  among  his  auditors.  As 
if  there  was  not  enough  in  his  figure,  visage,  and 
attire  to  move  the  mirth  of  beholders,  he  added  to 
his  other  attractions  a  variety  of  gestures  and  antics 
of  the  most  extravagant  kinds,  dancing,  leaping  and 
dodging  about,  clapping  his  hands  and  cracking  his 
heels  together,  with  the  activity,  restlessness,  and, 
we  may  add,  the  grace  of  a  jumping-jack 

Had  the  gallant  captain  of  horse-thieves  boasted 
the  blood,  as  he  afterwards  did  the  name,  of  an 
"  alligator  half-breed,"  he  could  have  scarce  con 
ducted  himself  in  a  way  more  worthy  of  his  pa 
rentage.  He  leaped  into  the  centre  of  the  throng, 
where,  having  found  elbow-room  for  his  purpose, 
he  performed  the  gyration  mentioned  before,  fol 
lowing  it  up  by  other  feats  expressive  of  his  hostile 
humour.  He  flapped  his  wings  and  crowed,  until 
every  chanticleer  in  the  settlement  replied  to  the 
note  of  battle  ;  he  snorted  and  neighed  like  a  horse; 
he  bellowed  like  a  bull ;  he  barked  like  a  dog ;  he 
yelled  like  an  Indian ;  he  whined  like  a  panther  ; 


he  howled  like  a  wolf,  until  one  would  have  thought 
he  was  a  living  menagerie,  comprising  within  his 
single  body  the  spirit  of  every  animal  noted  for  its 
love  of  conflict.  Then,  not  content  with  such  a 
display  of  readiness  to  fight  the  field,  he  darted 
from  the  centre  of  the  area  allowed  him  for  his  ex 
ercise,  and  invited  the  lookers-on  individually  to 
battle.  "  Whar's  your  buffalo-bull,"  he  cried,  "  to 
cross  horns  with  the  roarer  of  Salt  River  1  Whar's 
your  full-blood  colt  that  can  shake  a  saddle  off] 
h'yar's  an  old  nag  can  kick  oft'  the  top  of  a  buck 
eye  !  Whar's  your  cat  of  the  Knobs  ?  your  wolf 
of  the  Rolling  Prairies  1  h'yar's  the  old  brown  b'ar 
can  claw  the  bark  off  a  gum-tree  !  H'yar's  a  man 
for  you,  Tom  Bruce !  Same  to  you,  Sim  Roberts! 
to  you,  and  to  you,  and  to  you !  Ar'n't  I  a  ring- 
tailed  squealer !  Can  go  down  Salt  on  my  back, 
and  swim  up  the  Ohio  !  Whar's  the  man  to  fight 
Roaring  Ralph  Stackpole  ?" 

Now,  whether  it  happened  that  there  were  none 
present  inclined  to  a  contest  with  such  a  champion, 
or  whether  it  was  that  the  young  men  looked  upon 
the  exhibition  as  a  mere  bravado  meant  rather  to 
amuse  them  than  to  irritate,  it  so  occurred  that  not 
one  of  them  accepted  the  challenge  ;  though  each, 
when  personally  called  on,  did  his  best  to  add  to 
the  roarer's  fury,  if  fury  it  really  were,  by  letting 
off  sundry  jests  in  relation  to  borrowed  horses  and 
regulators.* 

"  If  you're  ralely  ripe  for  a  fight,  Roaring  Ralph," 
cried  Tom  Bruce  the  younger,  who  had  shown, 
like  the  others,  a  greater  disposition  to  jest  than  to 
do  battle  with  the  champion,  "  here  comes  the  very 
man  for  you.  Look,  boys,  thar  comes  Bloody  Na 
than  !"  At  which  formidable  name  there  was  a 
loud  shout  set  up,  with  an  infinite  deal  of  laughing 
and  clapping  of  hands. 

"Whar's  the  feller  T'  cried  Captain  Stackpole, 
springing  six  feet  into  the  air,  and  uttering  a  whoop 
of  anticipated  triumph.  "  I've  heerd  of  the  brute, 
and,  'tarnal  death  to  me,  but  I'm  his  super-supe 
rior  !  Show  me  the  crittur,  and  let  me  fly  !  Cock- 
a-doodle-do  !" 

"  Hurrah  for  Roaring  Ralph  Stackpole  !"  cried 
the  young  men,  some  of  whom  proceeded  to  pat 
him  on  the  back  in  compliment  to  his  courage, 
while  others  ran  forward  to  hasten  the  approach  of 
the  expected  antagonist. 

The  appearance  of  the  comer,  at  a  distance, 
promised  an  equal  match  to  the  captain  of  horse- 
thieves  ; but  when  one  came  to  survey  him 

a  little  more  closely,  he  could  not  avoid  suspecting 
that  the  soubriquet,  instead  of  being  given  to  indi 
cate  warlike  and  dangerous  traits  of  character,  had 
been  bestowed  out  of  pure  wantonness  and  derision. 
His  visage,  seeming  to  belong  to  a  man  of  at  least 
forty-five  or  fifty  years  of  age,  was  hollow,  and  al 
most  as  weather-worn  as  his  apparel,  with  a  long 
hooked  nose,  prominent  chin,  a  wide  mouth  ex 
ceedingly  straight  and  pinched,  with  a  melancholy 

*  It  is  scarce  necessary  to  inform  the  reader,  that  by 
this  term  must  be  understood  those  public-spirited  cin- 
/ens,  amateur  jack-ketches,  who  administer  lynch-law 
in  districts  where  regular  law  is  but  inefficiently,  or  not 
at  all,  established. 


438 


ROBERT    MONTGOMERY    BIRD. 


or  contemplative  twist  at  the  corners,  and  a  pair 
of  black  staring  eyes  that  beamed  a  good-natured, 
humble,  and  perhaps  submissive,  simplicity  of  dis 
position.  His  gait,  too,  as  he  stumbled  along  up 
the  hill,  with  a  shuffling,  awkward,  hesitating  step, 
was  more  lik/  that  of  a  man  who  apprehended  in 
jury  and  insult,  than  of  one  who  possessed  the  spi 
rit  to  resist  them.  •  The  fact,  moreover,  of  sustain 
ing  on  his  own  shoulders  a  heavy  pack  of  deer  and 
other  skins,  to  relieve  the  miserable  horse  which 
he  led,  betokened  a  merciful  temper,  scarce  com 
patible  with  the  qualities  of  a  man  of  war  and  con 
tention 

On  the  whole,  the  appearance  of  the  man  was 
any  thing  in  the  world  but  that  of  the  bulky  and 
ferocious  ruffian  whom  the  nickname  had  led  Ro 
land  to  anticipate  ;  and  he  scarce  knew  whether  to 
pity  him,  or  to  join  in  the  laugh  with  which  the 
young  men  of  the  settlement  greeted  his  approach. 
Perhaps  his  sense  of  the  ridiculous  would  have 
disposed  the  young  soldier  to  merriment;  but  the 
wistful  look  with  which,  while  advancing,  Nathan 
seemed  to  deprecate  the  insults  he  evidently  ex 
pected,  spoke  volumes  of  reproach  to  his  spirit,  and 
the  half-formed  smile  faded  from  his  countenance. 

"  Thar !"  exclaimed  Tom  Bruce,  slapping  Stack- 
pole  on  the  shoulder,  with  great  glee,  "  thar's  the 
man  that  calls  himself  Dannger !  At  him,  for  the 
honour  of  Salt  River;  but  take  care  of  his  fore-legs, 
for,  I  tell  you,  he's  the  Pennsylvania  war-horse." 

"  And  ar'n't  I  the  ramping  tiger  of  the  Rolling 
Forkl"  cried  Captain  Ralph;  "and  can't  I  eat 
him,  hoss,  dog,  dirty  jacket,  and  all]  Hold  me  by 
the  tail,  while  I  devour  him  !" 

With  that  he  executed  two  or  three  escapades, 
demivoltes,  curvets,  and  other  antics  of  a  truly 
equine  character,  and  galloping  up  to  the  amazed 
Nathan,  saluted  him  with  a  neigh  so  shrill  and 
hostile  that  even  White  Dobbin  pricked  up  his 
ears,  and  betrayed  other  symptoms  of  alarm. 

"  Surely,  colonel,  you  will  not  allow  that  mad 
ruffian  to  assail  the  poor  man  ]" 

"  Oh,  Ralph  won't  hurt  him ;  he's  never  am 
bitious,  except  among  Injuns  and  horses.  He's 
only  for  skearing  the  old  feller." 

"  And  who  may  the  old  fellow  be]  and  why  do 
you  call  him  Bloody  Nathan]" 

"  We  call  him  Bloody  Nathan,"  replied  the 
commander,  "because  he's  the  only  man  in  all 
Kentucky,  that  won't  fight !  and  thar's  the  way  he 
beats  us  all  hollow.  Lord,  captain,  you'd  hardly 
believe  it,  but  he's  nothing  more  than  a  poor  Penn 
sylvania  Quaker;  and  what  brought  him  out  to 
Kentucky,  whar  thar's  nar  another  creatur'  of  his 
tribe,  thar's  no  knowing.  Some  say  he  war  dis 
honest,  and  so  had  to  cut  loose  from  Pennsylvania  ; 
but  I  never  heerd  of  him  stealing  any  thing  in  Ken 
tucky  :  I  reckon  thar's  too  much  of  the  chicken 
about  him  for  that.  Some  say  he  is  hunting  rich 
lands;  which  war  like  enough  for  any  body  that 
war  .not  so  poor  and  lazy.  And  some  say  his  wits 
are  unsettled,  :uid  I  hold  that  that's  the  truth  of 
the  creatur';  fur  he  does  nothing  but  go  wandering 
up  and  down  the  country,  now  h'yar  and  now  thar, 
hunting  for  meat  and  skins ;  and  that's  pretty  much 


the  way  he  makes  a  living.  Thar's  them  that's 
good-natur'd,  that  calls  him  Wandering  Nathan, 
because  of  his  being  h'yar,  and  thar,  and  every- 
whar.  He  don't  seem  much  afear'd  of  the  Injuns ; 
but,  they  say,  the  red  brutes  never  disturbs  the 
Pennsylvania  Quakers.  Howsomever,  he  makes 
himself  useful ;  for  sometimes  he  finds  Injun  sign 
whar  thar's  no  Injuns  thought  of,  and  so  he  gives 
information  ;  but  he  always  does  it,  as  he  says,  to 
save  bloodshed,  not  to  bring  on  a  fight.  He  comes 
to  me  once,  thar's  more  than  three  years  ago,  and 
instead  of  saying,  <  Cunnel,  thar's  twenty  Injuns 
lying  on  the  road  at  the  lower  fort  of  Salt,  whar 
you  may  nab  them  ;'  says  he,  says  he,  '  Friend 
Thomas,  thee  must  keep  the  people  from  going 
nigh  the  ford,  for  thar's  Injuns  thar  that  will  hurt 
them;'  and  then  he  takes  himself  off;  whilst  I 
rides  down  thar  with  twenty-five  men  and  exter 
minates  them,  killing  six,  and  driving  the  others  the 
Lord  knows  whar.  He  has  had  but  a  hard  time 
of  it  among  us,  poor  creatur';  for  it  used  to  make 
us  wrathy  to  find  thar  war  so  little  fight  in  him, 
that  he  wouldn't  so  much  as  kill  a  murdering  In 
jun.  I  took  his  gun  from  him  once  ;  for  why,  he 
wouldn't  attend  muster  when  I  had  enrolled  him. 
But  I  pitied  the  brute ;  for  he  war  poor,  and  thar 
war  but  little  corn  in  his  cabin,  and  nothing  to 
shoot  meat  with  ;  and  so  I  gave  it  back,  and  told 
him  to  take  his  own  ways  for  an  old  fool." 

While  Colonel  Bruce  was  thus  delineating  the 
character  of  Nathan  Slaughter,  the  latter  found 
himself  surrounded  by  the  young  men  of  the  sta 
tion,  the  but  of  a  thousand  jests,  and  the  victim  of 
the  insolence  of  the  captain  of  horse-thieves.  It  is 
not  to  be  supposed  that  Roaring  Ralph  was  really 
the  bully  and  madman  that  his  extravagant  freaks 
and  expressions  seemed  to  proclaim  him.  These, 
like  any  other  «  actions  that  a  man  might  play," 
were  assumed,  partly  because  it  suited  his  humour 
to  be  fantastic,  and  partly  because  the  putting  of 
his  antic  disposition  on,  was  the  only  means  which 
he,  like  many  of  his  betters,  possessed  of  attracting 
attention,  and  avoiding  the  neglect  and  contempt 
to  which  his  low  habits  and  appearance  would  have 
otherwise  justly  consigned  him.  There  was,  there 
fore,  little  really  hostile  in  the  feelings  with  which 
he  approached  the  non-combatant ;  though  it  was 
more  than  probable,  the  disgust  he,  in  common  with 
the  other  warlike  personages,  entertained  toward 
the  peaceable  Nathan,  might  have  rendered  him  a 
little  more  malicious  than  Usual. 

"  Bloody  Nathan !"  said  he,  as  soon  as  he  had 
concluded  his  neighing  and  curvetting,  "  if  you 
ever  said  your  prayers,  now's  the  time.  Down 
with  your  pack, — for  I  can't  stand  deer's  ha'r  stick 
ing  in  my  swallow,  no  how  !" 

«  Friend,"  said  Bloody  Nathan,  meekly,  "I  beg 
thee  will  not  disturb  me.  I  am  a  man  of  peace 
and  quiet." 

And  so  saying  he  endeavoured  to  pass  onwards, 
but  was  prevented  by  Ralph,  who,  seizing  his  heavy 
bundle  with  one  hand,  applied  his  right  foot  to  it 
with  a  dexterity  that  not  only  removed  it  from  the 
poor  man's  back,  but  sent  the  dried  skins  scattering 
over  the  road.  This  feat  was  rewarded  by  the 


ROBERT  -MO  NTGOMERY    BIRD. 


439 


spectators  with  loud  shouts,  all  which,  as  well  as 
the  insult  itself,  Nathan  bore  with  exemplary  pa 
tience. 

"  Friend,"  he  said,  "  what  does  thee  seek  of  me, 
that  thee  treats  me  thus1?" 

"  A  fight !"  replied  Captain  Stackpole,  uttering 
a  war-whoop ;  "  a  fight,  strannger,  for  the  love  of 
heaven !" 

"  Thee  seeks  it  of  the  wrong  person,"  said  Na 
than  ;  «  and  I  beg  thee  will  get  thee  away." 

«  What !"  said  Stackpole,  "  ar'nt  thee  the  Penn 
sylvania  war-horse,  the  screamer  of  the  meeting 
house,  the  bloody-mouthed  b'ar  of  Yea-Nay-and- 
Verily  ?" 

"  I  am  a  man  of  peace,"  said  the  submissive 
Slaughter. 

"  Yea  verily,  verily  and  yea  !"  cried  Ralph,  snuf 
fling  through  the  nostrils,  but  assuming  an  air  of 
extreme  indignation  ;  "  Strannger,  I've  heerd  of 
you !  You're  the  man  that  holds  it  agin  duty  and 
conscience  to  kill  Injuns,  the  red-skin  screamers, — 
that  refuses  to  defend  the  women,  the  splendifer 
ous  creaturs !  and  the  little  children,  the  squal-a- 
baby  d'ars!  And  wharfo'  1  Bec'ause  as  how  you're 
a  man  of  peace  and  no  fight,  you  superiferous, 
long-legged,  no-souled  crittur !  But  I'm  the  gen 
tleman  to  make  a  man  of  you.  So  down  with 
your  gun,  and  'tarnal  death  to  me,  I'll  whip  the 
cowardly  devil  out  of  you."  , 

"  Friend,"  said  Nathan,  his  humility  yielding  to 
a  feeling  of  contempt,  "  thee  is  theeself  a  cowardly 
person,  or  thee  wouldn't  seek  a  quarrel  with  one, 
thee  knows,  can't  fight  thee.  Thee  would  not  be 
so  ready  with  thee  match." 

With  that,  he  stooped  to  gather  up  his  skins,  a 
proceeding  that  Stackpole,  against  whom  the  laugh 
was  turned  by  this  sally  of  Nathan's,  resisted,  by 
catching  him  by  the  nape  of  the  neck,  twirling  him 
round,  and  making  as  if  he  really  would  have 
beaten  him. 

Even  this  the  peaceful  Nathan  bore  without 
anger  or  murmuring  ;  but  his  patience  fled,  when 
Stackpole,  turning  to  the  little  dog,  which  by  brist 
ling  its  back  and  growling,  expressed  a  half  incli 
nation  to  take  up  its  master's  quarrel,  applied  his 
foot  to  its  ribs  with  a  violence  that  sent  it  rolling 
some  five  or  six  yards  down  the  hill,  where  it  lay 
for  a  time  yelping  and  whining  with  pain. 

«  Friend  !"  said  Nathan,  sternly,  «  thee  is  but  a 
dog  theeself,  to  harm  the  creature  !  What  will 
thee  have  with  me  1" 

«  A  fight !  a  fight,  I  tell  thee  !"  replied  Captain 
Ralph,  « till  I  teach  thy  leatherified  conscience  the 
new  doctrines  of  Kentucky." 

"  Fight  thee  I  cannot,  and  dare  not,"  said  Na 
than;  and  then  added,  "  but  if  thee  must  have  thee 
deserts,  thee  shall  have  them.  Thee  prides  thee 
self  upon  thee  courage  and  strength — will  thee  ad 
venture  with  me  a  friendly  fall  1" 

"  Hurrah  for  Bloody  Nathan!"  cried  the  young 
men,  vastly  delighted  at  this  unwonted  spirit,  while 
Captain  Ralph  himself  expressed  his  pleasure,  by 
leaping  into  the  air,  crowing,  and  dashing  off  his  hat, 
which  he  kicked  down  the  hill  with  as  much  good 
will  as  he  had  previously  bestowed  upon  the  little  dog. 


!  "  Off  with  your  leather  night-cap,  and  down  with 
your  rifle,"  he  cried,  giving  his  own  weapon  into 
the  hands  of  a  looker-on,  «  and  scrape  some  of  the 
grease  oft' your  jacket;  for,  'tarnal  death  to  me,  I 
shall  give  you  the  Virginny  lock,  fling  you  head- 
fo'most,  and  you'll  find  yourself,  in  a  twinkling, 
sticking  fast  right  in  the  centre  of  the  'arth  I" 

"  Thee  may  find  theeself  mistaken,"  said  Nathan, 
giving  up  his  gun  to  one  of  the  young  men,  but  in 
stead  of  rejecting  his  hat,  pulling  it  down  tight  over 
his  brows.  "  There  is  locks  taught  among  the  moun 
tains  of  Bedford  that  may  be  as  good  as  them  learned 
on  the  hills  of  Virginia. — I  am  ready  for  thee." 

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"  cried  Ralph  Stackpole, 
springing  towards  his  man,  and  clapping  his  hands, 
one  on  Nathan's  left  shoulder,  the  other  on  his 
right  hip  :  "  Are  you  ready  1" 

"  I  am,"  replied  Nathan. 

"  Down  then,  you  go,  war  you  a  buffalo !"  And 
with  that  the  captain  of  horse-thieves  put  forth  his 
strength,  which  was  very  great,  in  an  effort  that  ap 
peared  to  Roland  quite  irresistible ;  though,  as  it 
happened,  it  scarce  moved  Nathan  from  his  position. 

"  Thee  is  mistaken,  friend  !"  he  cried,  exerting 
his  strength  in  return,  and  with  an  effect  that  no 
one  had  anticipated.  By  magic,  as  it  seemed,  the 
heels  of  the  captain  of  horse-thieves  were  suddenly 
seen  flying  in  the  air,  his  head  aiming  at  the  earth, 
upon  which  it  as  suddenly  descended  with  the  vio 
lence  of  a  bomb-shell ;  and  there  it  would  doubtless 
have  burrowed,  like  the  aforesaid  implement  of  de 
struction,  had  the  soil  been  soft  enough  for  the  pur 
pose,  or  exploded  into  a  thousand  fragments,  had 
not  the  shell  been  double  the  thickness  of  an  ordi 
nary  skull. 

"  Huzza !  Bloody  Nathan  for  ever !"  shouted 
the  delighted  villagers. 

"  He  has  killed  the  man,"  said  Forrester ;  "  but 
bear  witness,  all,  the  fellow  provoked  his  fate." 

"  Thanks  to  you,  strannger !  but  not  so  dead  as 
you  reckon,"  said  Ralph,  rising  to  his  feet  and 
scratching  his  poll,  with  a  stare  of  comical  con 
fusion.  "  I  say,  strannger,  here's  my  shoulders — 
but  whar's  my  head  ] — Do  you  reckon  I  had  the 
worst  of  it  1" 

"  Huzza  for  Bloody  Nathan  Slaughter  !  He  has 
whipped  the  ramping  tiger  of  Salt  River ;"  cried 
the  young  men  of  the  station. 

"  Well,  I  reckon  he  has,"  said  the  magnanimous 
Captain  Ralph,  picking  up  his  hat :  then  walking 
up  to  Nathan,  who  had  taken  his  dog  into  his  arms, 
to  examine  into  the  little  animal's  hurts,  he  cried, 
with  much  good-humoured  energy, — "  Thar's  my 
fo'-paw,  in  token  I've  had  enough  of  you,  and  want 
no  mo'.  But  I  say,  Nathan  Slaughter,"  he  added, 
as  he  grasped  the  victor's  hand,  "  it's  no  thing  you 
can  boast  of,  to  be  the  strongest  man  in  Kentucky, 
and  the  most  sevagarous  at  a  tussel, — h'yar  among 
murdering  Injuns  and  scalping  runnegades,  and 
keep  your  fists  off  their  top-nots.  Thar's  my  idea : 
for  I  go  for  the  doctrine,  that  every  able-bodied  man 
should  sarve  his  country  and  his  neighbours,  and 
fight  their  foes ;  and  them  that  does  is  men  and 
gentlemen,  and  them  that  don't  is  cowards  and 
rascals,  that's  my  idea.  And  so,  fa w well." 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


[Born  1803.] 


THE  development  of  the  transcendental  phi 
losophy  in  New  England  is  deserving  of  more 
consideration  than  can  here  be  bestowed  upon 
it.  I  can  remember  the  period  when  the  gene 
ral  principles  of  Locke,  with  a  slight  infusion 
of  Reid  and  Dugald  Stuart,  constituted  the  or 
thodox  philosophical  creed  of  New  England. 
The  first  shock  given  to  that  system  was  Pro 
fessor  Marsh's  calm,  profound  arid  luminous 
exposition  of  the  doctrines  of  Coleridge,  in 
his  prefaces  to  the  American  editions  of  The 
Friend  and  the  Aids  to  Reflection.  This  was 
followed  by  Mr.  Brownson's  various  writings 
and  lectures,  developing,  in  a  popular  form,  the 
philosophy  of  Victor  Cousin  and  the  French 
school.  Almost  everybody  who  attended  a  lec 
ture  or  a  sermon  by  Mr.  Brownson,  was  at  once 
transformed  into  a  metaphysician,  and  could 
discourse  very  decisively  on  the  essential  dis 
tinction  between  reason  and  reasoning,  and 
could  look  with  compassion  on  all  who  held  to 
the  old  philosophy,  or  were  defective  in  insight. 
Cousin  was  very  grateful  to  his  American  dis 
ciple,  and  repeatedly  spoke  of  him  as  the  first 
metaphysician  in  the  United  States.  But  there 
have  been  changes  of  the  moon  since  then,  and 
it  is  needless  to  say  that  Mr.  Brownson  now 
shines  in  the  light  of  a  different  system. 

Contemporary  with  Mr.  Brownson,  though 
very  different  in  mind  and  character,  was  Mr. 
Emerson,  the  transcendentalist  par  eminence, 
and  the  most  original  of  the  school.  Neither 
Coleridge  nor  Cousin  was  sufficient  for  him, 
but  in  subtlety  and  daring  he  rather  approaches 
Fichte.  He  is  the  son  of  a  Unitarian  clergy 
man  of  Boston,  and  in  1821,  when  about  seven 
teen  years  of  age,  was  graduated  at  Harvard 
University.  Having  turned  his  attention  to 
theology,  he  was  ordained  minister  of  one  of 
the  congregations  of  his  native  city,  but  em 
bracing  soon  after  some  peculiar  views  in  re 
gard  to  the  forms  of  worship,  he  abandoned  his 
profession,  and  retiring  to  the  quiet  village  of 
Concord,  after  the  manner  of  an  Arabian  pro 
phet,  gave  himself  up  to  "  thinking,"  prepa 
ratory  to  his  appearance  as  a  revelator.  His 
oration  entitled  Man-Thinking,  delivered  be 
fore  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  in  the  sum-  j 

440 


mer  of  1837,  attracted  a  great  deal  of  attention, 
but  less  than  his  address  before  the  senior  class 
in  Divinity  College  at  Cambridge  in  the  fol 
lowing  year.  He  began  now  to  be  understood. 
His  peculiarity  was  not  so  much  his  system 
as  his  point  of  view.  He  did  not  pretend  to 
reason,  but  to  discover;  he  was  not  a  logician, 
but  a  seer;  he  announced,  not  argued.  His 
prominent  doctrine  is,  that  the  deity  is  imper 
sonal, — mere  being,  and  comes  to  self-con 
sciousness  only  in  individuals.  The  distinc 
tion  of  this  from  pantheism  is  this,  that  while 
pantheism  "  sinks  man  and  nature  in  God," 
Mr.  Emerson  "  sinks  God  and  nature  in  man." 

In  1838  Mr.  Emerson  published  Literary 
Ethics,  an  oration,  and  in  the  following  year 
a  small  volume  entitled  Nature.  In  1840  he 
commenced  The  Dial,  a  magazine  of  litera 
ture,  philosophy  and  religion,  which  was  con 
tinued  four  years ;  in  1841  he  published  The 
Method  of  Nature,  an  oration ;  Man  the  Re 
former,  a  lecture  on  some  of  the  prominent 
features  of  the  present  age ;  three  Lectures  on 
the  Times,  and  the  first  series  of  his  Essays. 
In  the  next  two  or  three  years  he  published 
little  except  his  papers  in  The  Dial,  but  in 
1844  he  gave  to  the  public  lectures  on  New 
England  Reformers,  the  Young  American, 
and  Negro  Emancipation  in  the  West  Indies, 
and  the  second  series  of  his  Essays.  He  has 
since  delivered  lectures  on  Swedenborg,  Napo 
leon,  New  England,  and  other  subjects,  which 
are  regarded  by  some  who  have  heard  them  as 
decidedly  the  finest  of  his  works;  and  in  De 
cember,  1846,  he  published  a  volume  of  Poems, 
which  have  peculiar  and  remarkable  merits. 

Mr.  Emerson  is  "  a  seeker  with  no  Past  at 
his  back."  He  evidently  aims  to  break  the 
moulds  of  popular  beliefs,  and  to  get  at  the 
heart  of  the  matter,  to  look  around  and  within 
with  the  fresh  vision  of  "  a  first  man,"  and 
like  Adam  in  the  garden  to  put  his  own  names 
upon  what  he  sees.  He  has  none  of  the  ill 
humour  which  denies  because  others  affirm ; 
he  simply  takes  leave  to  look  for  himself. 
While  therefore  he  continually  sees  and  repre 
sents  things  in  singular  lights,  and  sometimes 
inverts  them,  so  that  it  would  seem  to  be  an 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON. 


441 


inevitable  conclusion  that  either  he  is  crazy 
or  we,  on  the  other  hand  he  regenerates  our 
faith,  by  giving  us  an  original  testimony  to 
great  truths.  Thus,  his  essay  on  The  Over- 
Soul,  notwithstanding  its  unscriptural  title,  is 
as  orthodox  as  St.  Paul. 

Whatever  appearances  there  may  be  to  the 
contrary,  Mr.  Emerson  is  no  destructive.     He 
is  a  builder,  a  born  and  anointed  poet.     His 
demand  is  Truth.   He  must  stand  face  to  face 
with  the  Absolute.     Insatiable  as  is  his  crav 
ing  for  truth,  he  is  always  orderly  and  serene. 
He  gives  no  sign  that  any  deterring  considera 
tions  have  ever  occurred  to  him.  Whatever  sug 
gestions  of  fear  or  policy  there  may  be,  they  are 
less  than  cobwebs  to  him.     They  cannot  im 
pede,  they  do  not  even  tease  him.  He  is  as  self- 
possessed  and  assured  as  if  he  carried  in  his 
pocket  a  commission,  signed  and  sealed  of  all 
mankind,  to  say  just  the  thing  that  he  is  saying. 
Mr.  Emerson  is  never  commonplace.  Hence 
we  infer  that  he  is  a  genuine  worker.     He  can 
not,  like  a  host  of  others,  write  in  his  sleep. 
Every  thing  is  wrought  out  by  his  own  thought. 
I  have  sometimes  fancied  that  he  must,  in  his 
listless  moments,  repine  at  the  stubbornness^ 
of  his  genius,  which  can  bear  to  be  mute,  but 
which  cannot  declaim,  nor  tolerate  in  him  any 
attempt  at  "  fine  writing."     There  is  a  very 
common  talent,  passing  for  a  great  deal  more 
than  it  is  worth, — the  sole  talent  of  many  quite 
distinguished  writers, — which  lies  in  the  put 
ting  of  words  together  so  fitly  and  musically 
that  they  seem  to  sing  a  new  truth,  when  it 
is  *'  an  old  song,"  with  no  variations.     Mr. 
Emerson  is  utterly  deficient  in  this  power. 
He  cannot  juggle  with  words.     He  has  no 
bank-notes:  nothing  but  bullion.     If  he  states 
an  old  and  world-known  truth,  he  does  it  with 
that  felicity  of  expression  which  gives  us  a 
fresh  sense  of  its  value,  and  we  confess  that 
the  same  thing  was  never  before  so  well  said. 
He  fits  his  word  to  his  thought,  consulting  no 
ear  but  his  own. 

In  reading  Mr.  Emerson's  works  we  must 
observe  Coleridge's  admirable  rule :  "When 
you  cannot  understand  an  author's  ignorance, 
account  yourself  ignorant  of  his  understand 
ing."  At  the  slightest  glance  we  shall  find 
here  and  there  in  them  much  to  inspire  respect 
for  his  sagacity  and  admiration  for  his  genius. 
When  therefore  he  seems  to  be  unintelligible, 
or  absurd,  modesty  dictates  that  we  should  at 

least  entertain  the  question  whether  the  defect 
53 


be  in  him  or  us.  If  we  cannot  explain  his  igno 
rance,  we  shall  do  wisely  to  distrust  our  own 
understanding.  It  is  possible,  nay,  it  is  in  a  very 
high  degree  probable,  not  only  that  he  really 
has  a  meaning,  but  that  he  has  a  very  good  and 
a  very  great  meaning,  and  that  he  has  expressed 
it  in  the  very  best  form,  so  that,  were  we  as 
keen-sighted  as  he,  we  should  recognise  the 
beauty  both  of  the  thought  and  the  expression. 
An  ingenious  friend  and  admirer  of  Mr. 
Emerson,  a  few  years  since,  put  forth  some 
very  amusing  pencil  sketches  illustrative  of 
his  hard  sayings.  They  were  caricatures,  it 
is  true ;  but  they  implied  a  great  compliment. 
How  many  of  our  writers  of  established  fame 
use  language  sufficiently  picturesque  to  admit 
of  such  illustrations'? 

— In  connection  with  the  opposition  to  the 
old  school  of  metaphysics  may  be  mentioned 
Doctor  Walker,  the  Professor  of  Philosophy  in 
Harvard  University;  the  Reverend  Theodore 
Parker,  and  the  Reverend  William  B.  Greene. 
Doctor  Walker  delivered  in  Boston  a  few  years 
ago  three  series  of  lectures  on  Natural  Religion, 
in  which  he  steered  between  the  extremes  of 
both  parties,  confined  himself  to  no  particular 
system,  but  in  his  general  principles  coincided 
very  nearly  with  Cousin,  as  modified  by  Jouf- 
froy.  Mr.  Parker  may  also  be  classed  with  the 
school  of  Cousin,  but  his  metaphysics  are  con 
fusedly  blended  with  radical  notions  regarding 
government,  and  heretical  notions  regarding 
religion, — a  kind  of  aggregation  in  one  mind  of 
what  is  most  offensive  in  the  different  French 
and  German  schools.  Mr.  Greene  is  a  pow 
erful  and  original  thinker,  with  no  other  point 
of  agreement  with  the  transcendentalists  than 
the  negative  one  of  rejection  of  Locke. 

Opposed  to  all  these  is  Mr.  Bowen,  the  well- 
known  editor  of  the  North  American  Review, 
who  hates  transcendentalism  in  all  its  forms, 
deeming  it,  as  developed  in  New  England,  a 
monstrosity,  made  up  of  cant,  sentimental  ism, 
and  unreason.  A  receiver  of  the  general  prin 
ciples  of  Locke,  as  modified  by  the  progress  of 
philosophical  discovery,  he  enforces  them  with 
great  energy  and  determination.  Though  I  dis 
sent  from  many  of  his  opinions,  and  question 
the  validity  of  his  positions,  I  still  think  that 
his  disquisitions  evince  a  strength,  breadth, 
and  acuteness  of  understanding,  a  knowledge 
of  his  subjects,  and  a  directness  of  style  which 
place  them  very  high  among  American  contn 
butions  to  the  science  of  metaphysics. 


442 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON. 


BEAUTY. 

FROM  NATURE. 


THE  presence  of  a  higher,  namely,  of  the  spiri 
tual  element  is  essential  to  its  perfection.  The  high 
and  divine  beauty  which  can  be  loved  without  effe 
minacy,  is  that  which  is  found  in  combination  with 
the  human  will,  and  never  separate.  Beauty  is  the 
mark  God  sets  upon  virtue.  Every  natural  action 
is  graceful.  Every  heroic  act  is  also  decent,  and 
causes  the  place  and  the  bystanders  to  shine.  We 
are  taught  by  great  actions  that  the  universe  is  the 
property  of  every  individual  in  it.  Every  rational 
creature  has  all  nature  for  his  dowry  and  estate.  It 
is  his,  if  he  will.  He  may  divest  himself  of  it ;  he 
may  creep  into  a  corner,  and  abdicate  his  kingdom, 
as  most  men  do ;  but  he  is  entitled  to  the  world  by 
his  constitution.  In  proportion  to  the  energy  of 
his  thought  and  will,  he  takes  up  the  world  into 
himself.  "  All  those  things  for  which  men  plough, 
build,  or  sail,  obey  virtue ;"  said  an  ancient  histo 
rian.  "  The  winds  and  waves,"  said  Gibbon,  "  are 
always  on  the  side  of  the  ablest  navigators."  So 
are  the  sun  and  moon  and  all  the  stars  of  heaven. 
When  a  noble  act  is  done, — perchance  in  a  scene 
of  great  natural  beauty ;  when  Leonidas  and  his 
three  hundred  martyrs  consume  one  day  in  dying, 
and  the  sun  and  moon  come  each  and  look  at  them 
once  in  the  steep  defile  of  Thermopylae ;  when  Ar 
nold  Winkelried,  in  the  high  Alps,  under  the  sha 
dow  of  the  avalanche,  gathers  in  his  side  a  sheaf 
of  Austrian  spears  to  break  the  line  for  his  com 
rades;  are  not  these  heroes  entitled  to  add  the 
beauty  of  the  scene  to  the  beauty  of  the  deed  ] 
When  the  bark  of  Columbus  nears  the  shore  of 
America ; — before  it,  the  beach  lined  with  savages, 
fleeing  out  of  all  their  huts  of  cane ;  the  sea  be 
hind;  and  the  purple  mountains  of  the  Indian 
Archipelago  around,  can  we  separate  the  man  from 
the  living  picture?  Does  not  the  New  World 
clothe  his  form  with  her  palm-groves  and  savan 
nahs  as  fit  drapery?  Ever  does  natural  beauty 
steal  in  like  air,  and  envelope  great  actions.  When 
Sir  Harry  Vane  was  dragged  up  the  Tower-hill, 
sitting  on  a  sled,  to  suffer  death,  as  the  champion 
of  the  English  laws,  one  of  the  multitude  cried  out 
to  him,  "  You  never  sate  on  so  glorious  a  seat." 
Charles  II.,  to  intimidate  the  citizens  of  London, 
caused  the  patriot  Lord  Russel  to  be  drawn  in  an 
open  coach,  through  the  principal  streets  of  the 
city,  on  his  way  to  the  scaffold.  "But,"  to  use 
the  simple  narrative  of  his  biographer,  "  the  multi 
tude  imagined  they  saw  liberty  and  virtue  sitting 
by  his  side."  In  private  places,  among  sordid  ob 
jects,  an  act  of  truth  or  heroism  seems  at  once  to 
draw  to  itself  the  sky  as  its  temple,  the  sun  as  its 
candle.  Naiure  stretcheth  out  her  arms  to  embrace 
man,  only  let  his  thoughts  be  of  equal  greatness. 
Willingly  does  she  follow  his  steps  with  the  rose 
and  the  violet,  and  bend  her  lines  of  grandeur  and 
grace  to  the  decoration  of  her  darling  child.  Only 
let  his  thoughts  be  of  equal  scope,  and  the  frame 
will  suit  the  picture.  A  virtuous  man  is  in  unison 
with  her  works,  and  mates  the  central  figure  of  the 
visible  sphere. 


POETRY  AND  NATURE. 

FROM  LITERARY   ETHICS. 

BY  Latin  and  English  poetry,  we  were  born  and 
bred  in  an  oratorio  of  praises  of  nature, — flowers, 
birds,  mountains,  sun,  and  moon ;  yet  the  natural 
ist  of  this  hour  finds  that  he  knows  nothing,  by 
all  their  poems,  of  any  of  these  fine  things ;  that  he 
has  conversed  with  the  merest  surface  and  show  of 
them  all :  and  of  their  essence,  or  of  their  history, 
knows  nothing.  Further  inquiry  will  discover  that 
nobody, — that  not  these  chanting  poets  themselves, 
knew  any  thing  sincere  of  these  handsome  natures 
they  so  commended ;  that  they  contented  them 
selves  with  the  passing  chirp  of  a  bird  that  they 
saw  one  or  two  mornings,  and  listlessly  looked  at 
sunsets,  and  repeated  idly  these  few  glimpses  in 
their  song.  But,  go  into  the  forest,  you  shall  find 
all  new  and  undescribed.  The  screaming  of  the 
wild  geese,  flying  by  night ;  the  thin  note  of  the 
companionable  titmouse,  in  the  winter  day ;  the  fall 
of  swarms  of  flies  in  autumn,  from  combats  high  in 
the  air,  pattering  down  on  the  leaves  like  rain ;  the 
angry  hiss  of  the  wood-birds ;  the.  pine  throwing 
out  its  pollen  for  the  benefit  of  the  next  century ; 
the  turpentine  exuding  from  the  tree — and,  indeed, 
any  vegetation — >any  animation,  any  and  all  are 
alike  unattempted.  The  man  who  stands  on  the 
sea-shore,  or  who  rambles  in  the  woods,  seems  to 
be  the  first  man  that  ever  stood  on  the  shore,  or 
entered  a  grove,  his  sensations  and  his  world  are 
so  novel  and  strange.  Whilst  I  read  the  poets,  I 
think  that  nothing  new  can  be  said  about  morning 
and  evening;  but  when  I  see  the  daybreak,  I  am 
not  reminded  of  these  Homeric,  or  Shakspearian, 
or  Miltonic,  or  Chaucerian  pictures.  No;  but  I 
feel,  perhaps,  the  pain  of  an  alien  world, — a  world 
not  yet  subdued  by  the  thought ;  or,  I  am  cheered 
by  the  moist,  warm,  glittering,  budding,  melodious 
hour,  that  takes  down  the  narrow  walls  of  my  soul, 
and  extends  its  life  and  pulsation  to  the  very  hori 
zon.  That  is  morning,  to  cease  for  a  bright  hour 
to  be  a  prisoner  of  this  sickly  body,  and  to  become 
as  large  as  nature. 

The  noonday  darkness  of  the  American  forest, 
the  deep,  echoing,  aboriginal  woods,  where  the  liv 
ing  columns  of  the  oak  and  fir  tower  up  from  the 
ruins  of  the  trees  of  the  last  millennium ;  where, 
from  year  to  year,  the  eagle  and  the  crow  see  no 
intruder  ;  the  pines,  bearded  with  savage  moss,  yet 
touched  with  grace  by  the  violets  at  their  feet ;  the 
broad,  cold  lowland,  which  forms  its  coat  of  vapour 
with  the  stillness  of  subterranean  crystallization ; 
and  where  the  traveller,  amid  the  repulsive  plants 
that  are  native  in  the  swamp,  thinks  with  pleasing 
terror  of  the  distant  town ;  this  beauty, — haggard 
and  desert  beauty,  which  the  sun  and  the  moon, 
the  snow  and  the  rain  repaint  and  vary,  has  never 
been  recorded  by  art,  yet  is  not  indifferent  to  any 
passenger.  All  men  are  poets  at  heart.  They 
serve  nature  for  bread,  but  her  loveliness  overcomes 
them  sometimes.  What  mean  these  journeys  to 
Niagara ;  these  pilgrims  to  the  White  Hills  ]  Men 
believe  in  the  adaptations  of  utility,  always.  In 
the  mountains,  they  may  believe  in  the  adaptations 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON. 


443 


of  the  eye.  Undoubtedly,  the  changes  of  geology 
have  a  relation  to  the  prosperous  sprouting  of  the 
corn  and  peas  in  my  kitchen  garden ;  but  not  less 
is  there  a  relation  of  beauty  between  my  soul  and 
the  dim  crags  of  Agiocochook  up  there  in  the 
clouds.  Every  man,  when  this  is  told,  hearkens 
with  joy,  and  yet  his  own  conversation  with  nature 
is  still  unsung. 


THE  POWER  OF  LOVE. 

FROM   AN   ESSAY  ON    LOVE. 


BE  our  experience  in  particulars  what  it  may, 
no  man  ever  forgot  the  visitations  of  that  power  to 
his  heart  and  brain,  which  created  all  things  new ; 
which  was  the  dawn  in  him  of  music,  poetry  and 
art;  which  made  the  face  of  nature  radiant  with 
purple  light,  the  morning  and  the  night  varied  en 
chantments  ;  when  a  single  tone  of  one  voice  could 
make  the  heart  beat,  and  the  most  trivial  circum 
stance  associated  with  one  form,  is  put  in  the  am 
ber  of  memory :  when  we  became  all  eye  when 
one  was  present,  and  all  memory  when  one  was 
gone ;  when  the  youth  becomes  a  watcher  of  win 
dows,  and  studious  of  a  glove,  a  veil,  a  ribbon,  or 
the  wheels  of  a  carriage  ;  when  no  place  is  too  so 
litary,  and  none  too  silent  for  him  who  has  richer 
company  and  sweeter  conversation  in  his  new 
thoughts,  than  any  old  friends,  though  best  and 
purest,  can  give  him  ;  for,  the  figures,  the  motions, 
the  words  of  the  beloved  object  are  not  like  other 
images  written  in  water,  but,  as  Plutarch  said, 
"  enamelled  in  fire,"  and  make  the  study  of  mid 
night. 

'•  Thou  art  not  gone  being  gone,  where'er  thou  art, 
Thou  leav'st  in  him  thy  watchful  eyes,  in  him  thy  loving 

heart." 

In  the  noon  and  the  afternoon  of  life,  we  still  throb 
at  the  recollection  of  days  when  happiness  was  not 
happy  enough,  but  must  be  drugged  with  the  relish 
of  pain  and  fear ;  for  he  touched  the  secret  of  the 
matter,  who  said  of  love, 

"All  other  pleasures  are  not  worth  its  pains  :" 
and  when  the  day  was  not  long  enough,  but  the 
night  too  must  be  consumed  in  keen  recollections; 
when  the  head  boiled  all  night  on  the  pillow  with 
the  generous  deed  it  resolved  on  ;  when  the  moon 
light  was  a  pleasing  fever,  and  the  stars  were  letters, 
and  the  flowers  ciphers,  and  the  air  was  coined 
into  song;  when  all  business  seemed  an  imperti 
nence,  and  all  the  men  and  women  running  to  and 
fro  in  the  streets,  mere  pictures. 

The  passion  remakes  the  world  for  the  youth. 
It  makes  all  things  alive  and  significant.  Nature 
grows  conscious.  Every  bird  on  the  boughs  of 
the  tree  sings  now  to  his  heart  and  soul.  Almost 
the  notes  are  articulate.  The  clouds  have  faces, 
as  he  looks  on  them.  The  trees  of  the  forest, 
the  waving  grass  and  the  peeping  flowers  have 
grown  intelligent;  and  almost  he  fears  to  trust 
them  with  the  secret  which  they  seem  to  invite. 
Yet  nature  soothes  and  sympathizes.  In  the  green 
solitude  he  finds  a  dearer  home  than  with  men. 

"Fountain  heads  and  pathless  groves, 
Places  which  pale  passion  loves, 


Moonlight  walks,  when  all  the  fowls 
Are.  safely  housed,  save  bats  and  owls, 
A  midnight  bell,  a  passing  groan, 
These  are  the  sounds  we  feed  upon." 

Behold  there  in  the  wood  the  fine  madman !  He 
is  a  palace  of  sweet  sounds  and  sights;  he  dilates; 
he  is  twice  a  man ;  he  walks  with  arms  akimbo ; 
he  soliloquizes ;  he  accosts  the  grass  and  the  trees ; 
he  feels  the  blood  of  the  violet,  the  ciover  and  the 
lily  in  his  veins ;  and  he  talks  with  the  brook  that 
wets  his  foot. 

The  causes  that  have  sharpened  his  perceptions 
of  natural  beauty,  have  made  him  love  music  and 
verse.  It  is  a  fact  often  observed,  that  men  have 
written  good  verses  under  the  inspiration  of  passion, 
who  cannot  write  well  under  any  other  circum 
stances. 

The  like  force  has  the  passion  over  all  his  na 
ture.  It  expands  the  sentiment ;  it  makes  the 
clown  gentle,  and  gives  the  coward  heart.  Into 
the  most  pitiful  and  abject  it  will  infuse  a  heart  and 
courage  to  defy  the  world,  so  only  it  have  the 
countenance  of  the  beloved  object.  In  giving  him 
to  another,  it  still  more  gives  him  to  himself.  He 
is  a  new  man,  with  new  perceptions,  new  and 
keener  purposes,  and  a  religious  solemnity  of  cha 
racter  and  aims.  He  does  not  longer  appertain  to 
his  family  and  society.  He  is  somewhat.  He  is 
a  person.  He  is  a  soul. 


GENIUS. 

FROM  THE  METHOD  OF  NATURE. 

AND  what  is  Genius  but  finer  love,  a  love  imper 
sonal,  a  love  of  the  flower  and  perfection  of  things, 
and  a  desire  to  draw  a  new  picture  or  copy  of  the 
same  1  It  looks  to  the  cause  and  life  :  it  proceeds 
from  within  outward,  whilst  talent  goes  from  with 
out  inward.  Talent  finds  its  models  and  methods 
and  ends  in  society,  exists  for  exhibition,  and  goes 
to  the  soul  only  for  power  to  work.  Genius  is  its 
own  end,  and  draws  its  means  and  the  style  of  its 
architecture  from  within,  going  abroad  only  for 
audience  and  spectator,  as  we  adapt  our  voice  and 
phrase  to  the  distance  and  character  of  the  ear  we 
speak  to.  All  your  learning  of  all  literatures  would 
never  enable  you  to  anticipate  one  of  its  thoughts 
or  expressions,  and  yet  each  is  natural  and  fami 
liar  as  household  words.  Here  about  us  coils  for 
ever  the  ancient  enigma,  so  old  and  so  unutterable. 
Behold  !  there  is  the  sun,  and  the  rain,  and  the 
rocks:  the  old  sun,  the  old  stones.  How  easy 
were  it  to  describe  all  this  fitly  :  yet  no  word  can 
pass.  Nature  is  a  mute,  and  man,  her  articulate 
speaking  brother,  lo  !  he  also  is  a  mute.  Yet  when 
genius  arrives,  its  speech  is  like  a  river,  it  has  no 
straining  to  describe,  more  than  there  is  straining 
in  nature  to  exist.  When  thought  is  best,  there 
is  most  of  it.  Genius  sheds  wisdom  like  perfume, 
and  advertises  us  that  it  flows  out  of  a  deeper 
source  than  the  foregoing  silence,  that  it  knows  so 
deeply  and  speaks  so  musically  because  it  is  itself 
a  mutation  of  the  thing  it  describes.  It  is  sun  and 
moon  and  wave  and  fire  in  music,  as  astronomy  is 
thought  and  harmony  in  masses  of  matter. 


444 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON. 


THE  COMPENSATIONS  OF  CALAMITY. 

FROM  AN  ESSAY   ON  COMPENSATION. 

THK  changes  which  break  up  at  short  intervals 
the  prosperity  of  men,  are  advertisements  of  a  na 
ture  whose  law  is  growth.  Evermore  it  is  the  or 
der  of  nature  to  grow,  and  every  soul  is  by  this  in 
trinsic  necessity  quitting  its  whole  system  of  things, 
its  friends,  and  home,  and  laws,  and  faith,  as  the 
shell-fish  crawls  out  of  its  beautiful  but  stony  case, 
because  it  no  longer  admits  of  its  growth,  and  slowly 
forms  a  new  house.  In  proportion  to  the  vigour  of 
the  individual,  these  revolutions  are  frequent,  until 
in  some  happier  mind  they  are  incessant,  and  all 
worldly  relations  hang  very  loosely  about  him,  be 
coming,  as  it  were,  a  transparent  fluid  membrane 
through  which  the  form  is  always  seen,  and  not  as 
in  most  men  an  indurated  heterogeneous  fabric  of 
many  dates,  and  of  no  settled  character,  in  which 
the  man  is  imprisoned.  Then  there  can  be  en 
largement,  and  the  man  of  to-day  scarcely  recog 
nises  the  man  of  yesterday.  And  such  should  be 
the  outward  biography  of  man  in  time,  a  putting  off 
of  dead  circumstances  day  by  day,  as  he  renews  his 
raiment  day  by  day.  But  to  us,  in  our  lapsed  estate, 
resting  not  advancing,  resisting  not  cooperating  with 
the  divine  expansion,  this  growth  comes  by  shocks. 

We  cannot  part  with  our  friends.  We  cannot 
let  our  angels  go.  We  do  not  see  that  they  only 
go  out,  that  archangels  may  come  in.  We  are 
idolaters  of  the  old.  We  do  not  believe  in  the 
riches  of  the  soul,  in  its  proper  eternity  and  omni 
presence.  We  do  not  believe  there  is  any  force 
in  to-day  to  rival  or  re-create  that  beautiful  yester 
day.  We  linger  in  the  ruins  of  the  old  tent,  where 
once  we  had  bread  and  shelter  and  organs,  nor  be 
lieve  that  the  spirit  can  feed,  cover,  and  nerve  us 
again.  We  cannot  again  find  aught  so  dear,  so 
sweet,  so  graceful.  But  we  sit  and  weep  in  vain. 
The  voice  of  the  Almighty  saith,  «  Up  and  onward 
for  evermore  !"  We  cannot  stay  amid  the  ruins. 
Neither  will  we  rely  on  the  new ;  and  so  we  walk 
ever  with  reverted  eyes,  like  those  monsters  who 
look  backwards. 

And  yet  the  compensations  of  calamity  are  made 
apparent  to  the  understanding  also,  after  long  in 
tervals  of  time.  A  fever,  a  mutilation,  a  cruel  dis 
appointment,  a  loss  of  wealth,  a  loss  of  friends  seems 
at  the  moment  unpaid  loss,  and  unpayable.  But 
the  sure  years  reveal  the  deep  remedial  force  that 
underlies  all  facts.  The  death  of  a  dear  friend, 
wife,  brother,  lover,  which  seemed  nothing  but 
privation,  somewhat  later  assumes  the  aspect  of  a 
guide  or  genius ;  for  it  commonly  operates  revolu 
tions  in  our  way  of  life,  terminates  an  epoch  of 
infancy  or  of  youth  which  was  waiting  to  be  closed, 
breaks  up  a  wonted  occupation,  or  a  household,  or 
style  of  living,  and  allows  the  formation  of  new 
ones  more  friendly  to  the  growth  of  character.  It 
permits  or  constrains  the  formation  of  new  ac 
quaintances,  and  the  reception  of  new  influences 
that  prove  of  the  first  importance  to  the  next  years; 
and  the  man  or  woman  who  would  have  remained 
a  sunny  garden  flower,  with  no  room  for  its  roots 
and  too  much  sunshine  for  its  head,  by  the  falling 


of  the  walls  and  the  neglect  of  the  gardener,  is 
made  the  banian  of  the  forest,  yielding  shade  and 
fruit  to  wide  neighbourhoods  of  men. 


TRAVELLING. 

FROM  ESSAY  ON  SELF-RELIANCE. 

IT  is  for  want  of  self-culture  that  the  idol  of  tra 
veiling,  the  idol  of  Italy,  of  England,  of  Egypt,  re 
mains  for  all  educated  Americans.  They  who  made 
England,  Italy,  or  Greece  venerable  in  the  imagina 
tion,  did  so  not  by  rambling  round  creation  as  a 
moth  round  a  lamp,  but  by  sticking  fast  where  they 
were,  like  an  axis  of  the  earth.  In  manly  hours, 
we  feel  that  duty  is  our  place,  and  that  the  merry- 
men  of  circumstance  should  follow  as  they  may. 
The  soul  is  no  traveller:  the  wise  man  stays  at 
home  with  the  soul,  and  when  his  necessities,  his 
duties,  on  any  occasion  call  him  from  his  house,  or 
into  foreign  lands,  he  is  at  home  still,  and  is  not 
gadding  abroad  from  himself,  and  shall  make  men 
sensible  by  the  expression  of  his  countenance,  that 
he  goes  the  missionary  of  wisdom  and  virtue,  and 
visits  cities  and  men  like  a  sovereign,  and  not  like 
an  interloper  or  a  valet. 

I  have  no  churlish  objection  to  the  circumnavi 
gation  of  the  globe,  for  the  purposes  of  art,  of  stu 
dy,  and  benevolence,  so  that  the  man  is  first  do 
mesticated,  or  does  not  go  abroad  with  the  hope  of 
finding  somewhat  greater  than  he  knows.  He  who 
travels  to  be  amused,  or  to  get  somewhat  which  he 
does  not  carry,  travels  away  from  himself,  and  grows 
old  even  in  youth  among  old  things.  In  Thebes, 
in  Palmyra,  his  will  and  mind  have  become  old 
and  dilapidated  as  they.  He  carries  ruins  to  ruins. 

Travelling  is  a  fool's  paradise.  We  owe  to  our 
first  journeys  the  discovery  that  place  is  nothing. 
At  home  I  dream  that  at  Naples,  at  Rome,  I  can 
be  intoxicated  with  beauty,  and  lose  my  sadness. 
I  pack  rny  trunk,  embrace  rny  friends,  embark  on 
the  sea,  and  at  last  wake  up  at  Naples,  and  there 
beside  me  is  the  stern  fact,  the  sad  self,  unrelenting, 
identical,  that  I  fled  from.  I  seek  the  Vatican,  and 
the  palaces.  I  affect  to  be  intoxicated  with  sights 
and  suggestions,  but  I  am  not  intoxicated.  -My 
giant  goes  with  me  wherever  I  go. 

But  the  rage  of  travelling  is  itself  only  a  symp 
tom  of  a  deeper  unsoundness  affecting  the  whole 
intellectual  action.  The  intellect  is  vagabond,  and 
the  universal  system  of  education  fosters  rest 
lessness.  Our  minds  travel  when  our  bodies  are 
forced  to  stay  at  home.  We  imitate;  and  what 
is  imitation  but  the  travelling  of  the  mind  1  Our 
houses  are  built  with  foreign  taste ;  our  shelves  are 
garnished  with  foreign  ornaments;  our  opinions, 
our  tastes,  our  whole  minds  lean,  and  follow  the 
past  and  the  distant,  as  the  eyes  of  a  maid  follow 
her  mistress.  The  soul  created  the  arts  wherever 
they  have  flourished.  It  was  in  his  own  mind  that 
the  artist  sought  his  model.  It  was  an  application 
of  his  own  thought  to  the  thing  to  be  done  and  the 
conditions  to  be  observed.  And  why  need  we  copy 
the  Doric  or  the  Gothic  model  1  Beauty,  con 
venience,  grandeur  of  thought,  and  quaint  expres- 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON. 


445 


fiion  are  as  near  to  us  as  to  any,  and  if  the  Ame 
rican  artist  will  study  with  hope  and  love  the  pre 
cise  thing  to  be  done  by  him,  considering  the  cli 
mate,  the  soil,  the  length  of  the  day,  the  wants  of 
the  people,  the  habit  and  form  of  the  government, 
he  will  create  a  house  in  which  all  these  will  find 
themselves  fitted,  and  taste  and  sentiment  will  be 
satisfied  also. 

Insist  on  yourself;  never  imitate.  Your  own 
gift  you  can  present  every  moment  with  the  cumu 
lative  force  of  a  whole  life's  cultivation  ;  but  of  the 
adopted  talent  of  another,  you  have  only  an  extem 
poraneous,  half  possession.  That  which  each  can 
do  best,  none  but  his  Maker  can  teach  him.  No 
man  yet  knows  what  it  is,  nor  can,  till  that  person 
has  exhibited  it.  Where  is  the  master  who  could 
have  taught  Shakspeare  ]  Where  is  the  master  who 
could  have  instructed  Franklin,  or  Washington,  or 
Bacon,  or  Newton1?  Every  great  man  is  a  unique. 
The  Scipionism  of  Scipio  is  precisely  that  part  he 
could  not  borrow.  If  anybody  will  tell  me  whom 
the  great  man  imitates  in  the  original  crisis  when  he 
performs  a  great  act,  I  will  tell  him  who  else  than 
himself  can  teach  him.  Shakspeare  will  never  be 
made  by  the  study  of  Shakspeare.  Do  that  which 
is  assigned  thee,  and  thou  canst  not  hope  too  much 
or  dare  too  much.  \  There  is  at  this  momeat,  there 
is  for  me  an  utterance  bare  and  grand  as  that  of  the 
colossal  chisel  of  Phidias,  or  trowel  of  the  Egyp 
tians,  or  the  pen  of  Moses,  or  Dante,  but  different 
from  all  these.  Not  possibly  will  the  soul  all  rich, 
all  eloquent,  with  thousand-cloven  tongue,  deign 
to  repeat  itself;  but  if  I  can  hear  what  these  pa 
triarchs  say,  surely  I  can  reply  to  them  in  the  same 
pitch  of  voice  :  for  the  ear  and  the  tongue  are  two 
organs  of  one  nature.  Dwell  up  there  in  the  sim 
ple  and  noble  regions  of  thy  life,  obey  thy  heart, 
and  thou  shall  reproduce  the  Foreworld  again. 


STATELINESS  AND  COURTESY. 

FROM   AN  ESSAY  ON  MANNERS. 

I  LIKE  that  every  chair  should  be  a  throne,  and 
hold  a  king.  I  prefer  a  tendency  to  stateliness,  to 
an  excess  of  fellowship.  Let  the  incommunicable 
objects  of  nature  and  the  metaphysical  isolation  of 
man  teach  us  independence.  Let  us  not  be  too 
much  acquainted.  I  would  have  a  man  enter  his 
house  through  a  hall  filled  with  heroic  and  sacred 
sculptures,  that  he  might  not  want  the  hint  of 
tranquillity  and  self-poise.  We  should  meet  each 
morning,  as  from  foreign  countries,  and  spending 
the  day  together,  should  depart  at  night,  as  into 
foreign  countries.  In  all  things  I  would  have  the 
island  of  a  man  inviolate.  Let  us  sit  apart  as  the 
gods,  talking  from  peak  to  peak  all  round  Olym 
pus.  No  degree  of  affection  need  invade  this  re 
ligion.  This  is  myrrh  and  rosemary  to  keep  the 
other  sweet.  Lovers  should  guard  their  strange 
ness.  If  they  forgive  too  much,  all  slides  into  con 
fusion  and  meanness.  It  is  easy  to  push  this  de- 
ierence  to  a  Chinese  etiquette ;  but  coolness  arid 
absence  of  heat  and  haste  indicate  fine  qualities. 
A  gentleman  makes  no  noise :  a  lady  is  serene. 


|  Proportionate  is  our  disgust  at  those  invaders  who 
I  fill  a  studious  house  with  blast  and  running,  to  se- 
i  cure  some  paltry  convenience.     Not  less  I  dislike 
a  low  sympathy  of  each  with  his  neighbour's  needs. 
I   Must  we  have  a  good  understanding  with  one  an- 
j  other's  palates  ?  as  foolish  people,  who  have  lived 
long  together,  know  when  each  wants  salt  or  sugar. 
I  pray  my  companion,  if  he  wishes  for  bread,  to 
ask  me  for  bread,  and  if  he  wishes  for  sassafras  or 
arsenic,  to  ask  me  for  them,  and  not  to  hold  out  his 
plate,  as  if  I  knew  already.     Every  natural  func 
tion  can  be  dignified  by  deliberation  and  privacy. 
Let  us  leave  hurry  to  slaves.     The  compliments 
and  ceremonies  of  our  breeding  should  signify, 
however  remotely,  the  recollection  of  the  grandeur 
of  our  destiny. 

The  flower  of  courtesy  does  not  very  well  bide 
handling,  but  if  we  dare  to  open  another  leaf,  and 
explore  what  parts  go  to  its  conformation,  we  shall 
find  also  an  intellectual  quality.  To  the  leaders  of 
men,  the  brain  as  well  as  the  flesh  and  the  heart 
must  furnish  a  proportion.  Defect  in  manners  is 
usually  the  defect  of  fine  perceptions.  Men  are 
too  coarsely  made  for  the  delicacy  of  beautiful  car 
riage  and  customs.  It  is  not  quite  sufficient  to  good- 
breeding,  a  union  of  kindness  and  independence. 
We  imperatively  require  a  perception  of,  and  a 
homage  to  beauty  in  our  companions.  Other  vir 
tues  are  in  request  jn  the  field  and  workyard,  but 
a  certain  degree  of  taste  is  not  to  be  spared  in  those 
we  sit  with.  I  could  better  eat  with  one  who  did 
not  respect  the  truth  or  the  laws,  than  with  a  sloven 
and  unpresentable  person.  Moral  qualities  rule 
the  world,  but  at  short  distances,  the  senses  are 
despotic.  The  same  discrimination  of  fit  and  fair 
runs  out,  if  with  less  rigour,  into  all  parts  of  life. 
The  average  spirit  of  the  energetic  class  is  good 
sense,  acting  under  certain  limitations  and  to  cer 
tain  ends.  It  entertains  every  natural  gift.  Social 
in  its  nature,  it  respects  every  thing  which  tends  to 
unite  men.  It  delights  in  measure.  The  love  of 
beauty  is  mainly  the  love  of  measure  or  proportion. 
The  person  who  screams,  or  uses  the  superlative 
degree,  or  converses  with  heat,  puts  whole  draw 
ing-rooms  to  flight.  If  you  wish  to  be  loved,  love 
measure.  You  must  have  genius,  or  a  prodigious 
usefulness,  if  you  will  hide  the  want  of  measure. 
This  perception  comes  in  to  polish  and  perfect  the 
parts  of  the  social  instrument.  Society  will  pardon 
much  to  genius  and  special  gifts,  but,  being  in  its 
nature  a  convention,  it  loves  what  is  conventional, 
or  what  belongs  to  coming  together.  That  makes 
the  good  and  bad  of  manners,  namely,  what  helps 
or  hinders  fellowship.  For,  fashion  is  not  good 
sense  absolute,  but  relative ;  not  good  sense  private, 
but  good  sense  entertaining  company.  It  hates 
corners  and  sharp  points  of  character,  hates  quar 
relsome,  egotistical,  solitary,  and  gloomy  people ; 
hates  whatever  can  interfere  with  total  blending  of 
parties ;  whilst  it  values  all  peculiarities  as  in  the 
highest  degree  refreshing,  which  can  consist  with 
good  fellowship.  And  besides  the  general  infusion 
of  wit  to  heighten  civility,  the  direct  splendour  of 
intellectual  power  is  ever  welcome  in  fine  society 
as  the  costliest  addition  to  its  rule  and  its  credit. 
2P 


446 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON. 


TRUTH  AND  TENDERNESS. 

FROM   AN   ESSAY  ON  FRIENDSHIP. 

I  DO  not  wish  to  treat  friendships  daintily,  hut 
with  roughest  courage.  When  they  are  real,  they 
are  not  glass  threads  or  frost-work,  but  the  solidest 
thing  we  know.  For  now,  after  so  many  ages  of 
experience,  what  do  we  know-  of  nature,  or  of 
ourselves  1  Not  one  step  has  man  taken  toward 
the  solution  of  the  problem  of  his  destiny.  In  one 
condemnation  of  folly  stand  the  whole  universe  of 
men.  But  the  sweet  sincerity  of  joy  and  peace, 
which  I  draw  from  this  alliance  with  my  brother's 
soul,  is  the  nut  itself  whereof  all  nature  and  all 
thought  is  but  the  husk  and  shell.  Happy  is  the 
house  that  shelters  a  friend !  It  might  well  be 
built,  like  a  festal  bower  or  arch,  to  entertain  him 
a  single  day.  Happier,  if  he  know  the  solemnity 
of  that  relation,  and  honour  its  law !  It  is  no  idle 
band,  no  holiday  engagement.  He  who  offers 
himself  a  candidate  for  that  covenant,  comes  up, 
like  an  Olympean,  to  the  great  games,  where  the 
first-born  of  the  world  are  the  competitors.  He 
proposes  himself  for  contests  where  Time,  Want, 
Danger  are  in  the  lists,  and  he  alone  is  victor  who 
has  truth  enough  in  his  constitution  to  preserve 
the  delicacy  of  his  beauty  from  the  wear  and  tear 
of  all  these.  The  gifts  of  fortune  may  be  present 
or  absent,  but  all  the  hap  in  that  contest  depends 
on  intrinsic  nobleness,  and  the  contempt  of  trifles. 
There  are  two  elements  that  go  to  the  composition 
of  friendship,  each  so  sovereign  that  I  can  detect 
no  superiority  in  either,  no  reason  why  either  should 
be  first  named.  One  is  Truth.  A  friend  is  a  per 
son  with  whom  I  may  be  sincere.  Before  him,  I 
may  think  aloud.  I  am  arrived  at  last  in  the  pre 
sence  of  a  man  so  real  and  equal,  that  I  may  drop 
even  those  undermost  garments  of  dissimulation, 
courtesy,  and  second  thought,  which  men  never 
put  off,  and  may  deal  with  him  with  the  simplicity 
and  wholeness,  with  which  one  chemical  atom 
meets  another.  Sincerity  is  the  luxury  allowed, 
like  diadems  and  authority,  only  to  the  highest 
rank,  that  being  permitted  to  speak  truth,  as  hav 
ing  none  above  it  to  court  or  conform  unto.  Every 
man  alone  is  sincere.  At  the  entrance  of  a  second 
person,  hypocrisy  begins.  We  parry  and  fend  the  ap 
proach  of  our  fellow  man  by  compliments,  by  gossip, 
by  amusements,  by  affairs.  We  cover  up  our  thought 
from  him  under  a  hundred  folds.  I  knew  a  man  who, 
under  a  certain  religious  frenzy,  cast  off  his  drapery, 
and  omitting  all  compliment  and  commonplace, 
spoke  to  the  conscience  of  every  person  he  encoun 
tered,  and  that  with  great  insight  and  beauty.  At 
first  he  was  resisted,  and  all  men  agreed  he  was  mad. 
But  persisting,  as  indeed  he  could  not  help  doing, 
for  some  time  in  this  course,  he  attained  to  the  ad 
vantage  of  bringing  every  man  of  his  acquaintance 
into  true  relations  with  him.  No  man  would  think 
of  speaking  falsely  with  him,  or  of  putting  him  oft' 
with  any  chat  of  markets  or  reading-rooms.  But 
every  man  was  constrained  by  so  much  sincerity 
to  face  him,  and  what  love  of  nature,  what  poetry, 
what  symbol  of  truth  he  had,  he  did  certainly  show 
him.  But  to  most  of  us  society  shows  not  its  face 


and  eye,  but  its  side  and  its  back We  can  sel 
dom  go  erect.  Almost  every  man  we  meet  requires 
some  civility,  requires  to  be  humoured ; — he  has 
some  fame,  some  talent,  some  whim  of  religion  or 
philanthropy  in  his  head  that  is  not  to  be  ques 
tioned,  and  so  spoils  all  conversation  with  him. 
But  a  friend  is  a  s~ne  man  who  exercises  not  my 
ingenuity  but  me.  My  friend  gives  me  entertain 
ment  without  requiring  me  to  stoop,  or  to  lisp,  or  to 
mask  myself.  A  friend,  therefore,  is  a  sort  of  para 
dox  in  nature.  I  who  alone  am,  I  who  see  nothing 
in  nature  whose  existence  I  can  affirm  with  equal 
evidence  to  my  own,  behold  now  the  resemblance 
of  my  being  in  all  its  height,  variety  and  curiosity, 
reiterated  in  a  foreign  form ;  so  that  a  friend  may 
well  be  reckoned  the  masterpiece  of  nature. 

The  other  element  of  friendship  is  Tenderness. 
We  are  holden  to  men  by  every  sort  of  tie,  by  blood, 
by  pride,  by  fear,  by  hope,  by  lucre,  by  lust,  by  hate, 
by  admiration,  by  every  circumstance  and  badge 
and  trifle,  but  we  can  scarce  believe  that  so  much 
character  can  subsist  in  another  as  to  draw  us  by 
love.  Can  another  be  so  blessed,  and  we  so  pure, 
that  we  can  offer  him  tenderness  1  When  a  man 
becomes  dear  to  me,  I  have  touched  the  goal  of 
fortune.  I  find  very  little  written  directly  to  the 
heart  okthis  matter  in  books.  And  yet  I  have  one 
text  which  I  cannot  choose  but  remember.  My 
author  says,  « I  offer  myself  faintly  and  bluntly  to 
those  whose  I  effectually  am,  and  tender  myself 
least  to  him  to  whom  I  am  the  most  devoted."  I 
wish  that  friendship  should  have  feet,  as  well  as 
eyes  and  eloquence.  It  must  plant  itself  on  the 
ground,  before  it  walks  over  the  moon.  I  wish  it 
to  be  a  little  of  a  citizen,  before  it  is  quite  a  cherub. 
We  chide  the  citizen  because  he  makes  love  a  com 
modity.  It  is  an  exchange  of  gifts,  of  useful  loans ; 
it  is  good  neighbourhood  ;  it  watches  with  the  sick; 
it  holds  the  pall  at  the  funeral;  and  quite  loses 
sight  of  the  delicacies  and  nobility  of  the  relation. 
But  though  we  cannot  find  the  god  under  this  dis 
guise  of  a  sutler,  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  we  cannot 
forgive  the  poet  if  he  spins  his  thread  too  fine,  and 
does  not  substantiate  his  romance  by  the  munici 
pal  virtues  of  justice,  punctuality,  fidelity,  and  pity. 
I  hate  the  prostitution  of  the  name  of  friendship  to 
signify  modish  and  worldly  alliances.  I  much  pre 
fer  the  company  of  plough-boys  and  tin-pedlars,  to 
the  silken  and  perfumed  amity  which  only  cele 
brates  its  days  of  encounter  by  a  frivolous  display, 
by  rides  in  a  curricle,  and  dinners  at  the  best  ta 
verns.  The  end  of  friendship  is  a  commerce  the 
most  strict  and  homely  that  can  be  joined ;  more 
strict  than  any  of  which  we  have  experience.  It 
is  for  aid  and  comfort  through  all  the  relations  and 
passages  of  life  and  death.  It  is  fit  for  serene  days, 
and  graceful  gifts,  and  country  rambles,  but  also 
for  rough  roads  and  hard  fare,  shipwreck,  poverty, 
and  persecution.  It  keeps  company  with  the  sallies 
of  the  wit  and  the  trances  of  religion.  We  are  to 
dignify  to  each  other  the  daily  needs  and  offices  of 
man's  life,  and  embellish  it  by  courage,  wisdom  and 
unity.  It  should  never  fall  into  something  usual 
and  settled,  but  should  be  alert  and  inventive,  and 
add  rhyme  and  reason  to  what  was  drudgery. 


THEODORE  S.  FAY. 


[Born  1807.] 


MR.  THEODORE  S.  FAY  is  a  native  of  New 
York,  and  was  educated  for  the  bar.  In  1832 
he  published  Dreams  and  Reveries  of  a  Quiet 
Man,  containing  The  Little  Genius,  and  other 
essays,  written  for  the  New  York  Mirror,  of 
which  he  was  at  that  time  one  of  the  editors.  It 
is  a  collection  of  agreeable  papers  on  a  great 
variety  of  subjects,  indicating  delicacy  of  taste 
and  feeling,  and  is  very  well  described  by  the 
title. 

In  1833  Mr.  Fay  went  to  Europe  where  he 
remained  three  years.  In  this  period  he  wrote 
his  pleasant  journal  of  travels  entitled  The 
Minute  Book,  and  his  first  novel,  Norman  Les 
lie,  a  Tale  of  the  Present  Times,  founded  upon 
a  domestic  tragedy  which  a  few  years  before 
had  excited  intense  interest  in  the  city  of  New 
York.  It  was  published  in  1835,  and  was 
very  successful,  passing  to  a  second  edition 
within  a  few  months.  In  1837  he  was  ap 
pointed  Secretary  of  Legation  for  the  United 
States  at  the  court  of  Berlin,  and  in  1853 
minister  to  Switzerland  ;  at  Berlin  he 
wrote  The  Countess  Ida,  which  was  pub 
lished  in  New  York  and  London  in  June, 
1840.  His  object,  as  stated  in  a  short  preface, 
is  "  to  illustrate  a  principle,  and  to  record  his 
protest  against  a  useless  and  barbarous  custom, 
which,  to  the  shame  of  his  own  country,  exists 
here  in  a  less  modified  form  than  the  good 
sense  and  good  taste  of  European  communi 
ties,  to  say  nothing  of  their  moral  and  reli 
gious  feeling,  would  sanction."  This  custom 
is  duelling,  and  the  plot  is  so  constructed  as 
to  show  the  possibility  of  resisting  a  practice 
founded  upon  a  false  sense  of  honour,  and 
of  meeting  calmly  and  bearing  patiently  the 
taunts,  the  contempt,  and  the  infamy  which  a 
conscientious  regard  to  duty,  in  defiance  of  the 
prejudices  of  society,  never  fails  to  bring  upon 
the  man  who  dares  to  be  called  a  coward.  The 
principal  character  is  Claude  Wyndham,  an 
English  gentleman,  travelling  in  Prussia.  Vin 
dicating  his  character  for  courage  by  the  most 
intrepid  bearing  in  perilous  situations,  he  re-  ! 
fuses  to  fight,  after  receiving  every  species 
of  wrong  and  insult,  even  to  a  blow,  and  his 


friends,  the  dearest,  wisest,  best  of  them  even, 
desert  him.  Of  course  he  in  the  end  has  a 
"  happy  issue  out  of  his  difficulties,"  and 
poetical  justice  is  done  to  all  the  parties.  The 
story  is  skilfully  managed,  and  some  of  the 
scenes  are  exceedingly  effective.  It  may  be 
that,  as  in  most  works  of  a  didactic  aim,  the 
good  characters  are  somewhat  too  heavenly 
minded,  and  the  bad  as  much  below  a  reason 
able  degree  of  wickedness,  but  if  so  it  detracts 
more  from  the  artistical  beauty  of  the  work 
than  from  its  moral  effect. 

Mr.  Fay's  next  work  was  Hoboken,  a  Ro 
mance  of  New  York,  published  in  1843.  As 
in  Norman  Leslie  and  The  Countess  Ida,  he 
has  endeavoured  in  this  novel  to  awaken  the 
feelings  of  the  heart  and  array  the  convictions 
of  the  judgment  against  duelling.  Henry  and 
Franklin  Lenox  are  sons  of  a  popular  lawyer, 
and  lovers  of  Fanny  Elton,  by  whom  they  are 
both  rejected.  Subsequently  the  younger  Le 
nox  resents  an  insult  offered  to  her  by  a  Captain 
Glendenning  of  the  British  army,  by  knock 
ing  him  down  in  the  theatre,  and  a  duel  fol 
lows,  in  which  his  bullet  passes  through  the 
hat  of  his  adversary,  who  fires  into  the  air, 
and  makes  an  apology.  The  parties  become 
friends,  and  Glendenning  returns  to  Montreal, 
where  he  is  taunted  by  Colonel  Nicholson,  his 
commanding  officer,  with  having  too  precipi 
tately  adjusted  his  quarrel.  He  revisits  New 
York,  and  in  a  second  meeting  with  Lenox 
kills  him.  The  elder  brother,  on  being  re 
jected  by  Miss  Elton,  goes  abroad,  and  while 
travelling  on  the  continent  with  the  Earl  of 
Middleton,  previously  introduced  to  the  reader 
as  Colonel  Nicholson,  encounters  Glenden 
ning,  whose  life  has  been  embittered  by  his 
unhappy  affair  in  New  York,  and  who  now 
in  his  presence  accuses  the  earl  of  having 
forced  him  to  the  fatal  duel  with  Franklin 
Lenox.  He  ascertains  the  truth  of  the  charge, 
challenges  Middleton,  and  kills  him.  Re 
turning  to  America  he  learns  that  his  rejec 
tion  by  Fanny  Elton  was  caused  by  the  slan 
ders  of  an  enemy,  and  is  married  to  her. 
Woven  with  the  main  plot  is  the  history  o 

447 


448 


THEODORE    S.    FAY. 


the  gradual  conversion  of  Henry  Lenox  from 
deism  to  the  true  faith  and  a  holy  life.  The 
plot  is  ingenious,  and  the  incidents  natural  and 
dramatic,  but  the  novel  is  on  the  whole  inferior 
to  the  Countess  Ida. 


Mr.  Fay  has  since  published  Robert  Rueful, 
and  Sydney  Clifton,  two  short  Tales  ;  and  Ulric, 
or  the  voices,  a  poetical  romance.  He  has  also 
prepared  a  History  of  Switzerland,  and  a  series 
of  Geography  and  Astronomy. 


A  DUEL. 

FROM  THE  COUNTESS  IDA. 

[CLAUDE  WYNDHAM  is  in  Berlin,  where  he  has  been  the 
subject  of  continued  persecutions  by  a  soi-disant  Lord 
Elkington.  who,  alter  many  unsuccessful  efforts  to  bring 
about  a  hostile  meeting,  finally  strikes  him  at  a  court  ball. 
Denham.  a  friend  to  Wyndham,  just  arrived  from  Lou- 
don,  witnesses  the  act,  and  while  our  hero,  stung  almost 
to  madness  by  the  injury,  is  endeavouring,  in  the  privacy 
of  a  night  walk  in  the  Thiergarten,  to  regain  the  mastery 
of  his  passions,  he  gives  the  duellist  a  meeting.] 

CLAUDE  went  back  to  his  hotel  in  a  state  of 
mind  bordering  on  distraction,  but  it  had  the  effect 
to  divert  him  from  the  consideration  of  himself.  It 
seemed  that  a  fatal  duel  on  his  account,  in  return 
for  an  insult  which  he  had  declined  to  resent,  was 
all  that  was  necessary  to  sink  him  to  the  lowest 
depths  in  the  world's  esteem,  if  not  in  his  own. 
But  that  was  a  less  insupportable  reflection  than 
the  situation  of  Mrs.  Denham  and  the  sweet  little 
girl,  who  were,  probably,  yet  locked  in  peaceful 
slumber,  unconscious  of  the  thunder-bolt  about  to 
fall  upon  them.  He  would  have  gone  again  to  the 
police,  but  he  had  no  precise  information  to  give, 
and  he  felt  sure,  too,  that  it  was  too  late  for  inter 
ference.  There  was,  however,  still  a  hope.  It  was 
possible  either  that  chance  might  interrupt  the 
meeting — or  that  Elkington  might  fall — or  that,  if 
Denham  should  receive  a  wound,  it  might  not  be 
mortal.  But  then  the  utter  recklessness  of  Den 
ham — his  knowledge  of  Elkington's  affair  with  the 
cards — and  the  unerring  skill,  as  well  as  remorseless 
character  of  the  latter,  recurred  to  him  with  an  ago 
nizing  force.  As  he  entered  the  hotel  he  saw  that 
there  was  an  unusual  confusion.  Several  waiters 
were  running  to  and  fro.  One  of  them  came  up  to 
him  quickly  as  soon  as  he  saw  him. 

"  You  had  better  go  to  Madam  Denham." 
«  Has  any  thing  happened  1" 
«  Mr.  Denham  has  gone  off." 
«  And  not  yet  returned]" 
«  No." 

He  breathed  again.  He  had  felt  an  unutterable 
fear  on  approaching  the  house. 

"Thank  God!"  he  said,  « all  may  yet  be  well." 
"  The  lady  is  in  a  bad  way,  sir ;  she's  very  ill." 
At  this  moment  a  voice  from  a  servant  at  the  top 
of  the  stairs  called  out, 

"  Has  Mr.  Wyndham  come  in  yet"?" 
"  You'd  better  go  to  her,  sir,"  said  the  landlord. 
« I  fear  something  very  dreadful  has — " 

Claude  recovered  from  a  momentary  faintness, 
nerved  his  heart,  and  entered  the  room.  All  that 
he  had  imagined  of  horrible  was  surpassed  by  Mrs. 
Denham.  She  was  pale  as  death  herself.  Her 
hair  hung  in  disorder  about  her  beautiful  and  light 
ly  clothed  person.  Her  eyes  were  distended  with 


terror,  and  the  little  Ellen  clung  to  her  bosom,  weep 
ing  aloud,  and  winding  her  arms  around  her  neck 
affectionately,  and  repeating, 

"  Dear  sister,  my  dear,  dear  sister.  He  will 
come,  he  will  come.  He  will  indeed,  indeed  he 
will !" 

Mrs.  Denhana's  eyes  were  perfectly  dry  and  start 
ing  from  her  head.     She  looked  an  image  of  trage 
dy  itself.     The  moment  Claude  entered  she  saw 
him,  for  her  wild  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  door;  she 
sprang  up  with  an  hysterical  laugh,  and,  rushing 
upon  him  as  a  lioness  on  one  who  had  robbed  her 
of  her  young,  she  uttered,  in  tones  that  pierced  his 
heart  and  froze  his  blood,  the  dreadful  words: 
"  Ah  !  and  now  then  !  where' 's  Charles  ?" 
"  He  is — he  is — " 
"Is  he  here]     Is  he  here?" 
«  No — not  here — not  this  instant." 
"Where  is  he,  then]      What  have  you  done 
with  him  ]" 

"  My  dearest  madam — •" 
«  Is  he  alive  ]     Is  he  dead?" 
"  No,  no — God  grant — I  hope — not — not  dead," 
muttered  Claude,  trembling  beneath  the  powerful 
agitation  of  this  scene. 

"  Is  he  safe  ]     Will  he  come  ]     What  do  you 
know  ]     Is  there  any  hope  ]" 
"  I  think— I  believe—" 

"  What  do  you  know  ?  Speak — as  before  your 
God.  If  you  deceive  me  !" 

Claude  turned  away,  and,  pressing  his  extended 
hand  against  his  forehead,  shook  as  one  by  the  bed 
of  the  beloved  and  the  dying. 

She  released  her  hold  on  him,  and  her  hands 
fell  nerveless  by  her  side. 

"  Then  he  is  dead.  Oh  God — oh  God — I  have 
often  feared  this."  She  sank  back  into  a  chair. 

"  Charles — my  husband — it  is  a  dream — it  is 
impossible." 

Claude  approached  her,  and  took  her  cold  hand 
in  his. 

"  My  dear  friend,  hear  me.  It  is  too  late  to  de 
ceive  you  as  to  what  has  occurred.  Your  husband 
has  gone  out  to  comply  with  a  strange  custom,  but 
we  have  no  news  of  him,  upon  my  honour.  It  is 
very  possible  he  may  return — alive — unhurt.  Be 
lieve  me,  dearest  madam,  there  are  many  reasons 
to  hope — indeed,  indeed  there  are." 

"  I'm  sure  there  are,"  said  Ellen,  climbing  up 
and  again  winding  her  arms  around  her  neck,  and 
covering  her  lips,  forehead,  and  face  with  kisses. 
"You  do  not  know  any  thing,  then  ]" 
"  Nothing." 

«  And  he  may  return  ]  His  step  may  be  heard 
— his  beloved  image  may  once  more  bless  my  eyes  ] 
Hark — hark" — her  face  lighted  up  with  intense 


THEODORE    S.   FAY. 


449 


pleasure — "it  is — it  is — ha,  ha!  ha,  ha!"  She 
screamed  with  joy,  and  darted  toward  the  door, 
which  opened  and  admitted — >a  stranger. 

The  shock  was  too  much  for  the  poor  girl.  She 
would  have  fallen  at  full  length  upon  the  floor  had 
not  Claude  caught  her  on  his  arm.  He  lifted  her 
to  the  sofa,  and,  consigning  her  to  the  care  of  the 
maid,  turned  to  the  new-comer. 

"  Who  are  you,  sir — and  what  is  your  message  1" 

"  Sir,"  said  the  man,  "  I  am  a  Commissioner  of 
the  Hotel.  I  have  been  sent  to  the  lodgings  of 
Lord  Elkington  with  directions  to  let  you  know 
when  he  returned." 

"  And  he  has  returned?"  said  Claude,  in  a  low 
tone,  and  with  a  shudder  of  inexpressible  horror. 

"  He  has." 

«  Alone  ?" 

"  Alone." 

[Wyndham  repairs  to  the  hotel  of  Lord  Elkington,  who 
offe.-s.  as  satisfaction,  for  the  murder  of  his  friend,  to  fight 
him — a  proposition  which  is  declined.  An  intimation 
follows  that  the  presence  of  a  man  who  has  so  little  re 
spect  for  the  usages  of  society  is  unwelcome,  and  he 
goes  back  to  his  own  lodgings.] 

"  Has  he  come  home  1  Is  he  here  ?  Have  you 
seen  him?  Have  you  heard  any  thing  of  him?" 
were  the  fearful  questions  from  every  lip  as  Claude 
returned  to  his  hotel. 

"  Madam  Denham  is  nearly  distracted,"  said  the 
landlord.  "  She  calls  for  you.  Pray  go  to  her." 

"  I  dare  not,"  said  Claude>  with  a  shudder. 

"  She  has  demanded  to  be  informed  the  instant 
you  come  in,"  said  the  man.  "  She  is  in  a  state 
of  intense  excitement  and  agony.  She  walks  the 
floor  with  frantic  steps,  as  pale  as  a  sheet.  Some 
times  she  groans  and  weeps,  sometimes  she  prays. 
She's  in  a  terrible  way.  It's  quite  dreadful — and 
the  poor  little  girl,  too,  is  so  distressed.  My  God  ! 
what  sort  of  a  man  must  her  husband  be,  to  leave 
her  in  such. a  condition?" 

A  servant  here  came  for  Mr.  Wyndham.  He 
must  go  instantly  to  Madam  Denham.  It  was 
with  a  faltering  heart  that  Claude  complied  with 
this  request,  and  once  more  approached  the  door 
where  so  lately  he  bade  adieu  to  the  friend  who, 
perhaps,  was  now  in  eternity.  As  he  did  so,  he 
heard  the  hasty  steps  of  the  bereaved  widow — her 
deep  groans — her  bursting  sobs.  He  entered.  Her 
look  made  him  shudder. 

«  Speak !"  cried  she.     «  Charles—" 

"I  know  nothing,"  said  Claude. 

"Have  you  seen  Lord  Elkington?" 

Claude  hesitated. 

"Is  he  living?" 

«  He  is." 

«  Oh,  Mr.  Wyndham,  for  the  love  of  God,  tell 
me  all.  You  know,  I  am  sure  you  do.  I  can  bear 
it  better  than  this  suspense.  Tell  me — my  husband 
is  wounded — is  perhaps — she  clasped  her  hand  with 
quivering  lips  and  sobbed  convulsively  — "dead!" 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  have  heard  nothing  distinct 
ly.  He  may  be  alive — " 

*  Oh,  God  bless  you  for  that  word.  He  may 
yet  live.  But  where  is  he  ?  Why  does  he  not  re 
turn  ?  Perhaps  he  is  wounded.  Perhaps  he  is 
this  instant  dying !" 

57 


She  pressed  her  hands  against  her  brain. 

"  Ah,  cruel,  cruel  Charles!     Is  it  you  who  have 
abandoned  me  thus  ?  you,  who  have  torn  my  heart 
— inflicted  these  horrid  pangs  ?     I  will  no  longer 
I   wait.     I  will  go  seek  him." 

She  rushed  to  the  door. 

"  My  dear,  dear  sister,"  said  Ellen,  "  you  cannot 
go.  You  do  not  know  where  he  is.  You  are  not 
dressed.  If  he  were  in  the  street,  he  would  soon 
be  here.  If  not,  where  would  you  go  ?  Stay  with 
me,  my  dear,  dear  sister.  God  will  take  care  of 
us ;"  and  the  sweet  child  again  folded  her  in  her 
arms,  and  pressed  her  ashy  cheek  against  her  little 
bosom. 

"He  might  come,  too,  during  your  absence," 
said  the  maid  respectfully. 

"  Oh  yes  !  true  !"  she  said,  with  a  frightful  smile. 

Hours  passed  away  as  if  they  were  ages.  Noon 
— evening — night — and  still  Denham  came  not — - 
and  no  news.  Claude  had  again  addressed  him 
self  to  the  police.  They  were  abroad  in  search  of 
the  parties,  but  they  could  obtain  no  intelligence 
as  to  where  they  had  gone,  or  what  had  become 
of  them.  Elkington  was  not  at  his  lodgings — La 
dy  Beverly  had  left  town  the  day  before  for  Ham 
burg,  as  if  in  anticipation  of  some  difficulty.  It 
was  reported,  too,  that  Elkington,  early  in  the  morn 
ing,  had  also  gone,  but  whither  no  one  knew.  His 
escape  had  been  connived  at  by  so  many  gentle 
men,  who  thought  they  were  aiding  a  gallant  fel 
low  out  of  an  unjust  danger,  that  the  police  could  get 
no  trace  of  him.  Indeed,  from  many  considera 
tions,  they  conducted  the  pursuit  with  no  g.-eat 
activity.  Although  duelling  was  strictly  prohibited 
in  Prussia,  and  particularly  by  the  great  Frederic, 
whose  clear  mind  had  seen  all  its  folly  and  wicked 
ness,  the  crime  was  then — as  we  fear,  alas,  it  is  now 
— considered  as  one  of  those  genteel  misdemeanours 
of  which  a  large  class  of  educated,  arid  many  ex 
cellent  men,  are  rather  proud  than  ashamed.  The 
magistrate  who  sternly  sentences  a  poor,  ignorant 
creature  for  having  stolen  wherewithal  to  support 
fainting  life,  cannot  condemn  the  passionate  fool 
who  submits  his  disagreements  with  his  friends  to 
the  chances  of  mortal  combat,  and  who  shows*  so 
little  respect  for  himself — his  adversary — society — • 
and  God,  as  to  stake  two  lives  on  a  throw,  and 
thus  sanction  one  crime  by  joining  it  with  another. 
The  police  also  felt  that  the  parties  were  English 
men — that  securing  a  surviver  in  such  a  case  would 
place  them  in  an  awkward  dilemma.  Lord  Elking 
ton's  rank  and  fortune,  moreover,  threw  a  sort  of 
exemption  over  his  actions  in  the  public  opinion, 
and  it  was  understood  also  that  the  injury  had  been 
words  offensive  to  his  honour  as  a  gentleman. 

Poor  Mrs.  Denham.  It  seemed  impossible  that 
she  could  endure  the  interminable  length  of  this 
day ;  but  the  very  intensity  of  her  apprehensions 
prevented  her  from  sinking  into  the  insensibility 
which  nature  would  otherwise  have  provided  for  her 
relief.  As  the  night  approached,  her  agony  had 
reached  a  state  of  nervous  excitement,which  rendered 
it  necessary  to  call  in  a  physician ;  but  she  would  take 
nothing,  and  permit  no  remedies  to  be  adopted,  till 
she  should  receive  direct  intelligence  of  Mr.  Denham. 
2P2 


450 


THEODORE    S.   FAY. 


Nine  o'clock  struck — ten — eleven — twelve  ;  still 
Denham  came  not,  and  no  news  of  him  could  he  ob 
tained.  It  was  now  near  one.  The  widow — for 
all  felt  that  she  was  such  except  herself,  and  she 
still  hoped — was  almost  deprived  of  her  senses.  At 
every  whisper  she  started,  at  every  step  in  the 
street  she  trembled.  Sometimes  the  sound  of 
horses'  feet  would  advance  from  the  distance.  Her 
features  would  light  up :  the  noise  approached,  and 
seemed  about  to  stop  at  the  door,  but  went  on,  and 
was  lost  again  in  the  distance ;  now  a  shout  in  the 
street  startled  her — now  an  oath.  Sometimes  she 
heard  the  tramping  of  the  soldiers'  feet,  as  the 
guard  were  led  round  to  their  posts ;  and  once  a 
party  of  riotous  young  men  went  by,  and,  by  a 
cruel  coincidence,  stopped  immediately  beneath  the 
window,  shouting  forth  a  glee,  which  was  inter 
rupted  by  peals  of  laughter.  Then  they  departed 
singing,  their  voices  softening  as  they  retreated,  and 
dying  at  last  utterly  away  ;  leaving,  they  little  knew 
what — silence,  solitude,  and  despair  behind  them. 

«  Mr.  Wyndham,"  said  Mrs.  Denham,  sudden 
ly,  in  a  voice  of  sternness,  which  made  him  think 
her  senses  were  failing,  «  you  are  the  cause  of  this  !" 

"  My  dearest  madam — " 

«  You-— coward !" 

"  Great  Heaven  !" 

"  You  knew  my  husband  had  the  heart  of  a  lion. 
You  knew  he  couldn't  see  his  friend  abused,  and 
you — you  meanly  took  a  bloiv — a  blow  !  a  base, 
blasting  blow  !  and  yet  you  live — coward  !  and  he, 
my  brave,  my  noble,  my  lion-hearted  Charles,  for 
your  infamy  has  risked  his  life — which,  God  in  his 
mercy  be  praised,  is  but  a  risk.  He  will  not  perish. 
It  is  impossible.  He  will  come.  He  is  wounded, 
doubtless,  but  what  do  I  care  for  wounds  1  He 
will  come,  or  he  will  send  for  me.  I  shall  nurse 
him.  He  will  recover ;  but  you,  sir,  must  never 
look  for  his  friendship  again;  nor  his,  nor  mine, 
nor  the  world's  esteem,  nor  your  own.  You  are  a 
dishonoured  man.  I  had  rather  be  ElJcington  than 
you.  A  blow  !  coward  !" 

There  was  suddenly  a  knock  at  the  door.  Mrs. 
Denham  fell  back  in  her  chair,  laughing  hysteri 
cally.  The  intruder  was  a  messenger  of  the  po 
lice,  to  know  whether  any  news  had  been  received 
of  the  affair. 

Une  o'clock.  The  heavy  peal  went  floating  and 
quivering  over  the  silent  town,  and  struck  into  the 
hearts  of  all  present,  for  they  now  foreboded  the 
worst.  The  solemn  sound,  as  it  died  away,  called 
forth  new  groans,  sobs,  and  hysterical  screams.  All 
conversation  ceased.  There  was  as  httle  room  for 
remark  as  for  hope  or  consolation.  They  sat  like 
those  unhappy  beings  we  sometimes  read  of  on  a 
wreck,  waiting  in  mute  despair  till  the  broken  hulk 
goes  down  with  them  for  ever. 

Two  o'clock  struck.  Mrs.  Denham  had  sunk 
into  a  state  of  exhaustion,  when  a  sharp,  heavy 
knock  announced  an  end  of  this  suspense.  There 
was  decision  in  it.  The  door  was  opened  by  a  ser 
vant,  and  a  step  was  heard  in  the  hall,  quick,  light, 
buoyant.  It  approached,  and  all  eyes  were  turned 
toward  the  door. 

•'  Ah  God  !  he  is  here  at  last,"  cried  Mrs.  Den 


ham,  with  a  smile  of  ineffable  happiness,  and  gasp 
ing  for  breath.  The  new-comer  entered.  It  was 
again  a  stranger.  A  start  of  horror  went  round 
the  room,  and  a  low  shudder  was  heard  from  Mrs. 
Denham,  who  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"Mr.  Wyndham'?"  said  the  stranger,  who  was 
a  gentleman  in  dress  and  appearance. 

Claude  stepped  forward  and  recognised  Beau 
fort. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  that  gentleman,  with 
a  polite  smile ;  "  will  you  permit  me  to  have  one 
word  with  you  1" 

He  cast  a  glance  around  upon  the  rest  of  the 
company,  but  without  in  the  least  changing  his 
manner.  He  was  a  man  of  the  world,  and  wel 
knew  what  he  was  going  to  see  when  he  under 
took  the  mission. 

Claude  followed  him  into  an  adjoining  chamber. 

"Devilish  painful  duty,  my  dear  fellow — disa 
greeable  thing — in  fact,  d — d  awkward— but — " 

"  Speak  out,  and  tell  me  what  has  happened," 
said  Claude,  sternly;  "  /  also  have  my  duties." 

"  Sir !"  said  Beaufort,  "your  tone  is  very  extra 
ordinary,  but  your  excitement  excuses  any  liberty  ; 
I  have  promised  to  let  you  know  that  your  friend 
is  hurt." 

"Hurt!  Oh,  Beaufort!  Oh,  Heaven  be  praised ! 
is  he  only  hurt  1" 

"  Why,  his  wound  is  bad — d — d  bad.  He — he 
— in  short,  he's — dead,  sir." 

"  Dead  !"  said  Claude,  with  awe,  with  horror  un 
utterable.  "  Denham  !  my  friend  !" 

"  Yes,  dead  enough,  sir.  This  is  possibly  rather 
annoying  to  you.  I'm  devilish  sorry — I  am,  posi 
tively." 

"  Dead  !"  echoed  Claude,  the  sound  of  his  friend's 
living  voice  ringing  in  his  ears ;  his  beaming,  laugh 
ing  eyes  flashing  full  before  his  imagination. 

«  To  say  the  truth,  this  morning  at  P .  He 

behaved  very  well — devilish  well — I'm  quite  sure 
you'll  be  glad  to  hear  that.  The  thing  was  perfect 
ly  well  managed,  I  assure  you.  Perfectly.  Nothing 
could  be  handsomer  or  fairer.  Elkington  missed 
him  the  first  shot.  Devilish  odd,  too — wasn't  it  1 
The  second  he  hit  him.  He's  a  terrible  dog.  The 
ball  went  directly  through  the  heart.  He  leaped 
six  feet  in  the  air,  and  he  was  a  dead  man  before 
he  came  down.  I  protest  I  never  saw  any  thing 
so  handsomely  done." 

«<  And  I  am  to  bear  this  news  to  his  wife !" 

«  Certainly  !  I've  done  my  part.  I  stood  by  him 
to  the  last,  and  have  brought  the  corpse  in  town. 
It  will  be  here  in — let  me  see,  half  past  two — it'll 
certainly  be  three.  By-the-way,  madam  is  a  fine- 
looking  creature.  Devilish  pretty  in  that  dress. 
Poor  girl !  I'm  devilish  sorry.  You'll  take  good 
care  of  her,  Wyndham  ]  Egad,  you're  a  lucky 
dog!  Where  are  you  going  to  have  the  body 
put  1" 

"  Did — did  my  friend  leave  me  no  message  1" 

"  Oh,  apropos — what  a  forgetful  dog  I  am  !  Cer 
tainly — a  note  for  you." 

«  Give  it  me." 

"  Yes,  devilish  queer  that  I  should  forget  that, 
as  the  poor  man  isn't  likely  to  trouble  me  with 


THEODORE    S.    FAY. 


451 


another  in  a  hurry.  He  put  it  in  my  hand  the  very 
last  thing.  He  behaved  immensely  well,  positive 
ly.  I  really  thought  at  first  that  he  was  going  to 
touch  Elkington  ;  his  hall  grazed  his  sleeve.  El- 
kington  smoked  a  segar  through  the  whole  affair. 
He's  a  capital  fellow.  Why — I've  lost  your  letter 
— no — yes,  I  have — no — ah,  here  it  is." 

"  Who  has  the  body?" 

"  Two  men.  We  hired  'em  to  bring  it  in  town 
in  the  carriage.  Egad !  it's  been  all  day  in  a 
windmill.  We  had  to  disperse,  you  see.  Elking 
ton 's  gone  this  morning  at  twelve ;  I  start  to-night. 
I  shall  run  over  to  Carlsbad.  This  cursed  German 
cuisine  plays  the  devil  with  one's  stomach.  Won't 
you  smoke]" 

Claude  did  not  answer.  He  was  reading  the 
note  he  had  just  received,  which  struck  his  nerves 
and  soul  with  an  agony  of  horror  and  grief,  traced, 
as  it  was,  by  one  now  in  the  grave. 

"  WTell — adieu,"  said  Beaufort.  "  Lebcn  sie  wohl, 
mein  freund  !  Au  revoir  /" 

And  the  young  man,  lighting  his  segar  and  ar 
ranging  the  curls  around  his  forehead,  went  out. 


POVERTY. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

PERHAPS  of  all  the  evils  which  can  befall  a  man, 
poverty,  if  not  the  very  worst,  is,  as  society  is  con 
structed,  the  most  difficult  to  endure  with  cheerful 
ness,  and  the  most  full  of  bitter  humiliations  and 
pains.  Sickness  has  its  periods  of  convalescence, 
and  even  guilt  of  repentance  and  reformation.  For 
the  loss  of  friends  time  affords  relief,  and  religion 
and  philosophy  open  consolation.  But  poverty  is 
unremitting  misery,  perplexity,  restlessness,  and 
shame.  It  is  the  vulture  of  Prometheus.  It  is  the 
rock  of  Sisyphus.  It  throvf*  over  the  universal 
world  an  aspect  which  only  the  poor  can  see  and 
know.  The  woes  of  life  become  more  terrible,  be 
cause  they  fall  unalleviated  upon  the  heart;  and 
its  pleasures  sicken  even  more  than  its  woes  as  they 
are  beheld  by  those  who  cannot  enjoy  them.  The 
poor  man  in  society  is  almost  a  felon.  The  cold 
openly  sneer,  and  the  arrogant  insult  with  impuni 
ty.  The  very  earth  joins  his  enemies,  and  spreads 
verdant  glades  and  tempting  woods  where  his  foot 
may  never  tread.  The  very  sky,  with  a  human 
malice,  when  his  fellow-beings  have  turned  him 
beneath  its  dome,  bites  him  with  bitter  winds  and 
drenches  him  with  pitiless  tempests.  He  almost 
ceases  to  be  a  man,  and  yet  he  is  lower  than  the 
brute ;  for  they  are  clothed  and  fed,  and  have 
their  dens;  but  the  penniless  wanderer,  turned 
with  suspicion  from  the  gate  of  the  noble  or  the 
thatched  roof  of  the  poor,  is  helplessly  adrift  amid 
more  dangers  and  pains  than  befall  any  other 
creature. 


CROSSING  THE  ALPS. 

FROM  THE  MINUTE   BOOK. 

Onn  journey  across  the  Splugen  was,  to  us,  a  day 
memorable  for  ever.  Our  recollections  are  of  gran 
deur — gloomy  vastness — awful  solitude.  The  road 
winds  up,  and  up,  and  up — a  mad  stream,  white 
with  foam,  thundering  all  day  by  its  side — amid 
slopes  and  cliffs,  forests  and  vales — then  a  plain  and 
poor  hut,  or  a  ragged  town  and  some  beggars.  You 
pause  and  rest;  and  then,  again,  up  and  up — wind 
ing  and  turning — sometimes  through  tremendous 
ravines — sometimes  by  magnificent  waterfalls — 
sometimes  along  giddy  and  yawning  gulfs — yet, 
still,  always  up  and  up.  Then  the  face  of  the 
earth  changes,  and  the  grass  fades  nearly  away, 
and  the  naked,  everlasting  rocks  lift  their  gray  backs 
through  the  soil.  The  tempests  of  six  thousand 
years  have  beaten  against  them.  Now,  the  road 
steals  through  a  desert  of  endless  stones,  broken 
and  scattered  about — now  through  a  long,  dark  gal 
lery,  wet  and  dripping — now  at  the  brink  of  a  tre 
mendous  precipice,  which  your  imagination  would 
receive  as  the  summit  of  any  mountain  ;  but,  anon, 
the  toiling,  panting,  sweating  horses  drag  you 
around  an  angle  of  rock;  and,  lo !  above  you  over 
hang  other  cliffs  and  other  mountains  in  the  sky ; 
piles,  swells  and  pyramids  of  snow  and  ice ;  an  I, 
so  near  their  awful  heights  as  to  startle  you,  the 
white  line  runs  yet  higher  and  higher,  and  you  be 
lieve  not  that  it  is  your  path  still  so  far  above  you 
— and  yet  it  is.  The  earth  is  now  totally  changed, 
and  the  temperature,  and  atmosphere,  and  heavens 
are  changed.  You  wrap  your  heavy  cloak  around 
you  in  the  biting  cold.  Dark  clouds  are  rolling 
gloomily  over  your  path,  and  the  white  snow  shines 
beneath  you,  and  the  winter  winds  shakes  violently 
the  closed  glasses  of  your  carriage;  and,  as  the 
road,  still  mounting  and  bending  up  and  up,  turns 
your  face  now  to  the  right — now  to  the  left — you 
catch,  far  below,  such  awful  gleamings  of  sublime 
scenery — such  dim,  wild  depths  of  azure — such 
forms  of  cold  blue  lifted  and  built  up  around  you 
in  the  eternal  silence,  and  shrouded  in  mist  and 
storm,  that  your  very  soul  is  hushed  and  chilled, 
and  you  feel  as  if  the  King  of  Terrors  had  here 
fixed  his  home ;  and,  were  a  spectre  to  stand  in 
your  path,  or  to  lean  and  beckon  to  you  from  his 
car  of  rolling  mist,  you  would  behold  him,  without 
starting,  for  your  imagination  can  scarcely  be  more 
excited.  A  cataract,  which,  on  the  plain,  would 
draw  all  Europe  to  it,  is  here  no  curiosity.  Its 
lonely  thunder  swells  and  dies  away  in  the  intermi 
nable  solitude.  Twenty  times  we  thought  ourselves 
at  the  height  of  this  stupendous  road,  and  yet  its  zig 
zag  course  appeared  ever  mounting  far  before  us  up 
and  up,  till  the  cold  grew  extreme,  and  the  dark 
ness  of  night  overlooked  us ;  and  we  were  com 
pletely  lost  and  enveloped  in  heavy,  wet  clouds, 
rolling  around  us  like  a  mighty  ocean. 


GEORGE  B.  CHEEVER. 


[Born  1807.] 


THE  Reverend  GEORGE  B.  CHEEVER,  D.  D., 
is  a  native  of  Hallowell  in  Maine,  and  was 
graduated  at  Bowdoin  College  in  that  state  in 
1825.  After  completing  his  theological  stu 
dies  he  was  for  several  years  minister  of  a  Con 
gregational  church  in  Salem,  Massachusetts, 
where  he  made  his  first  appearance  as  an  author 
in  the  allegory  of  Deacon  Giles's  Distillery, 
which  is  as  happy  in  its  invention  and  execu 
tion  as  it  is  severe  and  just  in  its  satire.  In 

1828  he  published  Studies  in  Poetry,  and  in 

1829  and  1832  selections  from  our  Poets  and 
Prose  Writers,  which  indicated  a  large  acquain 
tance  and  fine  taste  in  literature.     In  the  last 
mentioned  year  he  prefixed  to  an  edition  of  the 
works  of  Leighton,  remarks  on  the  life,  charac 
ter,  and  writings  of  that  prelate,  and  became 
a  contributor  to  the  North  American  Review, 
his  best  articles  in  which  are  on  Bunyan,  Cole 
ridge,  Hebrew  Poetry,  and  the  Letters  of  Junius. 
He  has  since  written  largely  in  the  American 
Monthly  Magazine,  The  Biblical  Repository, 
The  Christian  Spectator,  The  American  Quar 
terly  Register,  The  Literary  and  Theological 
Review,  and  other  periodicals,  on  various  sub 
jects  of  religion  and  letters,  with  a  keenness  of 
discrimination,  force  of  logic,  and  elegance  of 
diction,  which  commanded  for  his  articles  the 
attention  of  cultivated  and  thoughtful  minds. 

In  1837  he  went  abroad,  and  passed  two 
years  and  a  half  chiefly  in  Egypt,  Turkey,  and 
Southern  Europe.  On  his  return  he  became 
pastor  of  the  Allen  Street  Presbyterian  Church 
in  the  city  of  New  York. 

In  1841  he  published  God's  Hand  in  Ame 
rica;  in  1842  Essays  on  Capital  Punishment; 
in  1843,  The  Characteristics  of  a  Christian 
Philosopher, a  Discourse  in  commemoration  of 
the  Virtues  and  Attainments  of  James  Marsh, 
and  The  Elements  of  National  Greatness,  a 
Discourse  before  the  New  England  Society ; 
in  1844  Lectures  on  Hierarchical  Despotism; 
and  in  1845  Lectures  on  The  Pilgrim's  Pro 
gress  and  the  Life  and  Times  of  John  Bunyan. 
The  general  character  of  all  these  works  will 
\)e  rightly  inferred  from  the  titles.  That  on 
Bunyan  is  the  longest,  and  in  a  literary  point 

452 


of  view  much  the  best.  It  is  a  genial  and  ve 
ry  able  commentary  on  the  life,  character,  and 
writings  of  the  greatest  genius  except  Milton 
who  lived  in  England  in  the  age  of  the  Puri 
tans.  It  was  perhaps  suggested  by  a  work  of 
Southey,  who  was  unfitted  by  political  and 
ecclesiastical  prejudices  for  doing  justice  to 
the  unordained  priest  of  Bedford,  with  whom 
Dr.  Cheever  had  on  nearly  every  point  a  very 
hearty  sympathy. 

In  1845  Dr.  Cheever  made  a  second  visit  to 
Europe,  and  on  his  return  published  The  Pil 
grim  in  the  Shadow  of  Mont  Blanc,  and  a  few 
months  after,  The  Pilgrim  in  the  Shadow  of  the 
Jungfrau.  These  are  souvenirs  of  wander 
ings  among  the  Alps  and  the  cities  from  which 
they  can  be  discerned,  written  in  a  style  sin 
gularly  glowing  and  picturesque,  and  indicat 
ing  a  quick  perception  and  enthusiastic  love 
of  the  grand  and  beautiful  in  nature.  It  has 
been  complained  of  Dr.  Cheever  that  he  intro 
duces  too  frequently  his  religious  opinions, 
and  is  too  apt  to  find  "sermons"  in  every 
thing  he  hears  or  sees.  But  a  traveller  who 
has  no  individuality  has  no  merit;  one  who 
does  not  worship  when  he  comes  into  the  pre 
sence  of  the  sublimest  works  of  God  is  no 
Christian;  and  one  who  can  regard  without 
a  feeling  of  indignation  a  people  oppressed 
and  debased  by  a  political  and  religious  des 
potism  is  no  American.  "A  pilgrim  may 
wander  all  over  the  earth,"  says  Dr.  Cheever, 
"  and  find  no  spot  where  men  are  bound  to 
God  by  so  many  ties  of  mercy  as  we  are  in 
our  own  dear  native  country,  or  where  old 
and  young,  rich  and  poor,  have  so  much  cause 
for  heartfelt  rejoicing."  He  sees  all  other 
lands  in  the  light  of  his  own,  and  in  this  re 
spect  contrasts  finely  with  those  weak-minded 
Americans  who  excite  so  much  contempt  when 
abroad  by  obtrusive  exhibitions  of  their  want 
of  patriotism.  Dr.  Cheevers  other  works  are ; 
The  Hill  Difficulty  ;  Windings  of  the  River  of 
Life;  Voices  of  Nature  to  the  Soul  of  Man; 
Bible  in  Common  Schools ;  Lectures  on  Cowper ; 
Powers  of  the  World  to  come ;  God  against 
Slavery. 


GEORGE    B.    CHEEVER. 


453 


MONT  BLANC  FROM  THE  COL  DE 
BALME. 

FROM  THE  WANDERINGS   OF   A  PILGRIM. 

THE  Col  de  Balme  is  about  seven  thousand  feet 
high,  and  lying  as  it  does  across  the  vale  of  Cha- 
mouny  at  the  end  toward  Martigny  and  the  valley 
of  the  Rhone,  through  which  runs  the  grand  route 
of  the  Simplon  from  Switzerland  to  Italy,  you  have 
from  it  one  of  the  most  perfect  of  all  views  both  of 
Mont  Blanc  and  the  vale  of  Chamouny,  with  all 
the  other  mountain  ridges  on  every  side.  You 
have,  as  it  were,  an  observatory  erected  for  you, 
seven  thousand  feet  high,  to  look  at  a  mountain  of 
sixteen  thousand. . . . 

Till  we  arrived  within  a  quarter  of  an  hour  of 
the  summit,  the  atmosphere  was  clear,  and  Mont 
Blanc  rose  to  the  view  with  a  sublimity  which  it 
seemed  at  every  step  could  scarcely  be  rivalled, 
and  which  yet  at  every  step  was  increasing.  The 
path  is  a  winding  ascent,  practicable  only  for  mules 
or  on  foot.  A  north-east  wind,  in  this  last  quarter 
of  an  hour,  was  driving  the  immensity  of  mist  from 
the  other  side  of  the  mountain  over  the  summit, 
enveloping  all  creation  in  a  thick  frosty  fog,  so 
that  when  we  got  to  the  solitary  house,  we  were 
surrounded  by  an  ocean  of  cold  gray  cloud,  that 
left  neither  mountain  nor  the  sun  itself  distinguish 
able.  And  such,  thought  we,  is  the  end  of  all  our 
morning's  starvation,  perils,  and  labours  ;  not  to 
see  an  inch  before  us ;  all  this  mighty  prospect,  for 
which  alone  one  might  worthily  cross  the  Atlantic, 
hidden  from  us,  and  quite  shut  out !  We  could 
have  wept,  perhaps,  if  we  had  not  been  too  cold 
and  too  hungry.  Our  host  burned  up  the  remain 
der  of  his  year's  supply  of  wood  to  get  us  a  fire, 
and  then  most  hospitably  provided  us  with  a  break 
fast  of  roast  potatoes,  whereby  all  immediate  dan 
ger  of  famishing  was  deferred  to  a  considerable 
distance.  But  our  bitter  disappointment  in  the 
fog  was  hard  to  be  borne,  and  we  sat  brooding  and 
mourning  over  the  gloomy  prospect  for  the  day, 
and  wondering  what  we  had  best  do  with  our 
selves,  when  suddenly,  on  turning  toward  the  win 
dow,  Mont  Blanc  was  flashing  in  the  sunshine. 

Such  an  instantaneous  and  extraordinary  reve 
lation  of  splendour  we  never  dreamed  of.  The 
clouds  had  vanished,  we  could  not  tell  where,  and 
the  whole  illimitable  vast  of  glory  in  this,  the  heart 
of  Switzerland's  Alpine  grandeurs,  was  disclosed ; 
the  snowy  Monarch  of  Mountains,  the  huge  gla 
ciers,  the  jagged  granite  peaks,  needles,  and  rough 
enormous  crags  and  ridges  congregated  and  shoot 
ing  up  in  every  direction,  with  the  long  beautiful 
vale  of  Chamouny  visible  from  end  to  end,  far 
beneath,  as  still  and  shining  as  a  picture !  Just 
over  the  longitudinal  ridge  of.  mountains  on  one 
side  was  the  moon  in  an  infinite  depth  of  ether;  it 
seemed  as  if  we  could  touch  it;  and  on  the  other 
the  sun  was  exulting  as  a  bridegroom  cominff  out 
of  his  chamber.  The  clouds  still  sweeping  past 
us,  now  concealing,  now  partially  veiling,  and  now 
revealing  the  view,  added  to  its  power  by  such 
sudden  alternations. 

Far  down  the  vale  floated  in  mid  air  beneath  us 


a  few  fleeces  of  cloud,  below  and  beyond  which  lay 
the  valley  with  its  villages,  meadows,  and  winding 
paths,  and  the  river  running  through  it  like  a  sil 
ver  thread.  Shortly  the  mists  congregated  away 
beyond  this  scene,  rolling  masses  upon  masses, 
penetrated  and  turned  into  fleecy  silver  by  the 
sunlight,  the  whole  body  of  them  gradually  retreat 
ing  over  the  south-western  end  and  barrier  of  the 
valley.  In  our  position  we  now  saw  the  different 
gorges  in  the  chain  of  Mont  Blanc  lengthwise, 
Charmontiere,  Du  Bois,  and  the  Glacier  du  Bos- 
son  protruding  its  whole  enorme  from  the  valley. 
The  grand  Mulet,  with  the  vast  snow-depths  and 
crevasses  of  Mont  Blanc  were  revealed  to  us.  That 
sublime  summit  was  now  for  the  first  time  seen  in 
its  solitary  superiority,  at  first  appearing  round  and 
smooth,  white  and  glittering  with  perpetual  snow, 
but  as  the  sun  in  his  higher  path  cast  shadows 
from  summit  to  summit,  and  revealed  ledges  and 
chasms,  we  could  see  the  smoothness  broken.  Mont 
Blanc  is  on  the  right  of  the  valley,  looking  up  from 
the  Col  de  Balme ;  the  left  range  being  much  lower, 
though  the  summit  of  the  Buet  is  near  ten  thousand 
feet  in  height.  Now  on  the  Col  de  Balme  we  are 
midway  in  these  sublime  views,  on  an  elevation  of 
seven  thousand  feet,  without  an  intervening  barrier 
of  any  kind  to  interrupt  our  sight. 

On  the  Col  itself  we  are  between  two  loftier 
heights,  both  of  which  I  ascended,  one  of  them  be 
ing  a  ridge  so  sharp  and  steep,  that  though  I  got 
up  without  much  danger,  yet  on  turning  to  look 
about  me  and  come  down,  it  was  absolutely  fright 
ful.  A  step  either  side  would  have  sent  me  sheer 
down  a  thousand  feet;  and  the  crags  by  which  I 
had  mounted  appeared  so  loosely  perched,  as  if  I 
could  shake  and  tumble  them  from  their  places  by 
my  hand.  The  view  in  every  direction  seemed 
infinitely  extended,  chain  behind  chain,  ridge  after 
ridge,  in  almost  endless  succession. 

But  the  hour  of  most  intense  splendour  in  this 
day  of  glory  was  the  rising  of  the  clouds  in  Cha 
mouny,  as  we  could  discern  them  like  stripes  of 
amber  floating  in  an  azure  sea.  They  rested  upon, 
and  floated  over  the  successive  glacier  gorges  of 
the  mountain  range  on  either  hand,  like  so  many 
islands  of  the  blest,  anchored  in  mid-heaven  below 
us;  or  like  so  many  radiant  files  of  the  white-robed 
heavenly  host  floating  transversely  across  the  val 
ley.  This  extended  through  its  whole  length,  and  it 
was  a  most  singular  phenomenon ;  for  through  these 
ridges  of  cloud  we  could  look  as  through  a  telescope 
down  into  the  vale  and  along  to  its  farther  end ;  but 
the  intensity  of  the  light  flashing  from  the  snows 
of  the  mountains  and  reflected  in  these  fleecy  ra 
diances,  almost  as  so  many  secondary  suns,  hung 
in  the  clear  atmosphere,  was  well-nigh  blinding. 

The  scene  seemed  to  me  a  fit  symbol  of  celestial 
glories ;  and  I  thought  if  a  vision  of  such  intense 
splendour  could  be  arrayed  by  the  divine  power  out 
of  mere  earth,  air,  and  water,  arid  made  to  assume 
such  beauty  indescribable  at  a  breath  of  the  wind, 
a  movement  of  the  sun,  a  slight  change  in  the  ele 
ments,  what  mind  could  even  dimly  and  distantly 
form  to  itself  a  conception  of  the  splendours  of  the 
world  of  heavenly  glory. 


454 


GEORGE    B.    CHEEVER. 


MONT  BLANC  FROM  THE  VAL 
D'AOSTE. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 


MONT  BLANC  from  the  Italian  side,  from  the 
Val  d'Aoste,  is  presented  to  the  eye  in  a  greater 
unity  of  sublimity,  with  a  more  undivided  and  over 
whelming  impression  than  from  any  other  point. 
In  the  vale  of  Chamouny  you  are  almost  too  near; 
you  are  under  the  mountain,  and  not  before  it; 
and  from  the  heights  around  it  there  are  other  ob 
jects  that  command  a  portion  of  your  admiration. 
But  here  Morit  Blanc  is  the  only  object,  as  it  were, 
between  you  and  eternity.  It  is  said  that  on  this 
side  the  mountain  rises  in  almost  a  sheer  perpen 
dicular  precipice  thirteen  thousand  feet  high ;  an 
object  that  quite  tyrannizes  over  the  whole  valley, 
so  that  you  see  nothing  else ;  and  in  a  day  of  such 
glowing  brilliancy  as  I  am  writing  of,  you  desire  to 
see  nothing  else,  for  it  seems  as  if  heaven's  splen 
dours  were  coming  down  upon  you ! 

It  was  between  four  and  five  in  the  afternoon  that 
I  carne  upon  this  view — and  I  gazed,  and  gazed, 
and  gazed,  almost  wishing  that  I  could  spend  as 
many  days  as  there  were  minutes  in  the  same  po 
sition,  and  full  of  regret  to  leave  a  spot  of  such 
glorious  beauty.  The  splendour  was  almost  blind 
ing.  A  brilliant  sun,  a  few  fleecy  clouds  around 
the  mountain,  a  clear  transparent  atmosphere,  the 
valley  invested  with  the  richest  verdure,  range  after 
range  of  mountains  retreating  behind  one  another, 
tints  softening  from  shade  to  shade,  the  light  min 
gling  with,  and,  as  it  were,  entering  into,  the  green 
herbage  and  forming  with  it  a  soft,  luminous  com 
position,  dim  ridges  of  hazy  light,  and  at  the  close 
of  this  perspective  of  magnificence,  Mont  Blanc 
sheeted  with  snow,  and  flashing  like  a  type  of  the 
Celestial  City  ! 

Coming  suddenly  upon  such  a  scene,  you  think 
that  no  other  point  of  view  can  possibly  be  equal 
to  this,  and  you  are  tempted  not  to  stir  from  the 
spot  till  sundown;  but,  looking  narrowly,  you  see 
that  the  road  scales  the  cliffs  at  some  distance  be 
yond,  at  an  overhanging  point  where  Mont  Blanc 
will  still  be  in  full  view  ;  so  you  pass  on,  plunging 
for  a  few  moments  into  a  wood  of  chestnuts,  and 
losing  Mont  Blanc  entirely.  Then  you  emerge, 
admiring  the  rich  scene  through  which  you  have 
been  advancing,  until  you  gain  the  point  which 
you  observed  from  a  distance,  where  the  road  cir 
cles  the  jagged,  outjutting  crags  of  the  mountain 
at  a  great  distance  above  the  bottom  of  the  valley, 
and  then  again  the  vision  of  glory  bursts  upon  you. 
What  combinations  !  Forests  of  the  richest,  deep 
est  green,  vast  masses  of  foliage  below  you,  as  fresh 
and  glittering  in  the  sunlight  as  if  just  washed  in 
a  June  shower,  mountain  crags  towering  above, 
the  river  Doire  thundering  far  beneath  you,  down 
black,  jagged,  r,avage  ravines ;  behind  you,  at  one  end 
of  the  valley,  u  range  of  snow-crowned  mountains; 
before  you,  the  s.ime  vast  and  magnificent  perspec 
tive  which  acre  4eJ  your  admiration  at  first,  with  its 
infolding  and  retreating  ranges  of  verdure  and  sun 
light,  and  at  the  close,  Mont  Blanc  flashing  as  light 
ning,  as  it  were  a  mountain  of  pure  alabaster. 


The  fleecy  clouds  that  here  and  there  circled  and 
touched  it,  or  like  a  cohort  of  angels  brushed  its 
summit  with  their  wings,  added  greatly  to  the 
glory;  for  the  sunlight  reflected  from  the  snow 
upon  the  clouds,  and  from  the  clouds  upon  the 
snow,  made  a  more  glowing  and  dazzling  splen 
dour.  The  outlines  of  the  mountains  being  so 
sharply  defined  against  the  serene  blue  of  the  sky, 
you  might  deem  the  whole  mass  to  have  been  cut 
out  from  the  ether.  You  have  this  view  for  hours, 
as  you  pass  up  the  valley,  but  at  this  particular 
point  it  is  the  most  glorious. 

It  was  of  such  amazing  effulgence  at  this  hour, 
that  no  language  can  give  any  just  idea  of  it. 
Gazing  steadfastly  and  long  upon  it,  I  began  to 
comprehend  what  Coleridge  meant  when  he  said 
that  he  almost  lost  the  sense  of  his  own  being  in 
that  of  the  mountain,  so  that  it  seemed  to  be  a  part 
of  him  and  he  of  it.  Gazing  thus,  your  sense  al 
most  becomes  dizzy  in  the  tremulous  effulgence. 
And  then  the  sunset!  The  rich  hues  of  sunset 
upon  such  a  scene !  The  golden  light  upon  the 
verdure,  the  warm  crimson  tints  upon  the  snow, 
the  crags  glowing  like  jasper,  the  masses  of  shade 
cast  from  summit  to  summit,  the  shafts  of  light 
shooting  past  them  into  the  sky,  and  all  this  flood 
of  rich  magnificence  succeeded  so  rapidly  by  the 
cold  gray  of  the  snow,  and  gone  entirely  when  the 
stars  are  visible  above  the  moutains,  and  it  is  night ! 


THE  MER  DE  GLACE. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

AT  Montanvert  you  find  yourself  on  the  ex 
tremity  of  a  plateau,  so  situated,  that  on  one  side 
you  may  look  down  into  the  dread  frozen  sea,  and 
on  the  other,  by  a  few  steps,  into  the  lovely,  green 
vale  of  Chamouny.  What  astonishing  variety 
and  contrast  in  the  spectacle!  Far  beneath,  a 
smiling  and  verdant  valley,  watered  by  the  Arve, 
with  hamlets,  fields  and  gardens,  the  abode  of  life, 
sweet  children  and  flowers: — far  above,  savage 
I  and  inaccessible  crags  of  ice  and  granite,  and  a 
cataract  of  stiffened  billows,  stretching  away  be 
yond  sight — the  throne  of  Death  and  Winter. 

From  the  bosom  of  the  tumbling  sea  of  ice, 
enormous  granite  needles  shoot  into  the  sky,  ob 
jects  of  singular  sublimity,  one  of  them  rising  to  the 
great  height  of  thirteen  thousand  feet,  seven  thou 
sand  above  the  point  where  you  are  standing.  This 
is  more  than  double  the  height  of  Mount  Washing 
ton  in  our  country,  and  this  amazing  pinnacle  of 
rock  looks  like  the  spire  of  an  interminable  colos 
sal  cathedral,  with  other  pinnacles  around  it.  No 
snow  can  cling  to  the  summits  of  these  jagged 
spires ;  the  lightning  does  not  splinter  them ;  the 
tempests  rave  round  them;  and  at  their  base, 
those  eternal  drifting  ranges  of  snow  are  formed, 
that  sweep  down  into  the  frozen  sea,  and  feed  the 
perpetual,  immeasurable  masses  of  the  glacier. 
Meanwhile,  the  laughing  verdure,  sprinkled  with 
flowers,  plays  upon  thb  edges  of  the  enormous 
masses  of  ice — so  near,  that  you  may  almost 


GEORGE    B.    CHEEVER. 


45: 


touch  the  ice  with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other 
pluck  the  violet.  So,  oftentimes,  the  ice  and  the 
verdure  are  mingled  in  our  earthly  pilgrimage ; — 
so,  sometimes,  in  one  and  the  same  family  you 
may  see  the  exquisite  refinements  and  the  crabbed 
repugnancies  of  human  nature.  So,  in  the  same 
house  of  God,  on  the  same  bench,  may  sit  an  an 
gel  and  a  murderer;  a  villain,  like  a  glacier,  and  a 
man  with  a  heart  like  a  sweet  running  brook  in 
the  sunshine. 

The  impetuous  arrested  cataract  seems  as  if  it 
were  ploughing  the  rocky  gorge  with  its  turbulent 
surges.  Indeed  the  ridges  of  rocky  fragments 
along  the  edges  of  the  glacier,  called  moraines,  do 
look  precisely  as  if  a  colossal  iron  plough  had 
torn  them  from  the  mountain,  and  laid  them  along 
in  one  continuous  furrow  on  the  frozen  verge.  It 
is  a  scene  of  stupendous  sublimity.  These  mighty 
granite  peaks,  hewn  and  pinnacled  into  Gothic 
towers,  and  these  rugged  mountain  walls  and 
buttresses, — what  a  cathedral !  with  this  cloud 
less  sky,  by  starlight,  for  its  fretted  roof — 'the 
chanting  wail  of  the  tempest,  and  the  rushing  of 
the  avalanche  for  its  organ.  How  grand  the 
thundering  sound  of  the  vast  masses  of  ice  tum 
bling  from  the  roof  the  Arve-cavern  at  the  foot  of 
the  glacier !  Does  it  not  seem,  as  it  sullenly  and 
heavily  echoes,  and  rolls  up  from  so  immense  a 
distance  below,  even  more  sublime  than  the  thun 
der  of  the  avalanche  above  us  1 


AVALANCHES  OF  THE  JUNGFRAU. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

ORDIXAKILT,  in  a  sunny  day  at  noon,  the  ava 
lanches  are  falling  on  the  Jungfrau  about  every 
ten  minutes,  with  the  roar  of  thunder,  but  they  are 
much  more  seldom  visible,  and  sometimes  the  tra 
veller  crosses  the  Wengern  Alp  without  witnessing 
them  at  all.  But  we  were  so  very  highly  favoured 
as  to  see  two  of  the  grandest  avalanches  possible  in 
the  course  of  about  an  hour,  between  twelve  o'clock 
and  two.  One  cannot  command  any  language  to 
convey  an  adequate  idea  of  their  magnificence. 
You  are  standing  far  below,  gazing  up  to  where 
the  great  disc  of  the  glittering  Alp  cuts  the  hea 
vens,  and  drinking  in  the  influence  of  the  silent 
scene  around.  Suddenly  an  enormous  mass  of 
snow  and  ice,  in  itself  a  mountain,  seems  to  move; 
it  breaks  from  the  toppling  outmost  mountain  ridge 
of  snow,  where  it  is  hundreds  of  feet  in  depth,  and 
in  its  first  fall  of  perhaps  two  thousand  feet,  is 
broken  into  millions  of  fragments.  As  you  first 
see  the  flash  of  distant  artillery  by  night,  then  hear 
the  roar,  so  here  you  may  see  the  white  flashing 
mass  majestically  bowing,  then  hear  the  astound 
ing  din.  A  cloud  of  dusty,  misty,  dry  snow  rises 
into  the  air  from  the  concussion,  forming  a  white 
volume  of  fleecy  smoke,  or  misty  light,  from  the 
bosom- of  which  thunders  forth  the  icy  torrent  in  its 
second  prodigious  fall  over  the  rocky  battlements. 
The  eye  follows  it  delighted  as  it  ploughs  through 
the  path  which  preceding  avalanches  have  worn, 
till  it  comes  to  the  brink  of  a  vast  ridge  of  bare 


[  rock,  perhaps  more  than  two  thousand  feet  per- 
'   pendicular.     Then  pours  the  whole  cataract  over 
I   the  gulf  with  a  still  louder  roar  of  echoing  thunder, 
to  which  nothing  but  the  noise  of  Niagara  in  its 
!    sublimity  is  comparable.     Nevertheless,  you  may 
I   think  of  the  tramp  of  an  army  of  elephants,  of  the 
i   roar  of  multitudinous  cavalry  marching  to  battle, 
i   of  the   whirlwind  tread  of  ten  thousand    bisons 
sweeping  across  the  prairie,  of  the  tempest  surf  of 
ocean  beating  and  shaking  the  continent,  of  the 
sound  of  torrent  floods  or  of  a  numerous  host,  or  of 
the  voice  of  the  Trumpet  on  Sinai,  exceeding  loud, 
and  waxing  louder  and  louder,  so  that  all  the  peo 
ple  in  the  camp  trembled,  or  of  the  rolling  orbs  of 
that  fierce  chariot  described  by  Milton, 

Under  whose  burning  wheels 
The  steadfast  empyrean  shook  throughout. 

It  is  with  such  a  mighty  shaking  tramp  that  the 
avalanche  down  thunders.  Another  fall  of  still 
greater  depth  ensues,  over  a  second  similar  castel 
lated  ridge  or  reef  in  the  face  of  the  mountain,  with 
an  awful  majestic  slowness,  and  a  tremendous 
crash,  in  its  concussion,  awakening  again  the  re 
verberating  peals  of  thunder.  Then  the  torrent 
roars  on  to  another  smaller  fall,  till  at  length  it 
reaches  a  mighty  groove  of  snow  and  ice,  like  the 
slide  down  the  Pilatus,  of  which  Playfair  has 
given  so  powerfully  graphic  a  description.  Here 
its  progress  is  slower,  and  last  of  all  you  listen  to 
the  roar  of  the  falling  fragments  as  they  drop  out 
of  sight  with  a  dead  weight  into  the  bottom  of  the 
gulf,  to  rest  there  for  ever.  Now  figure  to  your 
self  a  cataract  like  that  of  Niagara,  (for  I  should 
judge  the  volume  of  one  of  these  avalanches  to  be 
probably  every  way  superior  in  bulk  to  the  whole 
of  the  Horse-shoe  fall,)  poured  in  foaming  gran 
deur,  not  merely  over  one  great  precipice  of  two 
hundred  feet,  but  over  the  successive  ridgy  preci 
pices  of  two  or  three  thousand,  in  the  face  of  a 
mountain  eleven  thousand  feet  high,  and  tumbling, 
crashing,  thundering  down,  with  a  continuous  din 
of  far  greater  sublimity  than  the  sound  of  the 
grandest  cataract.  Placed  on  the  slope  of  the 
Wengern  Alp,  right  opposite  the  whole  visible 
side  of  the  Jungfrau,  we  have  enjoyed  two  of  these 
mighty  spectacles,  at  about  half  an  hour's  interval 
between  them.  The  first  was  the  most  sublime, 
the  second  the  most  beautiful.  The  roar  of  the 
falling  mass  begins  to  be  heard  the  moment  it  is 
loosened  from  the  mountain ;  it  pours  on  with  the 
sound  of  a  vast  body  of  rushing  water ;  then  comes 
the  first  great  concussion,  a  booming  crash  of  thun 
ders,  breaking  on  the  still  air  in  mid  heaven ;  your 
breath  is  suspended  as  you  listen  and  look  ;  the 
mighty  glittering  mass  shoots  headlong  over  the 
main  precipice,  and  the  fall  is  so  great  that  it  pro 
duces  to  the  eye  that  impression  of  dread  majestic 
slowness,  of  which  I  have  spoken,  though  it  is 
doubtless  more  rapid  than  Niagara.  But  if  you 
should  see  the  cataract  of  Niagara  itself  coming 
down  five  thousand  feet  above  you  in  the  air,  there 
would  be  the  same  impression.  The  image  re 
mains  in  the  mind,  and  can  never  fade  from  it ;  it 
is  as  if  you  had  seen  an  alabaster  cataract  from 
heaven. 


CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN. 


[Born  1806.] 


CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN,  son  of  Judge 
Josiah  Ogden  Hoffman,  was  born  in  the  city 
of  New  York,  in  the  year  1806.  'The  name 
FENNO  he  derives  from  his  maternal  grand 
father,  a  distinguished  politician  of  the  federal 
party  in  Philadelphia,  during  the  administra 
tion  of  Washington.  His  father's  family  came 
to  New  York  from  Holland,  before  the  days 
of  Peter  Stuyvesant,  and  have  ever  held  an 
honourable  position  in  the  state.  His  father, 
in  his  younger  days,  was  often  the  successful 
competitor  of  Hamilton,  Burr,  Pinkney,  and 
other  professional  giants,  for  the  highest  ho 
nours  of  the  legal  forum,  and  his  brother,  Mr. 
Ogden  Hoffman,  still  maintains  the  family 
reputation  at  the  bar. 

When  six  years  old,  he  was  sent  to  a  Latin 
grammar-school  in  New  York,  from  which, 
at  the  age  of  nine,  he  was  transferred  to  the 
Poughkeepsie  Academy,  a  seminary  upon  the 
Hudson,  about  eighty  miles  from  the  city, 
which  at  that  time  enjoyed  great  reputation. 
The  harsh  treatment  he  received  here  induced 
him  to  run  away,  and  his  father,  finding  that 
he  had  not  improved  under  a  course  of  severity, 
did  not  insist  upon  his  return,  but  placed  him 
under  the  care  of  an  accomplished  Scottish 
gentleman  in  one  of  the  rural  villages  of  New 
Jersey.  During  a  visit  home  from  this  place, 
when  about  twelve  years  of  age,  he  met  with 
an  injury  which  involved  the  necessity  of  the 
immediate  amputation  of  his  right  leg,  above 
the  knee.  The  painful  circumstances  are  mi 
nutely  detailed  in  The  New  York  Evening 
Post,  of  the  twenty-fifth  of  October,  1817,  from 
which  it-appears,  that  while,  with  other  lads, 
attempting  the  dangerous  feat  of  leaping  aboard 
a  steamer  as  she  passed  a  pier,  under  full  way, 
he  was  caught  between  the  vessel  and  the 
wharf.  The  steamer  swept  by,  and  left  him 
clinging  by  his  hands  to  the  pier,  crushed  in 
a  manner  too  frightful  for  description.  This 
deprivation,  instead  of  acting  as  a  disqualifi 
cation  for  the  manly  sports  of  youth,  and  thus 
turning  the  subject  of  it  into  a  retired  student, 
seems  rather  to  have  given  young  Hoffman  an 
especial  ambition  to  excel  in  field  sports  and 

450 


j  pastimes,  to  the  still  further  neglect  of  per 
haps  more  useful  acquirements.  At  fifteen  he 
entered  Columbia  College,  and  here,  as  at  pre 
paratory  schools,  was  noted  rather  for  success 
in  gymnastic  exercises  than  in  those  of  a  more 
intellectual  character.  His  reputation,  judg 
ing  from  his  low  position  in  his  class,  con 
trasted  with  the  honours  that  were  awarded 
him  by  the  college  societies  at  their  anniver 
sary  exhibitions,  was  greater  with  the  students 
than  with  the  faculty,  though  the  honorary 
degree  of  Master  of  Arts,  conferred  upon  him 
under  peculiarly  gratify  ing  circumstances,  after 
leaving  the  institution  in  his  third  or  junior 
year  without  having  graduated,  clearly  im 
plies  that  he  was  still  a  favourite  with  his 
alma  -mater. 

Immediately  after  leaving  college — being- 
then  eighteen  years  old — he  commenced  the 
study  of  the  law  with  Mr.  Harmanus  Bleecker, 
of  Albany.  When  twenty-one,  he  was  ad 
mitted  to  the  bar,  and  in  the  succeeding  three 
years  he  practised  in  the  courts  of  the  city  of 
New  York.  During  this  period  he  wrote 
anonymously  for  the  New  York  American — 
having  made  his  first  essay  as  a  writer  for  the 
gazettes  while  in  Albany — and  soon  after,  I 
believe,  became  associated  with  Mr.  Charles 
King  in  the  editorship  of  that  paper.  Cer 
tainly  he  gave  up  the  legal  profession,  for  the 
successful  prosecution  of  which  he  appears 
to  have  been  unfitted  by  his  love  of  books, 
society,  and  the  rod  and  gun,  and  since  that 
time  has  devoted  his  attention  almost  con 
stantly  to  literature. 

In  October,  1833,  Mr.  Hoffman  left  New 
York  to  travel  in  the  western  states  and  terri 
tories  ;  and  arriving  at  Detroit  by  way  of 
Pennsylvania  and  Ohio,  directed  his  course 
through  the  peninsula  of  Michigan  and  the 
northern  parts  of  Indiana  and  Illinois  to  the 
Prairie  du  Chien,  on  the  upper  Mississippi, 
which  was  the  northern  and  western  limit  of 
his  journey.  On  his  return  he  passed  through 
Missouri,  Kentucky,  Tennessee,  and  Virginia, 
and  reached  home  near  the  close  of  June,  1834. 
Of  this  tour  he  gave  a  very  interesting  account 


CHARLES    FENNO    HOFFMAN. 


457 


in  two  volumes,  entitled,  A  Winter  in  the 
West,  published  in  New  York  and  London 
early  in  1835.  Although  Mr.  Irving  soon 
after  gave  to  the  public  his  Tour  on  the  Prai 
ries,  in  which  he  has  described,  with  his  cus 
tomary  felicity,  similar  scenes  and  characters, 
Mr.  Hoffman's  work  retained  the  popular  fa 
vour  with  which  it  was  originally  received. 
It  has  since  passed  through  several  editions, 
and  will  continue  to  be  admired  so  long  as 
graphic  delineations  of  nature,  spirited  sketches 
of  men  and  manners,  and  richness  and  purity 
of  style,  are  appreciated. 

Mr.  Hoffman's  second  work,  Wild  Scenes 
in  the  Forest  and  the  Prairie,  appeared  origi 
nally  in  London,  in  1837,  and  an  impression 
of  it,  embracing  some  important  additions, 
was  printed  in  New  York,  in  1843.  In  this 
he  has  given  some  very  happy  and  original 
scenic  and  legendary  illustrations  of  American 
subjects,  and  has  been  equally  successful  in 
the  tender  and  the  humorous. 

It  was  followed,  in  1840,  by  Greyslaer,  a 
Romance  of  the  Mohawk,  founded  on  the 
celebrated  criminal  trial  of  Beauchamp,*  for 
the  murder  of  Colonel  Sharpe,  the  Solicitor 
General  of  Kentucky,  the  particulars  of  which, 
softened  away  in  the  novel,  are  minutely  de 
tailed  in  the  appendix  to  his  Winter  in  the 
West.  Some  of  the  English  critics  pro 
nounced  the  scenes  between  Greyslaer  and 
Alida  de  Roos  melodramatic  and  improbable; 
but  the  authenticated  facts  of  the  tragedy  are 
stranger  than  the  fiction.  In  transferring  the 
scene  of  his  tale  from  Kentucky  to  the  valley 
of  the  Mohawk,  and  at  the  same  time  carry 
ing  back  the  date  of  it  half  a  century,. little 
violence  is  done  to  the  probabilities  of  the 
story,  as  the  reader  will  be  satisfied  when  he 
reflects  upon  the  changes  which  fifty  years 
have  wrought  since  New  York  was  a  frontier 
state,  exposed  to  the  border  warfare  of  the  In 
dians.  Bait,  the  Hunter,  in  this  novel,  is  a 
well-conceived  and  admirably  sustained  cha 
racter,  American,  in  the  genuine  sense  of  the 
word.  Greyslaer  has  so  many  traits  about 
him  which  find  a  response  in  our  conscious 
ness,  that  we  cannot  but  think  his  original 
existed  somewhere  else  than  in  the  imagina 
tion  of  the  novelist.  I  do  not  refer  so  much 
to  his  habits  and  manners,  as  to  his  idiosyn- 

*  Mr.  William  Gilmore  Simms  has,  since  the  publica 
tion  of  Greyslaer,  written  a  novel  entitled  Beauchampe, 
which  is  founded  on  the  same  history. 


cracies — his  ways  of  feeling  and  thinking. 
No  one  who  has  not  reflected  upon  his  emo 
tions,  and  indulged  often  in  self-meditation, 
can  fully  recognise  the  chief  merit  of  this 
character,  considered  as  a  type  of  real  hu 
manity. 

The  Knickerbocker  Magazine  was  first  is 
sued  under  the  editorial  auspices  of  Mr.  Hoff 
man,  and  he  subsequently  became  the  pro- 
!  prietor  of  the  American  Monthly,  one  of  the 
ablest  literary  periodicals  ever  published  in 
this  country.  While  editor  of  this  work  he 
also  conducted,  for  one  year,  the  New  York 
Mirror,  and  wrote  a  series  of  fcealous  and  able 
papers  in  favour  of  a  law  of  international  copy 
right  for  The  New  Yorker. 

In  1843  he  published  The  Vigil  of  Faith, 
a  Legend  of  the  Andirondack  Mountains,  of 
which  several  editions  have  since  appeared  in 
this  country  and  England.  It  contains  much 
fine  description  and  sentiment ;  the  narrative 
is  remarkably  well  managed,  and  in  no  other 
poem  has  Indian  superstition  or  tradition  been 
used  with  more  skill  or  success.  But  his  re 
putation  as  a  poet  rests  mainly  on  his  songs, 
which  are  unquestionably  the  finest  that  have 
been  produced  in  this  country.  They  are  sim 
ple,  entire  and  glowing,  and  evidently  grew 
out  of  his  own  experiences  and  observation. 
The  Myrtle  and  Steel,  Sparkling  and  Bright, 
Rosalie  Clare,  and  others,  have  a  spontaneous 
lyrical  flow,  an  earnest  sincerity  of  feeling, 
and  an  inherent  delicacy  that  distinguish  only 
the  best  works  of  this  description. 

A  few  years  ago  Mr.  Hoffman  wrote  a  novel 
under  the  title  of  The  Red  Spur  of  Ramapo, 
of  which  high  expectations  were  formed  by 
his  frierfds,  from  the  knowledge  they  had  of 
his  enthusiasm  in  regard  to  the  scenes  and  cha 
racters  introduced  into  it,  and  the  unusual  de 
gree  of  labour  he  had  bestowed  upon  its  com 
position.  Just  after  the  completion  of  his 
arrangements  with  the  publishers,  and  when 
it  had  been  announced  as  in  the  press,  he  was 
taken  ill,  and  before  his  recovery  the  servant 
who  attended  his  chambers,  had  "used  all  the 
paper  that  was  written  on  to  kindle  fires,  and 
carefully  preserved,  in  the  gentleman's  port 
folio,  all  the  pieces  that  were  unsoiled !" 

The  imperfect  state  of  Mr.  Hoffman's  health 
for  some  years  past  has  prevented  him  from 
making  any  additions  to  the  literature  of  the 
country. 

2Q 


458 


CHARLES   FENNO    HOFFMAN. 


BEN  BLOWER'S  STORY; 

OR  HOW  TO  RELISH  A  JULEP. 

«  ARE  you  sure  that's  THE  FLAME  over  by  the 
shore?" 

"  Cerft'ng,  manny !  I  could  tell  her  pipes  acrost 
the  Mazoura."* 

"  And  you  will  overhaul  her  ]" 

"  Won't  we  though !  I  tell  ye,  Strannger,  so 
sure  as  my  name's  Ben  Blower,  that  that  last  tar  bar'l 
I  hove  in  the  furnace  has  put  jist  the  smart  chance 
of  go-ahead  into  us  to  cut  off  The  Flame  from 
yonder  pint,  or  send  our  boat  to  kingdom  come." 

"  The  devil !"  exclaimed  a  bystander  who,  in 
tensely  interested  in  the  race,  was  leaning  the 
while  against  the  partitions  of  the  boiler-room. 
"  I've  chosen  a  nice  place  to  see  the  fun,  near  this 
infernal  powder-barrel !" 

"  Not  so  bad  as  if  you  were  in  it !"  coolly  ob 
served  Ben,  as  the  other  walked  rapidly  away. 

"As  if  he  were  in  it!  in  what]  in  the  boiler]" 

«  Certing  !  Don't  folks  sometimes  go  into  bilers, 
manny  ]" 

,  « I  should  think  there'd  be  other  parts  of  the 
boat  more  comfortable." 

"  That's  right ;  poking  fun  at  me  at  once't ;  but 
wait  till  we  get  through  this  brush  with  the  old 
Flame,  and  I'll  tell  ye  of  a  regular  fixin  scrape  that 
a  man  may  get  into.  It's  true,  too,  every  word 
of  it — as  sure  as  my  name's  Ben  Blower." 

"  You  have  seen  the  Flame  then  afore,  Strann 
ger  ]  Six  year  ago,  when  new  upon  the  river,  she 
was  a  raal  out  and  outer,  I  tell  ye.  I  was  at  that 
time  a  hand  aboard  of  her.  Yes,  I  belonged  to  her 
at  the  lime  of  her  great  race  with  the  '  Go-liar.' 
You've  heern,  mayhap,  of  the  blow-up  by  which 
we  lost  it  ]  They  made  a  great  fuss  about  it ;  but 
it  was  nothing  but  a  mere  fiz  of  hot  water  after  all. 
Only  the  springing  of  a  few  rivets,  which  loosened 
a  biler  plate  or  two,  and  let  out  a  thin  spirting  upon 
some  niggers  that  hadn't  sense  enough  to  get  out 
of  the  way.  Well,  the  *  Go-liar'  took  off  our  pas 
sengers,  and  we  ran  into  Smasher's  Landing  to 
repair  damages,  and  bury  the  poor  fools  that  were 
killed.  Here  we  laid  for  a  matter  of  thirty  hours 
or  so,  and  got  things  to  rights  on  board  for  a  bran 
new  start  There  was  some  carpenters'  work  yet 
to  be  done,  but  the  captain  said  that  that  might  be 
fixed  off  jist  as  well  when  we  were  under  way — 
we  had  worked  hard — 'the  weather  was  sour,  and 
we  needn't  do  any  thing  more  jist  now — we  might 
take  that  afternoon  to  ourselves,  but  the  next  morn 
ing  he'd  get  up  steam  bright  and  airly,  and  we'd 
all  come  out  new.  There  was  no  temperance 
society  at  Smasher's  Landing,  and  I  went  ashore 
upon  a  lark  with  some  of  the  hands." 

I  omit  the  worthy  Benjamin's  adventures  upon 
land,  and,  despairing  of  fully  conveying  his  lan 
guage  in  its  original  Doric  force,  will  not  hesitate 
to  give  the  rest  of  his  singular  narrative  in  my  own 
words,  juve  where,  in  a  few  instances,  I  can  recall 
his  pracise  phraseology,  which  the  reader  will 
easily  r»cogriise. 


*  The  i.ume  "Missouri"  is  thus  generally  pronounced 
upon  tic  vrestern  wateis. 


"  The  night  was  raw  and  sleety  when  I  regained 
the  deck  of  our  boat.  The  officers,  instead  of  leav 
ing  a  watch  above,  had  closed  up  every  thing,  and 
shut  themselves  in  the  cabin.  The  fire-room  only 
was  open.  The  boards  dashed  from  the  outside  by 
the  explosion  had  not  yet  been  replaced.  The  floor 
of  the  room  was  wet,  and  there  was  scarcely  a 
corner  which  afforded  a  shelter  from  the  driving 
storm.  I  was  about  leaving  the  room,  resigned  to 
sleep  in  the  open  air,  and  now  bent  only  upon  get 
ting  under  the  lee  of  some  bulkhead  that  would 
protect  me  against  the  wind.  In  passing  out  I 
kept  my  arms  stretched  forward  to  feel  my  way  in 
the  dark,  but  my  feet  came  in  contact  with  a  heavy 
iron  lid ;  I  stumbled,  and,  as  I  fell,  struck  one  of 
my  hands  into  the  '  manhole,'  (I  think  this  was  the 
name  he  gave  to  the  oval-shaped  opening  in  the 
head  of  the  boiler,)  through  which  the  smith  had 
entered  to  make  his  repairs.  I  fell  with  my  arm 
thrust  so  far  into  the  aperture  that  I  received  a 
pretty  smart  blow  in  the  face  as  it  came  in  contact 
with  the  head  of  the  boiler,  and  I  did  not  hesitate 
to  drag  my  body  after  it,  the  moment  I  recovered 
from  this  stunning  effect,  and  ascertained  my 
whereabouts.  In  a  word  I  crept  into  the  boiler, 
resolved  to  pass  the  rest  of  the  night  there.  The 
place  was  dry  and  sheltered.  Had  my  bed  been 
softer,  I  would  have  had  all  that  man  could  desire ; 
as  it  was,  I  slept,  and  slept  soundly. 

"  I  should  mention  though,  that,  before  closing 
my  eyes,  I  several  times  shifted  my  position.  I 
had  gone  first  to  the  farthest  end  of  the  boiler,  then 
again  I  had  crawled  back  to  the  manhole,  to  put 
my  hand  out  and  feel  that  it  was  really  still  open. 
The  warmest  place  was  at  the  farther  end,  where  I 
finally  established  myself,  and  that  I  knew  from 
the  first.  It  wa*s  foolish  in  me  to  think  that  the 
opening  through  which  I  had  just  entered  could  be 
closed  without  my  hearing  it,  and  that,  too,  when 
no  one  was  astir  but  myself;  but  the  blow  on  the 
side  of  my  face  made  me  a  little  nervous  perhaps ; 
besides,  I  never  could  bear  to  be  shut  up  in  any 
place — it  always  gives  a  wild-like  feeling  about  the 
head.  You  may  laugh,  Stranger,  but  I  believe  I 
should  suffocate  in  an  empty  church,  if  I  once  felt 
that  I  was  so  shut  up  in  it  that  I  could  not  get  out. 
I  have  met  men  afore  now  just  like  me,  or  worse 
rather — much  worse.  Men  that  it  made  sort  of 
furious  to  be  tied  down  to  any  thing,  yet  so  soft- 
like  and  contradictory  in  their  natures  that  you 
might  lead  them  anywhere  so  long  as  they  didn't 
feel  the  string.  Strarrger,  it  takes  all  sorts  of  peo 
ple  to  make  a  world !  and  we  may  have  a  good 
many  of  the  worst  kind  of  white-men  here  out  west. 
But  I  have  seen  folks  upon  this  river — quiet  look 
ing  chaps,  too,  as  ever  you  see — who  were  so  tee- 
totally  carankterankterous  that  they'd  shoot  the 
doctor  who'd  tell  them  they  couldn't  live  when 
ailing,  and  make  a  die  of  it,  just  out  of  spite,  when 
told  they  must  get  well.  Yes,  fellows  as  fond  of 
the  good  things  of  earth  as  you  and  I,  yet  who'd 
rush  like  mad  right  over  the  gang-plank  of  life,  if 
once  brought  to  believe  that  they  had  to  stay  in 
this  world  whether  they  wanted  to  leave  it  or  not. 
Thunder  and  bees !  if  such  a  fellow  as  that  had 


CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN. 


459 


heard  the  cocks  crow  as  I  did — awakened  to  find 
darkness  about  him — darkness  so  thick  you  might 
cut  it  with  a  knife — heard  other  sounds,  too,  to  tell 
that  it  was  morning,  and  scrambling  to  fumble  for 
that  manhole,  found  it,  too,  black — closed — black 
and  even  as  the  rest  of  the  iron  coffin  around  him, 
closed,  with  not  a  rivet-hole  to  let  God's  light  and 
air  in — why — why — -he'd  'a  swounded  right  down 
on  the  spot,  as  I  did,  and  I  ain't  ashamed  to  own 
it  to  no  white-man." 

The  big  drops  actually  stood  upon  the  poor  fel 
low's  brow,  as  he  now  paused  for  a  moment  in  the 
recital  of  his  terrible  story.  He  passed  his  hand 
over  his  rough  features,  and  resumed  it  with  less 
agitation  of  manner. 

"  How  long  I  may  have  remained  there  senseless 
I  don't  know.  The  doctors  have  since  told  me  it 
must  have  been  a  sort  of  fit — more  like  an  apoplexy 
than  a  swoon,  for  the  attack  finally  passed  off  in 
sleep. — Yes,  I  slept ;  I  know  that,  for  I  dreamed — 
dreamed  a  heap  o'  things  afore  I  awoke, — there  is 
but  one  dream,  however,  that  I  have  ever  been  able 
to  recall  distinctly,  and  that  must  have  come  on 
shortly  before  I  recovered  my  consciousness.  My 
resting-place  through  the  night  had  been,  as  I  have 
told  you,  at  the  far  end  of  the  boiler.  Well,  I  now 
dreamed  that  the  manhole  was  still  open — and, 
what  seems  curious,  rather  than  laughable,  if  you 
take  it  in  connection  with  other  things,  I  fancied 
that  my  legs  had  been  so  stretched  in  the  long  walk 
I  had  taken  the  evening  before,  that  they  now 
reached  the  whole  length  of  the  boiler,  and  ex 
tended  through  the  opening. 

"  At  first,  (in  my  dreaming  reflections,)  it  was  a 
comfortable  thought,  that  no  one  could  now  shut  up 
the  manhole  without  awakening  me.  But  soon  it 
seemed  as  if  my  feet,  which  were  on  the  outside, 
were  becoming  drenched  in  the  storm  which  had 
originally  driven  me  to  seek  this  shelter.  I  felt 
the  chilling  rain  upon  my  extremities.  They  grew 
colder  and  colder,  and  their  numbness  gradually 
extended  upward  to  other  parts  of  my  body.  It 
seemed,  however,  that  it  was  only  the  under  side 
of  my  person  that  was  thus  strangely  visited.  I 
laid  upon  my  back,  and  it  must  have  been  a  spe 
cies  of  nightmare  that  afflicted  me,  for  I  knew  at 
last  that  I  was  dreaming,  yet  felt  it  impossible  to 
rouse  myself.  A  violent  fit  of  coughing  restored, 
at  last,  my  powers  of  volition.  The  water,  which 
had  been  slowly  rising  around  me,  had  rushed  into 
my  mouth ;  I  awoke  to  hear  the  rapid  strokes  of 
the  pump  which  was  driving  it  into  the  boiler! 

«  My  whole  condition — no — not  all  of  it — not 
yet — my  present  condition  flashed  with  new  horror 
upon  me.  But  I  did  not  again  swoon.  The  chok 
ing  sensation  which  had  made  me  faint,  when  I 
first  discovered  how  I  was  entombed,  gave  way  to 
a  livelier,  though  less  overpowering  emotion.  I 
shrieked  even  as  I  started  from  my  slumber.  The 
previous  discovery  of  the  closed  aperture,  with  the 
instant  oblivion  that  followed,  seemed  only  a  part 
of  my  dream,  and  I  threw  my  arms  about  and 
looked  eagerly  for  the  opening  by  which  I  had  en 
tered  the  horrid  place — yes,  looked  for  it,  and  felt 
for  it,  though  it  was  the  terrible  conviction  that  it 


was  closed — a  second  time  Drought  home  to  me — 
which  prompted  my  frenzied  cry.  Every  s?nse 
seemed  to  have  tenfold  acuteness,  yet  not  one  to  act 
in  unison  with  another.  I  shrieked  again  and  again 
— imploringly — desperately — savagely.  I  filled  the 
hollow  chamber  with  my  cries,  till  its  iron  walls 
seemed  to  tingle  around  me.  The  dull  strokes  of 
the  accursed  pump  seemed  only  to  mock  at,  while 
they  deadened  my  screams. 

"  At  last  I  gave  myself  up.  It  is  the  struggle 
against  our  fate  which  frenzies  the  mind.  We 
cease  to  fear  when  we  cease  to  hope.  I  gave  my 
self  up,  and  then  I  grew  calm ! 

"  I  was  resigned  to  die — resigned  even  to  my 
mode  of  death.  It  was  not,  I  thought,  so  very  new 
after  all,  as  to  awaken  unwonted  horror  in  a  man. 
Thousands  have  been  sunk  to  the  bottom  of  the 
ocean  shut  up  in  the  holds  of  vessels — beating 
themselves  against  the  battened  hatches — dragged 
down  from  the  upper  world  shrieking,  not  for  life, 
but  for  death  only  beneath  the  eye  and  amid  the 
breath  of  heaven.  Thousands  have  endured  that 
appalling  kind  of  suffocation.  I  would  die  only  as 
many  a  better  man  had  died  before  me.  I  could 
meet  such  a  death.  I  said  so — I  thought  so — I  felt 
so — felt  so,  I  mean,  for  a  minute — or  more ;  ten 
minutes  it  may  have  been — or  but  an  instant  of 
time.  I  know  not — nor  does  it  matter  if  I  could 
compute  it.  There  was  a  time,  then,  when  I  was 
resigned  to  my  fate.  But,  good  God  !  was  I  re 
signed  to  it  in  the  shape  in  which  next  it  came  to 
appal  ]  Stranger,  I  felt  that  water  growing  hot 
about  my  limbs,  though  it  was  yet  mid-leg  deep. 
I  felt  it,  and,  in  the  same  moment,  heard  the  roar 
of  the  furnace  that  was  to  turn  it  into  steam  before 
it  could  get  deep  enough  to  drown  one ! 

"  You  shudder, — It  was  hideous.  But  did  I 
shrink  and  shrivel,  and  crumble  down  upon  that 
iron  floor,  and  lose  my  senses  in  that  horrid  agony 
of  fear  ] — No ! — though  my  brain  swam  and  the 
life-blood  that  curdled  at  my  heart  seemed  about 
to  stagnate  there  for  ever,  still  /  knew  !  I  was  too 
hoarse — too  hopeless,  from  my  previous  efforts,  to 
cry  out  more.  But  I  struck — feebly  at  first,  and 
then  strongly — frantically  with  my  clenched  fist 
against  the  sides  of  the  boiler.  There  were  peo 
ple  moving  near  who  must  hear  my  blows !  Could 
not  I  hear  the  grating  of  chains,  the  shuffling  of 
feet,  the  very  rustle  of  a  rope — hear  them  all,  within 
a  few  inches  of  me  1  I  did — but  the  gurgling  wa 
ter  that  was  growing  hotter  and  hotter  around  my 
extremities,  made  more  noise  within  the  steaming 
chaldron,  than  did  my  frenzied  blows  against  its  sides. 

«  Latterly  I  had  hardly  changed  my  position,  but 
now  the  growing  heat  of  the  water  made  me  plash 
to  and  fro ;  lifting  myself  wholly  out  of  it  was  im 
possible,  but  I  could  not  remain  quiet.  I  stumbled 
upon  something — it  was  a  mallet ! — a  chance  tool 
the  smith  had  left  there  by  accident.  With  what 
wild  joy  did  I  seize  it — with  what  eager  confidence 
did  I  now  deal  my  first  blows  with  it  against  the 
walls  of  my  prison  !  But  scarce  had  I  intermitted 
them  for  a  moment  when  I  heard  the  clang  of  the 
iron  door  as  the  fireman  flung  it  wide  to  feed  the 
flames  that  were  to  torture  me.  My  knocking  was 


460 


CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN. 


unheard,  though  I  cauld  hear  him  toss  the  sticks 
into  the  furnace  beneath  me,  and  drive  to  the  door 
when  his  infernal  oven  was  fully  crammed. 

"  Had  I  yet  a  hope  1  I  had,  but  it  rose  in  my 
mind  side  by  side  with  the  fear  that  I  might  now 
become  the  agent  of  preparing  myself  a  more 
frightful  death — Yes!  when  I  thought  of  that  fur 
nace  with  its  fresh-fed  flames  curling  beneath  the 
iron  upon  which  I  stood — a  more  frightful  death 
even  than  that  of  being  boiled  alive  !  Had  I  dis 
covered  that  mallet  but  a  short  time  sooner — but 
no  matter,  I  would  by  its  aid  resort  to  the  only 
expedient  now  left. 

"  It  was  this : — I  remembered  having  a  marline- 
spike  in  my  pocket,  and  in  less  time  than  I  have 
taken  in  hinting  at  the  consequences  of  thus  using 
it,  I  had  made  an  impression  upon  the  sides  of  the 
boiler,  and  soon  succeeded  in  driving  it  through. 
The  water  gushed  through  the  aperture — would 
they  see  it  ? — No  ;  the  jet  could  only  play  against 
a  wooden  partition  which  must  hide  the  stream 
from  view — it  must  trickle  down  upon  the  decks 
before  the  leakage  would  be  discovered.  Should  I 
drive  another  hole  to  make  that  leakage  greater1? 
Why,  the  water  within  seemed  already  to  be  sensibly 
diminished — so  hot  had  become  that  which  re 
mained — should  more  escape,  would  I  not  hear  it 
bubble  and  hiss  upon  the  fiery  plates  of  iron  that 
were  already  scorching  the  soles  of  my  feet  1 

"  Ah !  there  is  a  movement — voices — I  hear  them 
calling  for  a  crowbar : — The  bulkhead  cracks  as 
they  pry  off  the  planking.  They  have  seen  the 
leak — they  are  trying  to  get  at  it ! — Good  God  ! 
why  do  they  not  first  dampen  the  fire  1 — Why  do 
they  call  for  the — the — 

"  Stranger,  look  at  that  finger !  it  can  never  re 
gain  its  natural  size — but  it  has  already  done  all 
the  service  that  man  could  expect  from  so  humble 
a  member — Sir,  that  hole  would  have  been  plugged 
up  on  the  instant,  unless  /  had  jammed  my  finger 
through  ! 

"  I  heard  the  cry  of  horror  as  they  saw  it  with 
out — the  shout  to  drown  the  fire — the  first  stroke 
of  the  cold  water-pump.  They  say,  too,  that  I 
was  conscious  when  they  took  me  out — but  I — I 
remember  nothing  more  till  they  brought  a  julep 
to  my  bed-side  arterwards,  AND  that  julep  ! — " 

"Cooling !  was  it]" 


Ben  turned  away  his  head  and  wept — He  could 
no  more. 

THE  FLYING  HEAD. 
A  LEGEND  OF  SACONDAGA  LAKE. 

FROM   WILD   SCENES  IN  THE   FOREST   AND   PRAIRIE. 


t:The  Great  God  hath  sent  us  signs  in  the  sky!  we 
have  heard  uncommon  noise  in  the  heavens,  and  have 
seen  HEADS  fall  down  upon  the  eanh!"  Speech  of  Tahaya- 
rfom,  a  Mohawk  sachem,  at  Albany,  Oct.  25th,  1689. — COL- 
DEN'S  Five  Nations. 

It  hath  tell-tale  tongues; — this  casing  air 

That  walls  us  in — and  their  wandering  breath 
Will  whisper  the  horror  everywhere. 

That  clings  to  that  ruthless  deed  of  death. 
And  a  vengeful  eye  from  the  gory  tide 
Will  open  to  blast  the  parricide. 

THE  country  about  the  head-waters  of  the  great 


Mohegan,  (as  the  Hudson  is  sometimes  called,) 
though  abounding  in  game  and  fish,  was  never,  in 
the  recollection  of  the  oldest  Indians  living,  nor  in 
that  of  their  fathers'  fathers,  the  permanent  resi 
dence  of  any  one  tribe.  From  the  black  mountain 
tarns,  where  the  eastern  fork  takes  its  rise,  to  the 
silver  strand  of  Lake  Pleasant,  through  which  the 
western  branch  makes  its  way  after  rising  in  Sacon- 
daga  Lake,  the  wilderness  that  intervenes,  and  all 
the  mountains  round  about  the  fountain-heads  of 
the  great  river,  have,  from  time  immemorial,  been 
infested  by  a  class  of  beings  with  whom  no  good 
man  would  ever  wish  to  come  in  contact. 

The  young  men  of  the  Mohawk  have,  indeed, 
often  traversed  it,  when,  in  years  gone  by,  they  went 
on  the  war  path  after  the  hostile  tribes  of  the  north ; 
and  the  scattered  and  wandering  remnants  of  their 
people,  with  an  occasional  hunting-party  from  the 
degenerate  bands  that  survive  at  St.  Regis,  will  yet 
occasionally  be  tempted  over  these  haunted  grounds 
in  quest  of  the  game  that  still,  finds  a  refuge  in  that 
mountain  region.  The  evil  shapes  that  were  for 
merly  so  troublesome  to  the  red  hunter,  seem,  in 
these  later  days,  to  have  become  less  restless  at  his 
presence;  and,  whether  it  be  that  the  day  of  their 
power  has  gone  by,  or  that  their  vindictiveness  has 
relented  at  witnessing  the  fate  which  seems  to  be 
universally  overtaking  the  people  whom  they  once 
delighted  to  persecute — certain  it  is,  that  the  few 
Indians  who  now  find  their  way  to  this  part  of  the 
country  are  never  molested,  except  by  the  white 
settlers  who  are  slowly  extending  their  clearings 
among  the  wild  hills  of  the  north. 

The  "  FLYING  HEAD,"  which  is  supposed  to  have 
first  driven  the  original  possessors  of  these  hunting- 
grounds,  whosoever  they  were,  from  their  homes, 
and  which,  as  long  as  tradition  runneth  back,  in  the 
old  day  before  the  whites  came  hither,  guarded  them 
from  the  occupancy  of  every  neighbouring  tribe, 
has  not  been  seen  for  many  years  by  any  credible 
witness,  though  there  are  those  who  insist  that  it 
has  more  than  once  appeared  to  them,  hovering, 
as  their  fathers  used  to  describe  it,  over  the  lake  in 
which  it  first  had  its  birth.  The  existence  of  this 
fearful  monster,  however,  has  never  been  disputed. 
Rude  representations  of  it  are  still  occasionally  met 
with  in  the  crude  designs  of  those  degenerate  abo 
rigines  who  earn  a  scant  subsistence  by  making 
birchen  baskets  and  ornamented  pouches  for  such 
travellers  as  are  curious  in  their  manufacture  of 
wampum  and  porcupine  quills;  and  the  origin  and 
history  of  the  Flying  Head  survives,  while  even 
the  name  of  the  tribe  whose  crimes  first  called  it 
into  existence,  has  passed  away  for  ever. 

It  was  a  season  of  great  severity  with  that  forgot 
ten  people  whose  council-fires  were  lighted  on  the 
mountain  promontory  that  divides  Sacondaga  from 
the  sister  lake  into  which  it  discharges  itself.* 

A  long  and  severe  winter,  with  but  little  snow, 
had  killed  the  herbage  at  its  roots,  and  the  moose 
and  deer  had  trooped  off  to  the  more  luxuriant 

*  A  hamlet  is  now  growing  up  on  this  beautiful  moun 
tain  slope,  and  the  scenery  in  the  vicinity  is  likely  to  be 
soon  better  known,  from  the  late  establishment  of  a  line 
of  post-coaches  between  Sacondaga  Lake  and  Saratoga 
Springs. 


CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN. 


461 


pastures  along  the  Mohawk,  whither  the  hunters 
of  the  hills  dared  not  follow  them.  The  fishing, 
too,  failed ;  and  the  famine  became  so  devouring 
among  the  mountains,  that  whole  families,  who  had 
no  hunters  to  provide  for  them,  perished  outright. 
The  young  men  would  no  longer  throw  the  slender 
product  of  the  chase  into  the  common  stock,  and 
the  women  and  children  had  to  maintain  life  as 
well  as  they  could  upon  the  roots  and  berries  the 
woods  afforded  them. 

The  sufferings  of  the  tribe  became  at  length  so 
galling,  that  the  young  and  enterprising  began  to 
talk  of  migrating  from  the  ancient  seat  of  their 
people ;  and,  as  it  was  impossible,  surrounded  as 
they  were  by  hostile  tribes,  merely  to  shift  their 
hunting-grounds  for  a  season  and  return  to  them 
at  some  more  auspicious  period,  it  was  proposed 
that  if  they  could  effect  a  secret  march  to  the  great 
lake  off  to  the  west  of  them,  they  should  launch 
their  canoes  upon  Ontario,  and  all  move  away  to 
a  new  home  beyond  its  broad  waters.  The  wild 
rice,  of  which  some  had  been  brought  into  their 
country  by  a  runner  from  a  distant  nation,  would, 
they  thought,  support  them  in  their  perilous  voy 
age  along  the  shores  of  the  great  water,  where  it 
grows  in  such  profusion ;  and  they  believed  that, 
once  safely  beyond  the  lake,  it  would  be  easy  enough 
to  find  a  new  home  abounding  in  game  upon  those 
flowery  plains  which,  as  they  had  heard,  lay  like  one 
immense  garden  beyond  the  chain  of  inland  seas. 

The  old  men  of  the  tribe  were  indignant  at  the 
bare  suggestion  of  leaving  the  bright  streams  arid 
sheltered  valleys,  amid  which  their  spring-time  of 
life  had  passed  so  happily.  They  doubted  the  ex 
istence  of  the  garden  regions  of  which  their  chil 
dren  spoke ;  and  they  thought  that  if  there  were 
indeed  such  a  country,  it  was  madness  to  attempt 
to  reach  it  in  the  way  proposed.  They  said,  too, 
that  the  famine  was  a  scourge  which  the  Master 
of  Life  inflicted  upon  his  people  for  their  crimes ; 
that  if  its  pains  were  endured  with  the  constancy 
and  firmness  that  became  warriors,  the  visitation 
would  soon  pass  away ;  but  that  those  who  fled 
from  it  would  only  war  with  their  destiny,  and  that 
chastisement  would  follow  them,  in  some  shape, 
wheresoever  they  might  flee.  Finally,  they  added 
that  they  would  rather  perish  by  inches  on  their 
native  hills — -they  would  rather  die  that  moment, 
than  leave  them  for  ever,  to  revel  in  plenty  upon 
stranger  plains. 

"  Be  it  so ;  they  have  spoken !"  exclaimed  a  fierce 
and  insolent  youth,  springing  to  his  feet  and  casting 
a  furious  glance  around  the  council  as  the  aged  chief, 
who  had  thus  addressed  it,  resumed  his  seat.  "  Be 
the  dotard's  words  their  own,  my  brothers;  let  them 
die  for  the  crimes  they  have  even  now  acknow 
ledged.  We  know  of  none ;  our  unsullied  summers 
have  nothing  to  blush  for.  It  is  they  that  have 
drawn  this  curse  upon  our  people :  it  is  for  them 
that  our  vitals  are  consuming  with  anguish,  while 
our  strength  wastes  away  in  the  search  of  suste 
nance  we  cannot  find  ;  or  which,  when  found,  we 
are  compelled  to  share  with  those  for  whose  mis 
deeds  tin  Great  Spirit  hath  placed  it  far  from  us. 
They  have  spoken — let  them  die.  Let  them  die, 


if  we  are  to  remain  to  appease  the  angry  Spirit ; 
and  the  food  that  now  keeps  life  lingering  in  their 
shrivelled  and  useless  carcases,  may  then  nerve  the 
limbs  of  our  young  hunters,  or  keep  our  children 
from  perishing.  Let  them  die,  if  we  are  to  move 
hence,  for  their  presence  will  but  bring  a  curse 
upon  our  path:  tfteir  worn-out  frames  will  give 
way  upon  the  march ;  and  the  raven  that  hovers 
over  their  corses  will  guide  our  enemies  to  the  spot, 
and  scent  them  like  wolves  upon  our  trail.  Let 
them  die,  my  brothers;  and,  because  they  are  still 
our  tribesmen,  let  us  give  them  the  death  of  war 
riors,  and  that  before  we  leave  this  ground." 

And  with  these  words  the  young  barbarian,  peal 
ing  forth  a  ferocious  whoop,  buried  his  tomahawk 
in  the  head  of  the  old  man  nearest  to  him.  The 
infernal  yell  was  echoed  on  every  side ;  a  dozen 
flint  hatchets  were  instantly  raised  by  as  many  re 
morseless  arms,  and  the  massacre  was  wrought 
before  one  of  those  thus  horribly  sacrificed  could 
interpose  a  plea  of  mercy.  But  for  mercy  they 
would  not  have  pleaded,  had  opportunity  been 
afforded  them ;  for  even  in  the  moment  that  inter 
vened  between  the  cruel  sentence  and  its  execution, 
they  managed  to  show  that  stern  resignation  to  the 
decrees  of  fate  which  an  Indian  warrior  ever  ex 
hibits  when  death  is  near ;  and  each  of  the  seven 
old  men  that  perished  thus  barbarously,  drew  his 
wolf-skin  mantle  around  his  shoulders  and  nodded 
his  head,  as  if  inviting  the  death-blow  that  fol 
lowed. 

The  parricidal  deed  was  done !  and  it  now  be 
came  a  question  how  to  dispose  of  the  remains  of 
those  whose  lamp  of  life,  while  twinkling  in  the 
socket,  had  been-  thus  fearfully  quenched  for  ever. 
The  act,  though  said  to  have  been  of  not  unfre- 
quent  occurrence  among  certain  Indian  tribes  at 
similar  exigencies,  was  one  utterly  abhorrent  to  the 
nature  of  most  of  our  aborigines ;  who,  from  their 
earliest  years,  are  taught  the  deepest  veneration  for 
the  aged.  In  the  present  instance,  likewise,  it  had 
been  so  outrageous  a  perversion  of  their  customary 
views  of  duty  among  this  simple  people,*  that  it 
was  thought  but  proper  to  dispense  with  their 
wonted  mode  of  sepulture,  and  dispose  of  the  vic 
tims  of  famine  and  fanaticism  in  some  peculiar 
manner.  They  wished  in  some  way  to  sanctify  the 
deed,  by  offering  up  the  bodies  of  the  slaughtered 
to  the  Master  of  Life,  and  that  without  dishonour 
ing  the  dead.  It  was,  therefore,  agreed  to  decapi 
tate  the  bodies  and  burn  them  ;  and  as  the  nobler 
part  could  not,  when  thus  dissevered,  be  buried 
with  the  usual  forms,  it  was  determined  to  sink  the 
heads  together  to  the  bottom  of  the  lake. 

The  soulless  trunks  were  accordingly  consumed, 
and  the  ashes  scattered  to  the  winds.  The  heads 
were  then  deposited  singly,  in  separate  canoes, 
which  were  pulled  off  in  a  kind  of  procession  from 
the  shore.  The  young  chief  who  had  suggested  the 
bloody  scene  of  the  sacrifice,  rowed  in  advance,  in 
order  to  designate  the  spot  where  they  were  to  dis 
burden  themselves  of  their  gory  freight.  Resting 
then  upon  his  oars,  he  received  each  head  in  suc 
cession  from  his  companions,  and  proceeded  to  tie 
them  together  by  their  scalp-locks,  in  order  to  sink 
2Q2 


462 


CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN. 


the  whole,  with  a  huge  stone,  to  the  bottom.  But 
the  vengeance  of  the  Master  of  Life  overtook  the 
wretch  before  his  horrid  office  was  accomplished ; 
for  no  sooner  did  he  receive  the  last  head  into  his 
canoe  than  it  began  to  sink,  his  feet  became  en 
tangled  in  the  hideous  chain  he  had  been  knotting 
together,  and,  before  his  horW-stricken  com 
panions  could  come  to  his  rescue,  he  was  dragged, 
shrieking,  to  the  bottom.  The  others  waited  not 
to  see  the  water  settle  over  him,  but  pulled  with 
their  whole  strength  for  the  shore. 

The  morning  dawned  calmly  upon  that  unhal 
lowed  water,  which  seemed  at  first  to  show  no 
traces  of  the  deed  it  had  witnessed  the  night  before. 
But  gradually,  as  the  sun  rose  up  higher,  a  few 
gory  bubbles  appeared  to  float  over  one  smooth  and 
turbid  spot,  which  the  breeze  never  crisped  into  a 
ripple.  The  parricides  sat  on  the  bank  watching  it 
all  the  day  ;  but  sluggish,  as  at  first,  that  sullen  blot 
upon  the  fresh  blue  surface  still  remained.  Another 
day  passed  over  their  heads,  and  the  thick  stain  was 
yet  there.  On  the  third  day  the  floating  slime  took 
a  greener  hue,  as  if  coloured  by  the  festering  mass 
beneath ;  but  coarse  fibres  of  darker  dye  marbled 
its  surface ;  and  on  the  fourth  day  these  began  to 
tremble  along  the  water  like  weeds  growing  from 
the  bottom,  or  the  long  tresses  of  a  woman's  scalp 
floating  in  a  pool  when  no  wind  disturbs  it.  The 
fifth  morning  came,  and  the  conscience-stricken 
watchers  thought  that  the  spreading-scalp — for 
such  now  all  agreed  it  was — had  raised  itself  from 
the  water,  and  become  rounded  at  the  top,  as  if 
there  were  a  head  beneath  it.  Some  thought,  too, 
that  they  could  discover  a  pair  of  hideous  eyes 
glaring  beneath  the  dripping  locks.  They  looked 
on  the  sixth,  and  there  indeed  was  a  monstrous 
HEAD  floating  upon  the  surface,  as  if  anchored  to 
the  spot,  around  which  the  water — notwithstand 
ing  a  blast  which  swept  the  lake — was  calm  and 
motionless  as  ever. 

Those  bad  Indians  then  wished  to  fly ;  but  the 
doomed  parricides  had  not  now  the  courage  to  en 
counter  the  warlike  bands  through  which  they  must 
make  their  way  in  fleeing  from  their  native  valley. 
They  thought,  too,  that,  as  nothing  about  the  head, 
except  the  eyes,  had  motion,  it  could  not  harm  them, 
resting  quietly,  as  it  did,  upon  the  bosom  of  the 
waters.  And,  though  it  was  dreadful  to  have  that 
hideous  gaze  fixed  for  ever  upon  their  dwellings, 
yet  they  thought  that  if  the  Master  of  Life  meant 
this  as  an  expiation  for  their  phrenzied  deed,  they 
would  strive  to  live  on  beneath  those  unearthly 
glances  without  shrinking  or  complaint. 

But  a  strange  alteration  had  taken  place  in  the 
floating  head  on  the  morning  of  the  seventh  day. 
A  pair  of  broad  wings,  ribbed,  like  those  of  a  bat, 
and  with  claws  appended  to  each  tendon,  had  grown 
out  during  the  night ;  and,  buoyed  up  by  these,  it 
seemed  to  be  now  resting  on  the  water.  The  water 
itself  appeared  to  ripple  more  briskly  near  it,  as  if 
joyous  that  it  was  about  to  be  relieved  of  its  un 
natural  burden  ;  but  still,  for  hours,  the  head  main 
tained  its  first  position.  At  last  the  wind  began  to 
rise,  and,  driving  through  the  trough  of  the  waves, 
beneath  their  expanded  membrane,  raised  the 


wings  from  the  surface,  and  seemed  for  the  first 
time  to  endow  them  with  vitality.  They  flapped 
harshly  once  or  twice  upon  the  billows,  and  the 
head  rose  slowly  and  heavily  from  the  lake. 

An  agony  of  fear  seized  upon  the  gazing  parri 
cides,  but  the  supernatural  creation  made  no  move 
ment  to  injure  them.  It  only  remained  balancing 
itself  over  the  lake,  and  casting  a  shadow  from  its 
wings  that  wrapped  the  valley  in  gloom.  But 
dreadful  was  it  beneath  their  withering  shade  to 
watch  that  terrific  monster,  hovering  like  a  falcon 
for  the  stoop,  and  know  not  upon  what  victim  it 
might  descend.  It  was  then  that  they  who  had 
sown  the  gory  seed  from  which  it  sprung  to  life, 
with  one  impulse  sought  to  escape  its  presence  by 
flight.  Herding  together  like  a  troop  of  deer  when 
the  panther  is  prowling  by,  they  rushed  in  a  body 
from  the  scene.  But  the  flapping  of  the  demon 
pinions  was  soon  heard  behind  them,  and  the 
winged  head  was  henceforth  on  their  track  where 
soever  it  led. 

In  vain  did  they  cross  one  mountain  barrier  after 
another,  plunge  into  the  rocky  gorge,  or  thread 
the  mazy  swamp,  to  escape  their  fiendish  watcher. 
The  Flying  Head  would  rise  on  tireless  wings 
over  the  loftiest  summit,  or  dart  in  arrowy  flight 
through  the  narrowest  passages  without  furling  its 
pinions:  while  their  sullen  threshing  would  be 
heard  even  in  those  vine-webbed  thickets  where 
the  little  ground  bird  can  scarcely  make  its  way. 
The  very  caverns  of  the  earth  were  no  protection 
to  the  parricides  from  its  presence ;  for  scarcely 
would  they  think  they  had  found  a  refuge  in  some 
sparry  cell,  when,  poised  midway  between  the 
ceiling  and  the  floor,  they  would  behold  the  Flying 
Head  glaring  upon  them.  Sleeping  or  waking, 
the  monster  was  ever  near ;  they  paused  to  rest, 
but  the  rushing  of  its  wings,  as  it  swept  around 
their  resting-place  in  never-ending  circles,  pre 
vented  them  from  finding  forgetfulness  in  repose ; 
or  if,  in  spite  of  those  blighting  pinions  that  ever 
fanned  them,  fatigue  did  at  moments  plunge  them 
in  uneasy  slumbers,  the  glances  of  the  Flying 
Head  would  pierce  their  very  eyelids,  and  steep 
their  dreams  in  horror. 

What  was  the  ultimate  fate  of  that  band  of  par 
ricides,  no  one  has  ever  known.  Some  say  that  the 
Master  of  Life  kept  them  always  young,  in  order 
that  their  capability  of  suffering  might  never  wear 
out ;  and  these  insist  that  the  Flying  Head  is  still 
pursuing  them  over  the  great  prairies  of  the  far- 
west.  Others  aver  that  the  glances  of  the  Flying 
Head  turned  each  of  them  gradually  into  stone; 
and  these  say  that  their  forms,  though  altered  by 
the  wearing  of  the  rains  in  the  lapse  of  long  years, 
may  still  be  recognised  in  those  upright  rocks 
which  stand  like  human  figures  along  the  shores 
of  some  of  the  neighbouring  lakes ;  though  most  ' 
Indians  have  another  way  of  accounting  for  these 
figures.  Certain  it  is,  however,  that  the  Flying 
Head  always  comes  back  to  this  part  of  the  coun 
try  about  the  times  of  the  equinox ;  and  some  say 
even  that  you  may  always  hear  the  flapping  of  its 
wings  whenever  such  a  storm  as  that  we  have  just 
weathered  is  brewing. 


CAROLINE  M.  KIRKLAND. 


[Born  18— .    Died  1864.] 


MRS.  KIRKLAND,  formerly  Miss  Caroline 
M.  Stansbury,  is  a  native,  I  believe,  of  New 
York.  On  her  marriage  with  the  late  amiable 
and  accomplished  William  Kirkland,*  soon 
after  his  return  from  Europe,  (where  he  had 
spent  some  time  for  the  purpose  of  improv 
ing  his  knowledge  of  modern  languages,)  he 
resigned  a  professorship  which  he  held  in 
Hamilton  College,  and  established  a  school  in 
the  beautiful  village  of  Geneva,  on  the  Seneca 
Lake,  where  they  resided  several  years.  They 
subsequently  removed  into  Michigan,  where 
Mrs.  Kirkland  wrote  A  New  Home :  Who'll 
Follow?  or  Glimpses  of  Western  Life,  by 
Mrs.  Mary  Clavers,  an  Actual  Settler,  and  Fo 
rest  Life,  the  first  of  which  was  published  in 
1839,  and  the  last  in  1842.  No  works  of  their 
class  were  ever  more  brilliantly  successful 
than  these  original  and  admirable  pictures  of 
frontier  scenery,  woodcraft,  and  domestic  ex 
perience.  For  genial  humour,  graphic  de 
scription,  and  shrewd  sense,  "  Mrs.  Clavers" 
proved  herself  equal  to  any  writers  of  her  sex, 
while  in  delicacy,  nice  perception  of  character, 
and  all  the  more  feminine  qualities  of  author 
ship,  there  was  no  one  in  this  country  at  least 
to  be  preferred  to  her.  In  1845  she  published 

*  William  Kirkland,  son  of  the  Honourable  Joseph 
Kirkland,  was  born  in  New  Hartford,  near  Utica,  in  New 
York,  in  the  year  1800.  He  was  originally  educated  for 
the  ministry,  but  some  conscientious  scruples  kept  him 
from  entering  upon  its  sacred  duties,  and  he  was  ap 
pointed  first  a  tutor  and  then  a  professor  in  Hamilton 
College.  He  visited  Kurope  for  the  gratification  of  a  li 
beral  curiosity,  and  to  gain  a  more  perfect  mastery  of  the 
languages  of  the  continent,  and  while  abroad  resided 
nearly  two  years  in  Gottingen.  He  removed  to  New 
York,  from  Michigan,  in  1842,  and  in  that  city  devoted  his 
attention  chiefly  to  literature.  In  October,  1846,  he  es 
tablished  a  religious  journal  which  promised  to  be  very 
successful;  but  on  the  nineteenth  of  that  month  his  friends 
were  surprised  by  the  intelligence  of  his  sudden  and  me 
lancholy  death.  His  body  was  on  that  day  recovered  from 
the  Hudson  river,  near  Fishkill.  He  was  returning  from 
a  visit  to  his  little  son.  in  the  neighbourhood  of  New- 
burgh,  the  previous  evening,  and  being  deaf  and  very 
near-sighted,  he  probably  made  a  nvsstep  in  the  dark, 
fell  into  the  river,  and  was  rapidly  swept  away  by  the 
current,  while  the  noise  of  the  departing  boat  prevented 
those  on  board  from  hearing  any  cries  for  assistance. 
He  was  a  fine  scholar,an  elegant  and  able  writer,and  was 
very  much  beloved  for  his  many  gentlemanly  qualities. 


Western  Clearings,  a  collection  of  tales  and 
sketches  illustrative  of  the  same  sort  of  life. 
It  has  the  strength,  freshness,  effect  and  bril 
liancy,  which  we  associate  with  the  best  con 
ception  of  our  native  character,  and  is  uni 
formly  saved  from  those  kindred  faults  which 
lie  so  fatally  near  to  this  bold  class  of  virtues, 
by  the  inborn  refinement,  practised  taste,  rea 
dy  tact,  and  varied  resources  which  are  her  spe 
cial  and  rare  accomplishment.  In  the  rough 
est  scenes  she  is  never  coarse;  amidst  the  least 
cultivated  society  she  never  is  vulgar.  She 
interests  us  in  the  wild  men  and  in  the  wild 
occurrences  of  border  life,  by  identifying  them 
with  the  fortunes  and  feelings  of  that  humani 
ty  of  which  we  are  a  part.  Her  sympathies 
are  sensitive  and  various  in  their  range,  but 
always  sound  and  healthful,  and  neither  extra 
vagant  in  their  objects  nor  excessive  in  their 
degree.  The  constant  presence  of  strong  ac 
tive  sense  on  the  part  of  the  author  carries  us 
through  the  monotonous  incidents  of  western 
settlement  with  animation,  amusement  and 
instruction.  These  narratives  have  through 
out  that  simplicity,  vigour,  and  inherent  beau 
ty,  which  a  superior  mind,  if  it  be  faithful  to 
the  great  law  of  genuineness  and  honesty,  ne 
ver  fails  of  attaining  in  its  representations  of 
the  actual.  Laying  aside  factitious  models, 
and  seeking  only  to  apprehend  the  subject 
before  her  in  its  just  and  permanent  charac 
teristics,  and  to  express  those  views  with  sin 
cerity  and  directness,  Mrs.  Kirkland  has  at 
tained  a  success  which  may  well  serve  as  a 
monitor  and  guide  to  those  who,  upon  less 
judicious  plans,  are  labouring  to  create  an 
American  literature.  There  is  but  one  way 
in  which  we  can  be,  rightly  and  advan 
tageously,  free  from  the  tyranny  of  British 
examples.  Truth  of  understanding  and  truth 
of  feeling  must  be  the  only  directors  to  real 
excellence  in  untried  courses. 

She  also  wrote,  Essay  on  Spenser  ;  Holidays 
Abroad ;  The  Evening  Book ;  Home  Book  of 
Beauty  ;  A  Book  for  the  Home  Circle  ;  The 
Helping  Hand  ;  Autumn  Hours  ;  Garden  Walks 
with  the  Poets  ;  and  Memoirs  of  Washington 
She  died  in  April,  1864.  463 


464 


CAROLINE    M.    KIRKLAND. 


MR.  AND  MRS.  DOUBLED  AY. 

FROM   A   NEW   HOME. 

i  HAVE  been  frequently  reminded  of  one  of 
Johnson's  humorous  sketches.  A  man  returning 
a  broken  wheelbarrow  to  a  Quaker,  with  "Here, 
I've  broke  your  rotten  wheelbarrow,  usin'  on  't.  I 
wish  you'd  get  it  mended  right  off,  'cause  I  want 
to  borrow  it  again  this  afternoon."  The  Quaker 
is  made  to  reply,  "Friend,  it  shall  be  done;"  and 
I  wish  I  possessed  more  of  his  spirit. 

But  I  did  not  intend  to  write  a  chapter  on  invo 
luntary  loans ;  I  have  a  story  to  tell. 

One  of  my  best  neighbours  is  Mr.  Philo  Double- 
day,  a  long,  awkward,  honest,  hard-working  Maine- 
man,  or  Mainiote,  I  suppose  one  might  say;  so 
good-natured,  that  he  might  be  mistaken  for  a  sim 
pleton  ;  but  that  must  be  by  those  that  do  not  know 
him.  He  is  quite  an  old  settler,  came  in  four  years 
ago,  bringing  with  him  a  wife,  who  is  to  him  as 
vinegar-bottle  to  oil-cruet,  or  as  mustard  to  the  su 
gar,  which  is  used  to  soften  its  biting  qualities. 
Mrs.  Doubleday  has  the  sharpest  eyes,  the  sharp 
est  nose,  the  sharpest  tongue,  the  sharpest  elbows, 
and,  above  all,  the  sharpest  voice,  that  ever  «  pene 
trated  the  interior"  of  Michigan.  She  has  a  tall, 
straight,  bony  figure,  in  contour  somewhat  resem 
bling  two  hard-oak  planks  fastened  together  and 
stood  on  end ;  and,  strange  to  say !  she  was  full 
five-and-thirty  when  her  mature  graces  attracted 
the  eye  and  won  the  affections  of  the  worthy  Philo. 
What  eclipse  had  come  over  Mr.Doubleday's  usual 
sagacity,  when  he  made  choice  of  his  Polly,  I  am 
sure  I  never  could  guess ;  but  he  is  certainly  the 
only  man  in  the  wide  world  who  could  possibly 
have  lived  with  her ;  and  he  makes  her  a  most  ex 
cellent  husband. 

She  is  possessed  with  a  neat  devil ;  I  have  known 
many  such  cases ;  her  floor  is  scoured  every  night, 
after  all  are  in  bed  but  the  unlucky  scrubber,  Bet 
sey,  tho  maid  of  all  work ;  and  wo  to  the  unfor 
tunate  "indiffidle,"  as  neighbour  Jenkins  says,  who 
first  sets  dirty  boot  on  it  in  the  morning.  If  men 
come  in  to  talk  over  road  business,  for  Philo  is  much 
sought  when  "  the  public"  has  any  work  to  do,  or 
school  business,  for  that,  being  very  troublesome, 
and  quite  devoid  of  profit,  is  often  conferred  upon 
Philo,  Mrs.  Doubleday  makes  twenty  errands  into 
the  room,  expressing  in  her  visage  all  the  force  of 
Mrs.  Raddle's  inquiry,  "Is  them  wretches  going1?" 
And  when,  at  length,  their  backs  are  turned,  out 
comes  the  bottled  vengeance.  The  sharp  eyes, 
tongue,  elbow,  and  voice,  are  all  in  instant  requi 
sition. 

"  Fetch  the  broom,  Betsey  !  and  the  scrub-broom, 
Letsey !  and  the  mop,  and  that  'ere  dish  of  soap, 
Betsey !  And  why  on  earth  didn't  you  bring  some 
ashes'?  You  didn't  expect  to  clean  such  a  floor  as 
this  without  ashes,  did  you?" — "  What  time  are 
you  going  to  have  dinner,  my  dear  1"  says  the  im 
perturbable  Philo,  who  is  getting  ready  to  go  out. 

"  Dinner !  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  !  there's  no 
time  to  cook  dinner  in  this  house !  nothing  but 
slave,  slave,  slave,  from  morning  till  night,  clean 
ing  up  after  a  set  of  nasty,  dirty,"  &c.,  &c. 


"Phew!"  says  Mr.  Doubleday,  looking  at  his 
fuming  help-mate  with  a  calm  smile,  "  It'ill  all  rub 
out  when  it's  dry,  if  you'll  only  let  it  alone." 

"  Yes,  yes;  and  it  would  be  plenty  clean  enough 
for  you  if  there  had  been  forty  horses  in  here." 

Philo,  on  some  such  occasion,  waited  till  his 
Polly  had  stepped  out  of  the  room,  and  then,  with 
a  bit  of  chalk,  wrote,  on  the  broad  black  walnut 
mantelpiece, — • 

"  Bolt  and  bar  hold  gate  of  wood, 
Gate  of  iron  springs  make  good, 
Bolt  nor  spring  can  bind  the  flame, 
Woman's  tongue  can  no  man  tame," 

and  then  took  his  hat  and  walked  off. 
'  This  is  his  favourite  mode  of  vengeance, — "  poet 
ical  justice,"  as  he  calls  it;  and,  as  he  is  never  at  a 
loss  for  a  rhyme  of  his  own  or  other  people's,  Mrs. 
Doubleday  stands  in  no  small  dread  of  these  efforts 
of  genius.  Once,  when  Philb's  crony,  James  Por 
ter,  the  blacksmith,  had  left  the  print  of  his  black 
ened  knuckles  on  the  outside  of  the  oft-scrubbed 
door,  and  was  the  subject  of  some  rather  severe  re 
marks  from  the  gentle  Polly,  Philo,  as  he  left  the 
house  with  his  friend,  turned  and  wrote,  over  the 
offended  spot, — 

"Knock  not  here  ! 
Or  dread  my  dear.— P.  D." 

and  the  very  next  person  that  came  was  Mrs.  Skin 
ner,  the  merchant's  wife,  all  dressed  in  her  red  me 
rino,  to  make  a  visit.  Mrs.  Skinner,  who  did  not 
possess  an  unusual  share  of  tact,  walked  gravely 
round  to  the  back  door,  and  there  was  Mrs.  Dou 
bleday  up  to  the  eyes  in  soap  making.  Dire  was 
the  mortification,  and  point  blank  were  the  ques 
tions,  as  to  how  the  visiter  came  to  go  round  that 
way  ;  and  when  the  warning  couplet  was  produced 
in  justification,  we  must  draw  a  veil  over  what  fol 
lowed,  as  the  novelists  say. 

Sometimes  these  poeticals  came  in  aid  of  poor 
Betsey  ;  as  once,  when  on  hearing  a  crash  in  the 
little  shanty-kitchen,  Mrs.  Doubleday  called,  in  her 
shrillest  tones,  "  Betsey  !  what  on  earth's  the  mat 
ter]"  Poor  Betsey,  knowing  what  was  coming, 
answered,  in  a  deprecatory  whine,  "  The  cow's 
kicked  over  the  buckwheat  batter !" 

When  the  clear,  hilarous  voice  of  Philo,  from 
the  yard  where  he  was  chopping,  instantly  com 
pleted  the  triplet; — • 

"  Take  up  the  pieces  and  throw'm  at  her  !"  for 
once  the  grim  features  of  his  spouse  relaxed  into  a 
smile,  and  Betsey  escaped  her  scolding. 

Yet  Mrs.  Doubleday  is  not  without  her  excellent 
qualities  as  a  wife,  a  friend,  and  a  neighbour.  She 
keeps  her  husband's  house  and  stockings  in  unex 
ceptionable  trim.  Her  emptins  are  the  envy  of  the 
neighbourhood.  Her  vinegar  is, — as  how  could  it 
fail  ] — the  ne  plus  ultra  of  sharpness ;  and  her 
pickles  are  greener  than  the  grass  of  the  field. 
She  will  watch  night  after  night  with  the  sick, 
perform  the  last  sad  offices  for  the  dead,  or  take  to 
her  home  and  heart  the  little  ones  whose  mother 
is  removed  for  ever  from  her  place  at  the  fire-side. 
All  this  she  can  do  cheerfully,  and  she  will  not  re 
pay  herself,  as  many  good  people  do,  by  recount 
ing  every  word  of  the  querulous  sick  man,  or  the  de- 


CAROLINE    M.    KIRKLAND. 


465 


solate  mourner,  with  added  hints  of  tumbled  drawers, 
closets  all  in  heaps,  or  awful  dirty  kitchens. 

I  was  sitting  one  morning  with  my  neighbour, 
Mrs.  Jenkins,  who  is  a  sister  of  Mr.  Doubleday, 
when  Betsey,  Mrs. Doubleday's  "hired  girl,"  came 
in  with  one  of  the  shingles  of  Philo's  handiwork  in 
her  hand,  which  fibre,  in  Mr.  Doubleday's  well- 
known  chalk  marks, — 

''  Come  quick,  Fanny  ! 
And  bring-  the  granny; 
For  Mrs.  Double- 
day's  in  trouble." 

And  the  next  intelligence  was  of  a  fine,  new  pair 
of  lungs,  at  that  hitherto  silent  mansion.  I  called 
very  soon  after  to  take  a  peep  at  the  "  latest  found  ;" 
and  if  the  suppressed  delight  of  the  new  papa  was 
a  treat,  how  much  more  was  the  softened  aspect, 
the  womanized  tone  of  the  proud  and  happy  mo 
ther.  I  never  saw  a  being  so  completely  trans 
formed.  She  would  almost  forget  to  answer  me, 
in  her  absorbed  watching  of  the  breath  of  the  little 
sleepeV.  Even  when  trying  to  be  polite,  and  to  say 
what  the  occasion  demanded,  her  eyes  would  not 
be  withdrawn  from  the  tiny  face.  Conversation 
on  any  subject  but  the  ever-new  theme  of  "babies," 
was  out  of  the  question.  Whatever  we  began 
upon,  whirled  round  sooner  or  later  to  the  one 
point.  The  needle  may  tremble,  but  it  turns  not 
with  the  less  constancy  to  the  pole. 

As  I  pass  for  an  oracle  in  the  matter  of  paps 
and  possets,  I  had  frequent  communication  with 
my  now  happy  neighbour,  who  had  forgotten  to 
scold  her  husband,  learned  to  let  Betsey  have  time 
to  eat,  and  omitted  the  nightly  scouring  of  the  floor, 
lest  so  much  dampness  might  be  bad  for  the  baby. 
We  were  in  deep  consultation,  one  morning,  on 
some  important  point  touching  the  well-being  of 
this  sole  object  of  Mrs.  Doubleday's  thoughts  and 
dreams,  when  the  very  same  little  lanthe  Howard, 
dirty  as  ever,  presented  herself.  She  sat  down  and 
stared  a  while  without  speaking,  a  1'ordinaire,  and 
then  informed  us,  that  her  mother  «  wanted  Mrs. 
Doubleday  to  let  her  have  her  baby  for  a  little 
while,  'cause  Benny's" . . . . — but  she  had  no  time 
to  finish  the  sentence. 

"  Lend  my  baby  ! !  !" — and  her  utterance  failed. 
The  new  mother's  feelings  were  fortunately  too 
big  for  speech,  and  lanthe  wisely  disappeared  be 
fore  Mrs.  Doubleday  found  her  tongue.  Philo, 
who  entered  on  the  instant,  burst  into  one  of  his 
electrifying  laughs,  with — 

"  Ask  my  Polly, 
To  lend  her  dolly  !— » 

and  I  could  hot  help  thinking,  that  one  must  come 
«  West,"  in  order  to  learn  a  little  of  every  thing. 


ARISTOCRACY. 

FROM   WESTERN   CLEARINGS. 


THE  great  ones  of  the  earth  might  learn  many 
a  lesson  from  the  little.  What  has  a  certain  dig 
nity  on  a  comparatively  large  scale,  is  so  simply 
.aughable  when  it  is  seen  in  miniature,  (and,  un- 
like  most  other  things,  perhaps,  its  real  features  are 
better  distinguished  in  the  small,)  that  it  must  be 


wholesome  to  observe,  how  what  we  love  appears  in 
those  whom  we  do  not  admire.  The  monkey  and 
the  magpie  are  imitators  ;  and  when  the  one  makes 
a  thousand  superfluous  bows  and  grimaces,  and  the 
other  hoards  what  can-  be  of  no  possible  use  to  him, 
we  may,  even  in  those,  see  a  far  off  reflex  of  certain 
things  prevalent  among  ourselves.  Next  in  order 
come  little  children  ;  and  the  boy  will  put  a  nap 
kin  about  his  neck  for  a  cravat,  and  the  girl  supply 
her  ideal  of  a  veil  by  pinning  a  pocket  handkerchief 
to  her  bonnet,  while  we  laugh  at  the  self-deception, 
and  fancy  that  we  value  only  realities.  But  what 
affords  us  most  amusement,  is  the  awkward  attempt 
of  the  rustic,  to  copy  the  airs  and  graces  which 
have  caught  his  fancy  as  he  saw  them  exhibited  in 
town ;  or,  still  more  naturally,  those  which  have 
been  displayed  on  purpose  to  dazzle  him,  during 
the  stay  of  some  «  mould  of  fashion"  in  the  coun 
try.  How  exquisitely  funny  are  his  efforts  and 
their  failure  !  How  the  true  hugs  himself  in  full 
belief  that  the  gulf  between  himself  and  the  pseudo 
is  impassable !  Little  dreams  he  that  his  own  ill- 
directed  longings  after  the  distingue  in  air  or  in 
position  seem  to  some  more  fortunate  individual  as 
far  from  being  accomplished  as  those  of  the  rustic 
to  himself,  while  both,  perhaps,  owe  more  to  the 
tailor  and  milliner  than  to  any  more  dignified 
source. 

The  country  imitates  the  town,  most  sadly  ;  and 
it  is  really  melancholy,  to  one  who  loves  his  kind, 
to  see  how  obstinately  people  will  throw  away  real 
comforts  and  advantages  in  the  vain  chase  of  what 
does  not  belong  to  solitude  and  freedom.  The  re 
straints  necessary  to  city  life  are  there  compensated 
by  many  advantages  resulting  from  close  contact 
with  others;  while  in  the  country  those  restraints 
are  simply  odious,  curtailing  the  real  advantages 
of  the  position,  yet  entirely  incapable  of  substitut 
ing  those  which  belong  to  the  city. 

Real  refinement  is  as  possible  in  the  one  case  as 
in  the  other.  Would  it  were  more  heartily  sought 
in  both ! 

In  the  palmy  days  of  alchemy,  when  the  nature 
and  powers  of  occult  and  intangible  agents  were 
deemed  worthy  the  study  of  princes,  the  art  of  seal 
ing  hermetically  was  an  essential  one ;  hence  many 
a  precious  elixir  would  necessarily  become  unman 
ageable  and  useless  if  allowed  to  wander  in  the 
common  air.  This  art  seems  now  to  be  among 
the  lost,  in  spite  of  the  anxious  efforts  of  cunning 
projectors ;  and  at  the  present  time  a  subtle  essence, 
more  volatile  than  the  elixir  of  life — more  valuable 
than  the  philosopher's  stone — an  invisible  and  im 
ponderable  but  most  real  agent,  long  bottled  up  for 
the  enjoyment  of  a  privileged  few,  has  burst  its 
bounds  and  become  part  of  our  daily  atmosphere. 
Some  mighty  sages  still  contrive  to  retain  within 
their  own  keeping  important  portions  of  this  trea 
sure  ;  but  there  are  regions  of  the  earth  where  it 
is  open  to  all,  and,  in  the  opinion  of  the  exclusive, 
sadly  desecrated  by  having  become  an  object  of 
pursuit  to  the  vulgar.  Where  it  is  still  under  a 
degree  of  control,  the  seal  of  Hermes  is  variously 
represented.  In  Russia,  the  supreme  will  of  *he 
autocrat  regulates  the  distribution  ot  the  «  airy 


46fi 


CAROLINE    M.   KIRKLAND. 


good  :"  in  other  parts  of  the  Continent,  ancient 
prescription  has  still  the  power  to  keep  it  within 
its  due  reservoirs.  In  France,  its  uses  and  advan 
tages  have  heen  publicly  denied  and  repudiated ; 
yet  it  is  said  that  practically  everybody  stands 
open-mouthed  where  it  is  known  to  be  floating  in 
the  air,  hoping  to  inhale  as  much  as  possible  with 
out  the  odium  of  seeming  to  grasp  at  what  has 
been  decided  to  be  worthless.  In  England  we  are 
told  that  the  precious  fluid  is  still  kept  with  great 
solicitude  in  a  dingy  receptacle  called  Almack's, 
watched  ever  by  certain  priestesses,  who  are  self- 
consecrated  to  an  attendance  more  onerous  than 
that  required  for  maintaining  the  Vestal  fire,  and 
who  yet  receive  neither  respect  nor  gratitude  for 
their  pains.  Indeed,  the  fine  spirit  has  become  so 
much  diffused  in  England  that  it  reminds  us  of 
the  riddle  of  Mother  Goose — 

A  house-full,  a  hole-full, 
But  can't  catch  a  bowl-full. 

If  such  efforts  in  England  amuse  us,  what  shall 
we  say  of  the  agonized  pursuit  everywhere  observ 
able  in  our  own  country  1  We  have  denounced 
the  fascinating  gas  as  poisonous — -we  have  staked 
our  very  existence  upon  excluding  it  from  the  land, 
yet  it  is  the  breath  of  our  nostrils — the  soul  of  our 
being — the  one  thing  needful — for  which  we  are 
willing  to  expend  mind,  body,  and  estate.  We 
exclaim  against  its  operations  in  other  lands,  but 
it  is  the  purchaser  decrying  to  others  the  treasure 
he  would  appropriate  to  himself.  We  take  much 
credit  to  ourselves  for  having  renounced  what  all 
the  rest  of  the  world  were  pursuing,  but  our  prac 
tice  is  like  that  of  the  toper  who  had  forsworn 
drink,  yet  afterward  perceiving  the  contents  of  a 
brother  sinner's  bottle  to  be  spilt,  could  not  forbear 
falling  on  his  knees  to  drink  the  liquor  from  the 
frozen  hoof-prints  in  the  road  ;  or  that  other  votary 
of  indulgence,  who,  having  once  had  the  courage 
to  pass  a  tavern,  afterward  turned  back  that  he 
might  "  treat  resolution."  We  have  satisfied  our 
consciences  by  theory ;  we  feel  no  compunction 
in  making  our  practice  just  like  that  of  the  rest  of 
the  world. 

This  is  true  of  the  country  generally  ;  but  it  is 
nowhere  so  strikingly  evident  as  in  these  remote 
regions  which  the  noise  of  the  great  world  reaches 
but  at  the  rebound — as  it  were  in  faint  echoes ;  and 
these  very  echoes  changed  from  their  original,  as 
Paddy  asserts  of  those  of  the  Lake  of  Killarney.  It 
would  seem  that  our  elixir  vitce — a  strange  ano 
maly — becomes  stronger  by  dilution.  Its  power 
of  fascination,  at  least,  increases  as  it  recedes  from 
the  fountain  head.  The  Russian  noble  may  refuse 
to  let  his  daughter  smile  upon  a  suitor  whose  breast 
is  not  covered  with  orders ;  the  German  dignitary 
may  insist  on  sixteen  quarterings ;  the  well-born 
Englishman  may  sigh  to  be  admitted  into  a  coterie 
not  half  as  respectable  or  as  elegant  as  the  one  to 
which  he  belongs — all  this  is  consistent  enough ; 
but  we  must  laugh  when  we  see  the  managers  of 
a  city  ball  admit  the  daughters  of  wholesale  mer 
chants,  while  they  exclude  the  families  of  merchants 
who  sell  at  retail :  and  still  more  when  we  come 
to  the  "  new  country"  and  observe  that  Mrs.  Pen- 


niman,  who  takes  in  sewing,  utterly  refuses  to  as 
sociate  with  her  neighbour  Mrs.  Clapp,  because  she 
goes  out  sewing  by  the  day ;  and  that  our  friend 
Mr.  Diggins,  being  raised  a  step  in  the  world  by 
the  last  election,  signs  all  his  letters  of  friendship, 
«  D.  Diggins,  Sheriff." 


THE  LAND-FEVER. 

FROM   THE  SAME. 

[In  1835  and  1836,  a  fever  of  speculation  m  lands  took 
place  in  the  far  west.  Both  the  spe-culators,  and  the 
''land-lookers"  who  helped  them  in  the  business  of  their 
purchases,  were  odious  to  the  actual  settlers,  because, 
by  thus  buying  up  laud,  they  threatened  to  maintain  a 
wilderness  round  the  clearings  for  years — a  serious  dis 
advantage  to  these  already  too  solitary  men.  So  much 
being  premised,  and  with  the  additional  knowledge  that 
the  backwoodsmen  are  generally  very  hospitable,  the 
reader  will  apprehend  the  humour  of  the  following 
sketch.  It  was  at  the  height  of  the  fever  that  Mr.  Wil 
loughby,  a  respectable-looking  middle-aged  man.  riding 
a  jaded  horse,  and  carrying  with  him  blankets,  valise, 
saddle-bags,  and  holsters,  stopped  in  front  of  a  rough 
log-house,  and  accosted  its  tall  arid  meagre  tenant.] 

THIS  individual  and  his  dwelling  resembled  each 
other  in  an  unusual  degree.  The  house  was,  as 
we  have  said,  of  the  roughest ;  its  ribs  scarcely 
half  filled  in  with  clay  ;  its  «  looped  and  windowed 
raggedness"  rendered  more  conspicuous  by  the 
tattered  cotton  sheets  which  had  long  done  duty 
as  glass,  and  which  now  fluttered  in  every  breeze; 
its  roof  of  oak  shingles,  warped  into  every  possible 
curve ;  and  its  stick  chimney,  so  like  its  owner's 
hat,  open  at  the  top,  and  jammed  in  at  the  sides ; 
all  shadowed  forth  the  contour  and  equipments  of 
the  exceedingly  easy  and  self-satisfied  person  who 
leaned  on  the  fence,  and  snapped  his  long  cart- 
whip,  while  he  gave  such  answers  as  suited  him  to 
the  gentleman  in  the  India-rubbers,  taking  especial 
care  not  to  invite  him  to  alight. 

"  Can  you  tell  me,  my  friend, "  civilly  be 
gan  Mr.  Willoughby. 

"Oh!  friend!"  interrupted  the  settler;  "who 
told  you  that  I  was  your  friend  ?  Friends  is  scuss 
in  these  parts." 

"  You  have  at  least  no  reason  to  be  otherwise," 
replied  the  traveller,  who  was  blessed  with  a  very 
patient  temper,  especially  where  there  was  no  use 
in  getting  angry. 

"  I  don't  know  that,"  was  the  reply.  "  What 
fetch'd  you  into  these  woods  ?" 

"  If  I  should  say  '  my  horse,'  the  answer  would 
perhaps  be  as  civil  as  the  question." 

"  Jist  as  you  like,"  said  the  other,  turning  on  his 
heel,  and  walking  off. 

"  I  wished  merely  to  ask  you,"  resumed  Mr. 
Willoughby,  talking  after  the  nonchalant  son  of 
the  forest,  «  whether  this  is  Mr.  Pepper's  land." 

"  How  do  you  know  it  a'n't  mine  1" 

"  I'm  not  likely  to  know  at  present  it  seems," 
1  said  the  traveller,  whose  patience  was  getting  a 
little  frayed.  And  taking  out  his  memorandum- 
book,  he  ran  over  his  minutes:  "South  half  of 

i  north-west  quarter  of  section  fourteen Your 

name  is  Leander  Pepper,  is  it  not?" 

"  Where  did  you  get  so  much  news  1  You 
a'n't  the  sheriff,  be  ye  V1 


CAROLINE    M.    KIRKLAND. 


467 


"  Pop !"  screamed  a  white-headed  urchin  from 
the  house,  "  Mam  says  supper's  ready." 

"  So  a'n't  I,"  replied  the  papa  ;  « I've  got  all  my 
chores  to  do  yet."  And  he  busied  himself  at  a 
log  pig-stye  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road,  half 
as  large  as  the  dwelling-house.  Here  he  was  soon 
surrounded  by  a  squealing  multitude,  with  whom 
he  seemed  to  hold  a  regular  conversation. 

Mr.  Willoughby  looked  at  the  westering  sun, 
which  was  not  far  above  the  dense  wall  of  trees 
that  shut  in  the  small  clearing;  then  at  the  heavy 
clouds  which  advanced  from  the  north,  threatening 
a  stormy  night ;  then  at  his  watch,  and  then  at  his 
note-book ;  and  after  all,  at  his  predicament — on 
the  whole,  an  unpleasant  prospect.  But  at  this 
moment  a  female  face  showed  itself  at  the  door. 
Our  traveller's  memory  reverted  at  once  to  the  tes 
timony  of  Ledyard  and  Mungo  Park ;  and  he  had 
also  some  floating  and  indistinct  poetical  recollec 
tions  of  woman's  being  useful  when  a  man  was  in 
difficulties,  though  hard  to  please  at  other  times. 
The  result  of  these  reminiscences,  which  occupied 
a  precious  second,  was,  that  Mr.  Willoughby  dis 
mounted,  fastened  his  horse  to  the  fence,  and  ad 
vanced  with  a  brave  and  determined  air,  to  throw 
himself  upon  female  kindness  and  sympathy. 

He  naturally  looked  at  the  lady,  as  he  approached 
the  door,  but  she  did  not  return  the  compliment. 
She  looked  at  the  pigs,  and  talked  to  the  children, 
and  Mr.  Willoughby  had  time  to  observe  that  she 
was  the  very  duplicate  of  her  husband  ;  as  tall,  as 
bony,  as  ragged,  and  twice  as  cross-looking. 

"Malviny  Jane  !"  she  exclaimed,  in  no  dulcet 
treble,  «  be  done  a-paddlin'  in  that  'ere  water!  If  I 
come  there,  I'll " 

"  You'd  better  look  at  Sophrony,  I  guess !"  was 
the  reply. 

"  Why,  what's  she  a-doin"?" 

"  Weil,  I  guess  if  you  look,  you'll  see !"  re 
sponded  Miss  Malvina,  coolly,  as  she  passed  into 
the  house,  leaving  at  every  step  a  full  impression 
of  her  foot  in  the  same  black  mud  that  covered  her 
sister  from  head  to  foot. 

The  latter  was  saluted  with  a  hearty  cuff,  as  she 
emerged  from  the  puddle ;  and  it  was  just  at  the 
propitious  moment  when  her  shrill  howl  aroused 
the  echoes,  that  Mr.  Willoughby,  having  reached 
the  threshold,  was  obliged  to  set  about  making  the 
agreeable  to  the  mamma.  And  he  called  up  for 
the  occasion  all  his  politeness. 

"  I  believe  I  must  become  an  intruder  on  your 
hospitality  for  the  night,  madam,"  he  began.  The 
dame  still  looked  at  the  pigs.  Mr.  Willoughby 
tried  again,  in  less  courtly  phrase. 

"  Will  it  be  convenient  for  you  to  lodge  me  to 
night,  ma'am  1  I  have  been  disappointed  in  my 
search  for  a  hunting-party,  whom  I  had  engaged 
to  meet,  and  the  night  threatens  a  storm." 

«I  don't  know  nothin'  about  it;  you  must  ask  j 
the  old  man,"  said  the  lady,  now  for  the  first  time  j 
taking  a  survey  of  the  new  comer ;  «  with  my  will,  ! 
we'll  lodge  nobody." 

This  was  not  very  encouraging,  but  it  was  a 
poor  night  for  the  woods ;  so  our  traveller  perse 
vered,  and  making  so  bold  a  push  for  the  door  that 


the  lady  was  obliged  to  retreat  a  little,  he  entered, 
and  said  he  would  await  her  husband's  coining. 

And  in  truth  he  could  scarcely  blame  the  cool 
reception  he  had  experienced,  when  he  beheld  the 
state  of  affairs  within  those  muddy  precincts.  The 
room  was  large,  but  it  swarmed  with  human  be 
ings.  The  huge  open  fire-place,  with  its  hearth 
of  rough  stone,  occupied  nearly  the  whole  of  one 
end  of  the  apartment;  and  near  it  stood  a  long 
cradle,  containing  a  pair  of  twins,  who  cried — a 
sort  of  hopeless  cry,  as  if  they  knew  it  would  do 
no  good,  yet  could  not  help  it.  The  schoolmaster, 
(it  was  his  week,)  sat  reading  a  tattered  novel,  and 
rocking  the  cradle  occasionally,  when  the  children 
cried  too  loud.  An  old  gray-headed  Indian  was 
curiously  crouched  over  a  large  tub,  shelling  corn 
on  the  edge  of  a  hoe ;  but  he  ceased  his  noisy  em 
ployment  when  he  saw  the  stranger,  for  no  Indian 
will  ever  willingly  be  seen  at  work,  though  he  may 
be  sometimes  compelled  by  the  fear  of  starvation  or 
the  longing  for  whisky,  to  degrade  himself  by  la 
bour.  Near  the  only  window  was  placed  the  work 
bench  and  entire  paraphernalia  of  the  shoemaker, 
who  in  these  regions  travels  from  house  to  house, 
shoeing  the  family  and  mending  the  harness  as  he 
goes,  with  various  interludes  of  songs  and  jokes, 
ever  new  and  acceptable.  This  one,  who  was  a 
little,  bald,  twinkling-eyed  fellow,  made  the  smoky 
rafters  ring  with  the  burden  of  that  favourite  ditty 
of  the  west : 

"All  Tdnds  of  game  to  hunt,  my  boys,  also  the  buck  and 

doe, 
All  down  by  the  banks  of  the  river  O-hi-o ;" 

and  children  of  all  sizes,  clattering  in  all  keys,  com 
pleted  the  picture  and  the  concert. 

The  supper-table,  which  maintained  its  place  in 
the  midst  of  this  living  and  restless  mass,  might 
remind  one  of  the  square  stone  lying  bedded  in  the 
bustling  leaves  of  the  acanthus;  but  the  associations 
would  be  any  but  those  of  Corinthian  elegance. 
The  only  object  which  at  that  moment  diversified 
its  dingy  surface  was  an  iron  hoop,  into  which  the 
mistress  of  the  feast  proceeded  to  turn  a  quantity 
of  smoking  hot  potatoes,  adding  afterward  a  bowl 
of  salt,  and  another  of  pork  fat,  by  courtesy  denomi 
nated  gravy  :  plates  and  knives  dropped  in  after 
ward,  at  the  discretion  of  the  company. 

Another  call  of  "Pop!  pop!"  brought  in  the 
host  from  the  pig-stye ;  the  heavy  rain  which  had 
now  begun  to  fall,  having,  no  doubt,  expedited  the 
performance  of  the  chores.  Mr.  Willoughby,  who 
had  established  himself  resolutely,  took  advantage 
of  a  very  cloudy  assent  from  the  proprietor,  to  lead 
his  horse  to  a  shed,  and  to  deposit  in  a  corner  his 
cumbrous  outer  gear;  while  the  company  used  in 
turn  the  iron  skillet  which  served  as  a  wash  basin, 
dipping  the  water  from  a  large  trough  outside,  over 
flowing  with  the  abundant  drippings  of  the  eaves. 
Those  who  had  no  pocket  handkerchiefs,  contented 
themselves  with  a  nondescript  article  which  seemed 
to  stand  for  the  family  towel ;  and  when  this  cere 
mony  was  concluded,  all  seriously  addressed  them 
selves  to  the  demolition  of  the  potatoes.  The  grown 
people  were  accommodated  with  chairs  and  chests; 
the  children  prosecuted  a  series  of  flying  raids  upon 


469 


CAROLINE    M.   KIRKLAND. 


the  good  cheer,  snatching  a  potato  now  and  then 
as  they  could  find  an  opening  under  the  raised  arm 
of  one  of  the  family,  and  then  retreating  to  the 
chimney  corner,  tossing  the  hot  prize  from  hand  to 
hand,  and  blowing  it  stoutly  the  while.  The  old 
Indian  had  disappeared. 

To  our  citizen,  though  he  felt  inconveniently 
hungry,  this  primitive  meal  seemed  a  little  meagre ; 
and  he  ventured  to  ask  if  he  could  not  be  accom 
modated  with  some  tea. 

"  A'n't  my  victuals  good  enough  for  you  ?" 
"Oh ! — the  potatoes  are  excellent,  but  I  am  very 
fond  of  tea." 

"  So  be  T,  but  I  can't  have  every  thing  I  want — 
can  you T' 

This  produced  a  laugh  from  the  shoemaker,  who 
seemed  to  think  his  patron  very  witty,  while  the 
schoolmaster,  not  knowing  but  the  stranger  might 
happen  to  be  one  of  his  examiners  next  year,  pro 
duced  only  a  faint  giggle,  and  then  reducing  his 
countenance  instantly  to  an  awful  gravity,  helped 
himself  to  his  seventh  potato. 

The  rain  which  now  poured  violently,  not  only 
outside  but  through  many  a  crevice  in  the  roof, 
naturally  kept  Mr.  Willoughby  cool ;  and  finding 
that  dry  potatoes  gave  him  the  hiccups,  he  with 
drew  from  the  table,  and  seating  himself  on  the 
shoemaker's  bench,  took  a  survey  of  his  quarters. 

Two  double  beds  and  the  long  cradle  seemed  all 
the  sleeping  apparatus ;  but  there  was  a  ladder  which 
doubtless  led  to  a  lodging  above.  The  sides  of  the 
room  were  hung  with  abundance  of  decent  cloth 
ing,  and  the  dresser  was  well  stored  with  the  usual 
articles,  among  which  a  tea-pot  and  canister  shone 
conspicuous ;  so  that  the  appearance  of  inhospitality 
could  not  arise  from  poverty,  and  Mr.  Willoughby 
concluded  to  set  it  down  to  the  account  of  rustic 
ignorance. 

The  eating  ceased  not  until  the  hoop  was  empty, 
and  then  the  company  rose  and  stretched  them 
selves,  and  began  to  guess  it  was  about  time  to  go 
to  bed.  Mr.  Willoughby  inquired  what  was  to  be 
done  with  his  horse. 

"  Well !  I  s'pose  he  can  stay  where  he  is." 

"  But  what  can  he  have  to  eat  1" 

"  I  reckon  you  won't  get  nothing  for  him,  with 
out  you  turn  him  out  on  the  mash." 

"  He  would  get  off  to  a  certainty  !" 

«  Tie  his  legs." 

The  unfortunate  traveller  argued  in  vain.  Hay 
was  "  scuss,"  and  potatoes  were  "  scusser ;"  and 
in  short  the  "  mash"  was  the  only  resource,  and 
these  natural  meadows  afford  but  poor  picking  af 
ter  the  first  of  October.  But  to  the  "mash"  was 
the  good  steed  despatched,  ingloriously  hampered 
with  the  privilege  of  munching  wild  grass  in  the 
?ain,  after  his  day's  journey. 

Then  came  the  question  of  lodging  for  his  mas 
ter.  The  lady,  who  had  by  this  time  drawn  out  a 
trundle-bed,  and  packed  it  full  of  children,  said 
there  was  no  bed  for  him,  unless  he  could  sleep 
"  up  chamber"  with  the  boys. 

Mr.  Willoughby  declared  that  he  should  make 
out  very  well  with  a  blanket  by  the  fire. 

"Well!  just  as  you  like,"  said  his  host;  "but 


Solomon  sleeps  there,  and  if  you  like  to  sleep  by 
Solomon,  it  is  more  than  I  should." 

This  was  the  name  of  the  old  Indian,  and  Mr. 
Willoughby  once  more  cast  woful  glances  toward 
the  ladder. 

But  now  the  schoolmaster,  who  seemed  rather 
disposed  to  be  civil,  declared  that  he  could  sleep 
very  well  in  the  long  cradle,  and  would  relinquish 
his  place  beside  the  shoemaker  to  the  guest,  who 
was  obliged  to  content  himself  with  this  Arrange 
ment,  which  was  such  as  was  most  usual  in  these 
times. 

The  storm  continued  through  the  night,  and 
many  a  crash  in  the  woods  attested  its  power.  The 
sound  of  a  storm  in  the  dense  forest  is  almost  pre 
cisely  similar  to  that  of  a  heavy  surge  breaking  on 
a  rocky  beach;  and  when  our  traveller  slept,  it 
was  only  to  dream  of  wreck  and  disaster  at  sea, 
and  to  wake  in  horror  and  affright.  The  wild  rain 
drove  in  at  every  crevice,  and  wet  the  poor  chil 
dren  in  the  loft  so  thoroughly,  that  they  crawled 
shivering  down  the  ladder,  and  stretched  them 
selves  on  the  hearth,  regardless  of  Solomon,  who 
had  returned  after  the  others  were  in  bed. 

But  morning  came  at  last;  and  our  friend,  who 
had  no  desire  farther  to  test  the  vaunted  hospitality 
of  a  western  settler,  was  not  among  the  latest  astir. 
The  storm  had  partially  subsided ;  and  although 
the  clouds  still  lowered  angrily,  and  his  saddle  had 
enjoyed  the  benefit  of  a  leak  in  the  roof  during  the 
night,  Mr.  Willoughby  resolved  to  push  on  as  far 
as  the  next  clearing,  at  least,  hoping  for  something 
for  breakfast  besides  potatoes  and  salt.  It  took 
him  a  weary  while  to  find  his  horse,  and  when  he 
saddled  him,  and  strapped  on  his  various  accoutre 
ments,  he  entered  the  house,  and  inquired  what  he 
was  to  pay  for  his  entertainment — laying  somewhat 
of  a  stress  on  the  last  word. 

His  host,  nothing  daunted,  replied  that  he  guessed 
he  would  let  him  off  for  a  dollar. 

Mr.  Willoughby  took  out  his  purse,  and  as  he 
placed  a  silver  dollar  in  the  leathern  palm  outspread 
to  receive  it,  happened  to  look  toward  the  hearth, 
and  perceiving  the  preparations  for  a  very  substantial 
breakfast,  the  long  pent-up  vexation  burst  forth. 

"  I  really  must  say,  Mr.  Pepper "  he  began : 

his  tone  was  certainly  that  of  an  angry  man,  but  it 
only  made  his  host  laugh. 

"  If  this  is  your  boasted  western  hospitality,  I 
can  tell  you " 

"  You'd  better  tell  me  what  the  dickens  you  are 
peppering  me  up  this  fashion  for  !  My  name  isn't 
Pepper,  no  more  than  yours  is !  May  be  that  is 
your  name ;  you  seem  pretty  warm." 

"  Your  name  not  Pepper !  Pray,  what  is  it 
then1?" 

"Ah!  there's  the  thing  now!  You  land-hunt 
ers  ought  to  know  sich  things  without  asking." 

"Land-hunter!  I'm  no  land-hunter!" 

"  Well !  you're  a  land-shark,  then — swallowin' 
up  poor  men's  farms.  The  less  I  see  of  such  cattle, 
the  better  I'm  pleased." 

"  Confound  you  !"  said  Mr.  Willoughby,  who 
waxed  warm,  "  I  tell  you  I've  nothing  to  do  with 
land.  I  wouldn't  take  your  whole  state  for  a  gift." 


CAROLINE    M.    KIRKLAND. 


469 


"  What  did  you  tell  my  woman  you  was  a  land- 
hunter  for,  then  1" 

And  now  the  whole  matter  became  clear  in  a 
moment;  and  it  was  found  that  Mr.  Willoughby's 
equipment,  with  the  mention  of  a  "  hunting-party," 
had  completely  misled  both  host  and  hostess.  And 
to  do  them  justice,  never  were  regret  and  vexation 
more  heartily  expressed. 

"  You  needn't  judge  our  new  country  folks  by 
me,"  said  Mr.  Handy,  for  such  proved  to  be  his 
name  ;  "  any  man  in  these  parts  would  as  soon  bite 
off  his  own  nose,  as  to  snub  a  civil  traveller  that 
wanted  a  supper  and  a  night's  lodging.  But  some 
how  or  other,  your  lots  o'  fixin',  and  your  askin' 
after  that  'ere  Pepper — one  of  the  worst  land-sharks 
we've  ever  had  here — made  me  mad  ;  and  1  know 
I  treated  you  worse  than  an  Indian." 

"  Humph !"  said  Solomon. 

"  But,"  continued  the  host,  "you  shall  see  whe 
ther  my  old  woman  can't  set  a  good  breakfast,  when  ! 
she's  a  mind  to.     Come,  you  shan't  stir  a  step  till  i 
you've   had   breakfast;    and  just   take   back   this  I 
plaguey  dollar.     I  wonder  it  did't  burn  my  fingers 
when  I  took  it." 

Mrs.  Handy  set  forth  her  very  best,  and  a  famous 
breakfast  it  was,  considering  the  times.  And  be 
fore  it  was  finished,  the  hunting  party  made  their 
appearance,  having  had  some  difficulty  in  finding 
their  companion,  who  had  made  no  very  uncommon 
mistake  as  to  section  corners  and  town-lines. 

"  I'll  tell  ye  what,"  said  Mr.  Handy,  confidential 
ly,  as  the  cavalcade  with  its  baggage-ponies,  loaded 
with  tents,  gun-cases,  and  hampers  of  provisions, 
was  getting  into  order  for  a  march  to  the  prairies, 
"I'll  tell  ye  what;  if  you've  occasion  to  stop  any 
where  in  the  Bush,  you'd  better  tell  'em  at  the  first 
goin'  off'  that  you  a'n't  land-hunters." 

But  Mr.  Willoughby  had  already  had  "  a  caution." 


LAZY  PEOPLE. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

You  may  see  him,  if  you  are  an  early  riser,  set 
ting  off,  at  peep  of  dawn,  on  a  fishing  expedition. 
He  winds  through  the  dreary  woods,  yawning  por 
tentously,  and  stretching  as  if  he  were  emulous  of 
the  height  of  the  hickory  trees.  Dexterously  sway 
ing  his  long  rod,  he  follows  the  little  stream  till  it 
is  lost  in  the  bosom  of  the  woodland  lake ;  if  un 
successful  from  the  bank,  he  seeks  the  frail  skiff, 
which  is  the  common  property  of  laborious  idlers 
like  himself,  and,  pushing  off  shore,  sits  dreaming  un 
der  the  sun's  wilting  beams,  until  he  has  secured  a 
supply  for  the  day.  Home  again — .an  irregular  meal 
at  any  time  of  day — and  he  goes  to  bed  with  the  ague ; 
but  he  murmurs  not,  for  fishing  is  not  work 

Then  come  the  whortleberries;  not  the  little, 
stunted,  seedy  things  th^t  grow  on  tlry  uplands  and 
sandy  commons ;  but  the  produce  of  towering  bushes 
in  the  plashy  meadow ;  generous,  pulpy  berries, 
covered  with  a  fine  bloom;  the  "blae-berry"  of 
Scotland;  a  delicious  fruit,  though  of  humble  re 
putation,  and,  it  must  be  confessed,  somewhat  en 
hanced  in  value  by  the  scarcity  of  the  more  refined 


productions  of  the  garden.  We  scorn  thee  not,  oh  ! 
bloom-covered  neighbour  !  but  gladly  buy  whole 
bushels  of  thy  prolific  family  from  the  lounging  In 
dian,  or  the  still  lazier  white  man.  We  must  not 
condemn  the  gatherers  of  whortleberries,  but  it  is  a 
melancholy  truth  that  they  do  not  get  rich. 

Baiting  for  wild  bees  beguiles  the  busy  shunner 
of  work  into  many  a  wearisome  tramp,  many  a 
night-watch,  and  many  a  lost  day.  This  is  a  most 
fascinating  chase,  and  sometimes  excites  the  very 
spirit  of  gambling.  The  stake  seems  so  small  in 
comparison  with  the  possible  prize — and  gamblers 
and  honey-seekers  think  all  possible  things  pro 
bable — that  some,  who  are  scarcely  ever  tempted 
from  regular  business  by  any  other  disguise  of  idle 
ness,  cannot  withstand  a  bee-hunt.  A  man  whose 
arms  and  axe  are  all-sufficient  to  insure  a  comfort 
able  livelihood  for  himself  and  his  family,  is  chop 
ping,  perhaps,  in  a  thick  wood,  where  the  voices 
of  the  locust,  the  cricket,  the  grasshopper,  and  the 
wild  bee,  with  their  kindred,  are  the  only  sounds 
that  reach  his  ear  from  sunrise  till  sunset.  He  feels 
lonely  and  listless ;  and  as  noon  draws  on,  he  ceases 
from  his  hot  toil,  and,  seating  himself  on  the  tree 
which  has  just  fallen  beneath  his  axe,  he  takes 
out  his  lunch  of  bread  and  butter,  and,  musing  as 
he  eats,  thinks  how  hard  his  life  is,  and  how  much 
better  it  must  be  to  have  bread  and  butter  without 
working  for  it.  His  eye  wanders  through  the  thick 
forest,  arid  follows,  with  a  feeling  of  envy,  the 
winged  inhabitants  of  the  trees  and  flowers,  till  at 
length  he  notes  among  the  singing  throng  some 
half  dozen  of  bees. 

The  lunch  is  soon  despatched  ;  a  honey  tree 
must  be  near ;  and  the  chopper  spends  the  remain 
der  of  the  daylight  in  endeavouring  to  discover  it. 
But  the  cunning  insects  scent  the  human  robber, 
and  will  not  approach  their  home  until  nightfall. 
So  our  weary  wight  plods  homeward  laying  plans 
for  their  destruction. 

The  next  morning's  sun,  as  he  peeps  above  the 
horizon,  finds  the  bee-hunter  burning  honey-comb 
and  old  honey  near  the  scene  of  yesterday's  inkling. 
Stealthily  does  he  watch  his  line  of  bait,  and  cau 
tiously  does  he  wait  until  the  first  glutton  that  finds 
himself  sated  with  the  luscious  feast  sets  off  in  a 
"  bee-line" — •"  like  arrow  darting  from  the  bow" — 
blind  betrayer  of  his  home,  like  the  human  ine 
briate.  This  is  enough.  The  spoiler  asks  no  more ; 
and  the  first  moonlight  night  sees  the  rich  hoard 
transferred  to  his  cottage ;  where  it  sometimes  serves, 
almost  unaided,  as  food  for  the  whole  family,  until 
the  last  drop  is  consumed.  One  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  of  honey  are  sometimes  found  in  a  single 
tree,  and  it  must  be  owned  the  temptation  is  great ; 
but  the  luxury  is  generally  dearly  purchased,  if  the 
whole  cost  and  consequences  be  counted.  To  be 
content  with  what  supplies  the  wants  of  the  body 
for  the  present  moment,  is,  after  all,  the  characteris 
tic  rather  of  the  brute  than  of  the  man ;  and  a  family 
accustomed  to  this  view  of  life  will  grow  more  and 
more  idle  and  thriftless,  until  poverty  and  filth  and 
even  beggary  lose  all  their  terrors.  It  is  almost 
proverbial  among  farmers  that  bee-hunters  are  al 
ways  behindhand. 

2R 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE. 


[Born  about  1807.    Died  1864.] 


THIS  admirable  author  was  born  in  Salem, 
Massachusetts,  and  is  of  a  family  which  for 
several  generations  has  "  followed  the  sea." 
Among  his  ancestors,  I  believe,  was  the  "  bold 
Hawthorne"  who  is  celebrated  in  a  revolution 
ary  ballad  as  commander  of  the  "  Fair  Ameri 
can."  He  was  educated  at  Bowdoin  College 
in  Maine,  where  he  graduated  in  1825.  One 
of  his  classmates  here  was  Mr.  Longfellow. 

In  1837  Mr.  Hawthorne  published  the  first 
and  in  1842  the  second  volume  of  his  Twice 
Told  Tales,  so  named  because  they  had  previ 
ously  appeared  in  the  periodicals.  In  1845  he 
edited  The  Journal  of  an  African  Cruiser,  and 
in  1846  published  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse, 
a  second  collection  of  his  magazine  papers. 

In  the  introduction  to  the  last  work  he  has 
given  some  delightful  glimpses  of  his  personal 
history.  He  had  been  several  years  in  the 
Custom  house  at  Boston,  while  Mr.  Bancroft 
was  collector,  and  afterward  had  joined  that 
remarkable  association,  the  "  Brook  Farm 
Community,"  at  West  Roxbury,  where,  with 
others,  he  appears  to  have  been  reconciled  to 
the  old  ways,  as  quite  equal  to  the  inventions 
of  Fourier,  St  Simon,  Owen,  and  the  rest  of 
that  ingenious  company  of  schemers  who  have 
been  so  intent  upon  a  reconstruction  of  the 
foundations  of  society.  In  1843  he  went  to 
reside  in  the  pleasant  village  of  Concord,  in 
the  "  Old  Manse,"  which  had  never  been  pro 
faned  by  a  lay  occupant  until  he  entered  it  as 
his  home.  In  the  Introduction,  to  which  allu 
sion  has  been  made,  he  says — 

"  A  priest  had  built  it;  a  priest  had  succeeded  to  it; 
other  priestly  rnen,  from  time  to  time,  had  dwelt  in  it; 
and  children,  born  in  its  chambers,  had  grown  up  to  as 
sume  the  priestly  character.  It  was  awful  to  reflect  how 
many  sermons  must  have  been  written  there.  The  latest 
inhabitant  alone—  he,  by  whose  translation  to  Paradise 
the  dwelling  was  left  vacant — had  penned  nearly  three 
thousand  discourses,  besides  the  better,  if  not  the  greater 
number,  that  gushed  living  from  his  lips.  How  often,  no 
doubt,  had  he  paced  to  and  fro  along  the  avenue,  attun 
ing  his  meditations,  to  the  sighs  and  gentle  murmurs,  and 
deep  and  solemn  peals  of  the  wind,  among  the  lofty  tops 
of  the  trees  !  In  that  variety  of  natural  utterances,  he 
could  find  something  accordant  with  every  passage  of 
his  sermon,  vi  re  it  of  tenderness  or  reverential  fear. 
The  boughs  over  my  head  seemed  shadowy  with  solemn 
thoughts,  as  well  as  with  rustling  leaves.  I  took  shame 
to  myself  for  having  been  so  long  a  writer  of  idle  stories, 
and  ventured  to  hope  that  wisdom  would  descend  upon 
me  with  the  failing  leaves  of  the  avenue ;  and  that  I 
should  light  upon  an  intellectual  treasure  in  the  Old 
Manse,  well  worth  those  hoards  of  long  hidden  gold, 
470 


which  peopJe  seek  for  in  moss-grown  houses.  Profound 
treatises  of  morality— a  layman's  unprofessional,  and 
therefore  unprejudiced  viewsof  religion ; — histories  (such 
as  Bancroft  might  have  written,  had  he  taken  up  his 
abode  here,  as  he  once  purposed),  bright  with  picture, 
gleaming  over  a  depth  of  philosophic  thought ; — these 
were  the  works  that  might  fitly  have  flowed  from  such  a 
retirement.  In  the  humblest  event,  I  resolved  at  least  to 
achieve  a  novel,  that  should  evolve  some  deep  lesson, 
and  should  possess  physical  substance  enough  to  stand 
alone.  In  furtherance  of  my  design,  and  as  if  to  leave 
me  no  pretext  for  not  fulfilling  it,  there  was,  in  the  rear 
of  the  house,  the  most  delightful  little  nook  of  a  study- 
that  ever  offered  its  snug  seclusion  to  a  scholar.  It  was 
here  that  Ernerson  wrote  '  Nature ;'  for  he  was  then  an 
inhabitant  of  the  Manse,  and  used  to  watch  the  Assy 
rian  dawn  and  the  Paphian  sunset  and  moonrise,  from 
the  summit  of  our  eastern  hill.  When  I  first  saw  the 
room,  its  walls  were  blackened  with  the  smoke  of  unnum 
bered  years,  and  made  still  blacker  by  the  grim  prints 
of  puritan  ministers  that  hung  around.  These  worthies 
looked  strangely  like  bad  angels,  or,  at  least,  like  men 
who  had  wrestled  so  continually  and  so  sternly  with  the 
devil,  that  somewhat  of  his  sooty  fierceness  had  been 
imparted  to  their  own  visages.  They  had  all  vanished 
now;  a  cheerful  coat  of  paint,  and  golden  tinted  paper 
hangings,  lighted  up  the  small  apartment;  while  the  sha 
dow  of  a  willow-tree,  that  swept  against  the  overhang 
ing  eves,  attempered  the  cheery  western  sunshine.  In 
place  of  the  grim  prints  there  was  the  sweet  and  lovely 
head  of  one  of  Raphael's  Madonnas,  and  two  pleasant 
little  pictures  of  the  Lake  of  Como.  The  only  other  de 
corations  were  a  purple  vase  of  flowers,  always  fresh, 
and  a  bronze  one  containing  graceful  ferns.  My  books 
(few,  and  by  no  means  choice  ;  for  they  were  chiefly  such 
waifs  as  chance  had  thrown  in  my  way)  stood  in  order 
about  the  room,  seldom  to  be  disturbed." 

In  his  home  at  Concord,  thus  happily  de 
scribed,  in  the  midst  of  a  few  congenial  friends, 
Hawthorne  passed  three  years ;  and, "  in  a  spot 
so  sheltered  from  the  turmoil  of  life's  ocean," 
he  says,  "  three  years  hasten  away  with  a  noise 
less  flight,  as  the  breezy  sunshine  chases  the 
cloud-shadows  across  the  depths  of  a  still  val 
ley."  But  at  length  his  repose  was  invaded, 
by  that "  spirit  of  improvement,"  which  is  so 
constantly  marring  the  happiness  of  quiet-lov 
ing  people,  and  he  was  compelled  to  look  out 
for  another  residence. 

"Now  came  hints,  growing  more  and  more  distinct, 
that  the  owner  of  the  old  house  was  pining  for  his  native 
air.  Carpenters  next  appeared,  making  a  tremendous 
racket  among  ihe  outbuildings,  strewing  green  grass  w:th 
pine  shavings  and  chips  of  chestnut  joists,  and  vexing 
the  whole  antiquity  of  the  place  with  their  discordant 
renovations.  Soon,  moreover,  they  divested  our  abode 
of  the  veil  of  woodbine  which  had  crept  over  a  large 
portion  of  its  southern  face.  All  the  aged  mosses  were 
cleared  unsparingly  away;  and  there  were  horrible 
whispers  about  brushing  up  the  external  walls  with  a 
coat  of  paint — a  purpose  as  little  to  my  taste  as  might  be 
that  of  rouging  the  venerable  cheeks  of  one's  grandmo 
ther.  But  the  hand  that  renovates  is  always  more  sa 
crilegious  than  that  which  destroys.  In  fine,  we  ga 
thered  up  our  household  goods,  drank  a  farewell  cup  of 
tea  in  our  pleasant  little  breakfast-room — delicately  fra 
grant  tea.  an  unpurchasable  luxury,  one  of  the  many 
angel-gifts  that  had  fallen  like  dew  upon  us — and  passed 
forth  between  the  tall  stone  gate-posts,  as  uncertain  as 
the  wandering  Arabs  where  our  tent  might  next  be 
pitched.  Providence  took  me  by  the  hand,  and — an  od 
dity  of  dispensation  which,  I  trust,  there  is  no  irreve- 


NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE. 


471 


rence  in  smiling'  at — has  led  me,  as  the  newspapers  an 
nounce  while  I  am  writing,  from  the  Old  Manse  into  a 
Custom  House  !  As  a  storyteller.  I  have  often  contrived 
strange  vicissitudes  for  my  imaginary  personages,  but 
none  like  this.  The  treasure  of  intellectual  gold,  which 
I  had  hoped  to  find  in  our  secluded  dwelling,  had  never 
come  to  light.  No  profound  treatise  of  ethics — no  phi 
losophic  history — no  novel,  even,  that  could  stand  un 
supported  on  its  edges — all  that  I  had  to  show,  as  aman 
of  letters,  were  these  few  tales  and  essays,  which  had 
blossomed  out  like  flowers  in  the  calm  summer  of  my 
heart  and  mind." 

The  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse  he  declares 
are  the  last  offering  of  their  kind  it  is  his  pur 
pose  ever  to  put  forth,  saying1,  modestly,  "  un 
less  I  could  do  better  I  have  done  enough  in 
this  kind."  So  will  say  no  reader  who  can 
appreciate  their  grace  and  beauty,  or  the  wis 
dom  with  which  they  are  pervaded. 
t  The  characteristics  of  Hawthorne  which 
first  arrest  the  attention  are  imagination  and 
reflection,  and  these  are  exhibited  in  remark 
able  power  and  activity  in  tales  and  essays, 
of  which  the  style  is  distinguished  for  great 
simplicity,  purity  and  tranquillity.  His  beau 
tiful  story  of  Rappacini's  Daughter  was  ori 
ginally  published  in  the  Democratic  Review, 
as 'a  translation  from  the  French  of  one  M.  de 
1'Aubepine,  a  writer  whose  very  name,  he  re 
marks  in  a  brief  introduction,  (in  which  he 
gives  in  French  the  titles  of  some  of  his  tales, 
as  Contes  deuxfoix  racontees,  Le  Culte  du  Feu, 
etc.)  "  is  unknown  to  many  of  his  country 
men,  as  well  as  to  the  student  of  foreign  lite 
rature."  He  describes  himself,  under  this 
nomme  de  plume,  as  one  who — 

<:  Seems  to  occupy  an  unfortunate  posit'on  between  the 
transcendentalists  ( who  under  one  name  or  another  have 
their  share  in  all  the  current  literature  of  the  world), 
and  the  great  body  of  pen-and-ink  men  who  address  the 
intellect  and  sympathies  of  the  multitude.  If  not  too  re 
fined,  at  all  events  too  remote,  too  shadowy  and  unsub 
stantial,  in  his  modes  of  development,  to  suit  the  taste  of 
the  latter  class,  and  yet  too  popular  to  satisfy  the  spiritual 
or  metaphysical  requis;t:ons  of  the  former,  he  must  ne 
cessarily  hud  himself  without  an  audience,  except  here 
and  there  an  individual,  or  possibly  an  isolated  clique." 

His  writings,  to  do  them  justice,  he  says — 

"Are  not  altogether  destitute  of  fancy  and  originality  ; 
they  might  have  won  him  greater  reputation  but  for  an 
inveterate  love  of  allegory,  which  is  apt  to  invest  his 
plots  and  characters  with  the  aspect  of  scenery  and  peo 
ple  in  the  clouds,  and  to  steal  away  the  human  warmth 
out  of  his  conceptions.  His  fictions  are  sometimes  his 
torical,  sometimes  of  the  present  day,  and  sometimes,  so 
tar  as  can  be  discovered,  have  little  or  no  reference  either 
to  time  or  space.  In  any  case,  he  generally  contents  him 
self  with  a  very  slight  embroidery  of  outward  manners, 
— the  faintest  possible  counterfeit  of  real  life, — and  en 
deavours  to  create  an  interest  by  some  less  obvious  pe 
culiarity  of  the  subject.  Occasionally  a  breath  of  na 
ture,  a  rain-drop  of  pathos  and  tenderness,  or  a  gleam  of 
humour,  will  find  its  way  into  the  midst  of  his  fantastic 
imagery,  and  make  u*  feel  as  if,  alter  all,  we  were  yet 
within  the  limits  of  our  native  earth.  We  will  only  add 
to  this  cursory  notice,  that  M  de  1'Aubepine's  productions, 
if  the  reader  chance  to  take  them  in  precisely  the  pro 
per  point  of  view,  may  amuse  a  leisure  hour  as  well  as 
those  of  a  brighter  man  :  if  otherwise  they  can  hardly 
fail  to  look  excessively  like  nonsense." 

Hawthorne  is  as  accurately  as  he  is  hap 
pily  described  in  this  curious  piece  of  criti 


cism,  though  no  one  who  takes  his  works 
in  the  "  proper  point  of  view,"  will  by  any 
means  agree  to  the  modest  estimate  which,  in 
the  perfect  sincerity  of  his  nature,  he  has 
placed  upon  them.  He  is  original,  in  inven 
tion,  construction,  and  expression,  always  pic 
turesque,  and  sometimes  in  a  high  degree  dra 
matic.  His  favourite  scenes  and  traditions  are 
those  of  his  own  country,  many  of  which  he 
has  made  classical  by  the  beautiful  associations 
that  he  has  thrown  around  them.  Every  thing 
to  him  is  suggestive,  as  his  own  pregnant  pages 
are  to  the  congenial  reader.  All  his  produc 
tions  are  life-mysteries,  significant  of  profound 
truths.  His  speculations,  often  bold  and  strik 
ing,  are  presented  with  singular  force,  but  with 
such  a  quiet  grace  and  simplicity  as  not  to 
startle  until  they  enter  in  and  occupy  the  mind. 
The  gayety  with  which  his  pensiveness  is  oc 
casionally  broken,  seems  more  than  any  thing 
else  in  his  works  to  have  cost  some  effort. 
The  gentle  sadness,  the  "half-ack no wl edged 
melancholy,"  of  his  manner  and  reflections, 
are  more  natural  and  characteristic. 

His  style  is  studded  with  the  most  poetical 
imagery,  and  marked  in  every  part  with  the 
happiest  graces  of  expression,  while  it  is  calm, 
chaste,  and  flowing,  and  transparent  as  water. 
There  is  a  habit  among  nearly  all  the  writers 
of  imaginative  literature,  of  adulterating  the 
conversations  of  the  poor  with  barbarisms  and 
grammatical  blunders  which  have  no  more  fi 
delity  than  elegance.  Hawthorne's  integrity 
as  well  as  his  exquisite  taste  prevented  him 
from  falling  into  this  error.  There  is  not  in 
the  world  a  large  rural  population  that  speaks 
its  native  language  with  a  purity  approaching 
that  with  which  the  English  is  spoken  by  the 
common  people  of  New  England.  The  vul 
gar  words  and  phrases  which  in  other  states 
are  supposed  to  be  peculiar  to  this  part  of  the 
country  are  unknown  east  of  the  Hudson,  ex 
cept  to  the  readers  of  foreign  newspapers,  or 
the  listeners  to  low  comedians  who  find  it  pro 
fitable  to  convey  such  novelties  into  Connec 
ticut,  Massachusetts,  and  Vermont.  We  are 
glad  to  see  a  book  that  is  going  down  to  the 
next  ages  as  a  representative  of  national  man 
ners  and  character  in  all  respects  correct. 

— Since  the  above  was  written,  Mr.  Haw 
thorne  has  added  to  his  fame  by  the  publica 
tion  of  The  Scarlet  Letter,  and  The  House  of 
Seven  Gables,  which  have  confirmed  his  rank 
as  one  of  the  great  masters  in  romantic  art. 


472 


NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE. 


A  RILL  FROM  THE  TOWN   PUMP. 

FROM   THRICE-TOLD   TALES. 

SCENE — the  corner  of  t  wo  principal  streets.    The  TOWN  PUMP 
talking  through  its  nose.) 

Noox,  by  the  north  clock  !  Noon,  by  the  east ! 
High  noon,  too,  by  these  hot  sunbeams,  which  fall, 
scarcely  aslope,  upon  my  head,  and  almost  make 
the  water  bubble  and  smoke,  in  the  trough  under 
my  nose.  Truly,  we  public  characters  have  a  tough 
time  of  it!  And,  among  all  the  town  officers, 
chosen  at  March  meeting,  where  is  he  that  sustains, 
for  a  single  year,  the  burden  of  such  manifold  du 
ties  as  are  imposed,  in  perpetuity,  upon  the  Town 
Pump1?  The  title  of  « town  treasurer"  is  right 
fully  mine,  as  guardian  of  the  best  treasure  that  the 
town  has.  The  overseers  of  the  poor  ought  to 
make  me  their  chairman,  since  I  provide  bountifully 
for  the  pauper,  without  expense  to  him  that  pays 
taxes.  I  am  at  the  head  of  the  fire  department, 
and  one  of  the  physicians  to  the  board  of  health. 
As  a  keeper  of  the  peace,  all  water-drinkers  will 
confess  me  equal  to  the  constable.  I  perform  some 
of  the  duties  of  the  town  clerk,  by  promulgating 
public  notices,  when  they  are  posted  on  my  front. 
To  speak  within  bounds,  I  am  the  chief  person  of 
the  municipality,  and  exhibit,  moreover,  an  admira 
ble  pattern  to  my  brother  officers,  by  the  cool, 
steady,  upright,  downright,  and  impartial  discharge 
of  my  business,  and  the  constancy  with  which 
I  stand  to  my  post.  Summer  or  winter,  nobody 
seeks  me  in  vain ;  for,  all  day  long,  I  am  seen  at 
the  busiest  corner,  just  above  the  market,  stretch 
ing  out  my  arms,  to  rich  and  poor  alike;  and  at 
night,  I  hold  a  lantern  over  my  head,  both  to  show 
where  I  am,  and  keep  people  out  of  the  gutters. 

At  this  sultry  noontide,  I  am  cupbearer  to  the 
parched  populace,  for  whose  benefit  an  iron  goblet 
is  chained  to  my  waist.  Like  a  dramseller  on  the 
mall,  at  muster  day,  I  cry  aloud  to  all  and  sundry, 
in  my  plainest  accents,  and  at  the  very  tiptop  of 
my  voice.  Here  it  is,  gentlemen  !  Here  is  the  good 
liquor !  Walk  up,  walk  up,  gentlemen,  walk  up, 
walk  up!  Here  is  the  superior  stuff!  Here  is  the 
unadulterated  ale  of  father  Adam — better  than 
Cognac,  Hollands,  Jamaica,  strong  beer,  or  wine 
of  any  price ;  here  it  is  by  the  hogshead  or  the 
single  glass,  and  not  a  cent  to  pay  !  Walk  up, 
gentlemen,  walk  up,  and  help  yourselves! 

It  were  a  pity,  if  all  this  outcry  should  draw  no 
customers.  Here  they  come.  A  hot  day,  gentle 
men  !  Quaff,  and  away  again,  so  as  to  keep  your 
selves  in  a  nice  cool  sweat.  You,  my  friend,  will 
need  another  cup-full,  to  wash  the  dust  out  of  your 
throat,  if  it  be  as  thick  there  as  it  is  on  your  cow 
hide  shoes.  I  see  that  you  have  trudged  half  a 
score  of  miles  to-day  ;  and,  like  a  wise  man,  have 
passed  by  the  taverns,  and  stopped  at  the  running 
brooks  and  well-curbs.  Otherwise,  betwixt  heat 
without  and  fire  within,  you  would  have  been 
burnt  to  a  cinder,  or  melted  down  to  nothing  at  all, 
in  the  fashion  of  a  jelly-fish.  Drink,  and  make 
room  for  that  other  fellow,  who  seeks  my  aid  to 
quench  the  fiery  fever  of  last  night's  potations, 
which  he  drained  from  no  cup  of  mine.  Welcome, 


most  robicund  sir !  You  and  I  have  been  great 
strangers,  hitherto;  nor,  to  confess  the  truth,  will 
my  nose  be  anxious  for  a  closer  intimacy,  till  the 
fumes  of  your  breath  be  a  little  less  potent.  Mer 
cy  on  you,  man  !  tl\p  water  absolutely  hisses  down 
your  red-hot  gullet,  and  is  converted  quite  to  steam, 
in  the  miniature  tophet,  which  you  mistake  for  a 
stomach.  Fill  again,  and  tell  me,  on  the  word  of 
an  honest  toper,  did  you  ever,  in  cellar,  tavern,  or 
any  kind  of  a  dram-shop,  spend  the  price  of  your 
children's  food,  for  a  swig  half  so  delicious  1  Now, 
for  the  first  time  these  ten  years,  you  know  the 
flavour  of  cold  water.  Good-by ;  and,  whenever 
you  are  thirsty,  remember  that  I  keep  a  constant 
supply,  at  the  old  stand.  Who  next]  Oh,  my 
little  friend,  you  are  let  loose  from  school,  and  come 
hither  to  scrub  your  blooming  face,  and  drown  the 
memory  of  certain  taps  of  the  ferule,  and  other 
schoolboy  troubles,  in  a  draught  from  the  Town 
Pump.  Take  it,  pure  as  the  current  of  your  young 
life.  Take  it,  and  may  your  heart  and  tongue 
never  be  scorched  with  a  fiercer  thirst  than  now ! 
There,  my  dear  child,  put  down  the  cup,  and  yield 
your  place  to  this  elderly  gentleman,  who  treads 
so  tenderly  over  the  paving-stones,  that  I  suspect 
he  is  afraid  of  breaking  them.  What !  he  limps 
by,  without  so  much  as  thanking  me,  as  if  my  hos 
pitable  offers  were  meant  only  for  people  who  have 
no  wine  cellars.  Well,  well,  sir — no  harm  done, 
I  hope!  Go  draw  the  cork,  tip  the  decanter;  but, 
when  your  great  toe  shall  set  you  a-roaring,  it  will 
be  no  affair  of  mine.  If  gentlemen  love  the  plea 
sant  titillaliori  of  the  gout,  it  is  all  one  to  the  Town 
Pump.  This  thirsty  dog,  with  his  red  tongue  loll 
ing  out,  does  not  scorn  my  hospitality,  but  stands 
on  his  hind  legs,  and  laps  eagerly  out  of  the  trough. 
See  how  lightly  he  capers  away  again !  Jovvler, 
did  your  worship  ever  have  the  gout  ? 

Are  you  all  satisfied  1  Then  wipe  your  mouths, 
my  good  friends ;  and,  while  my  spout  has  a  mo 
ment's  leisure,  I  will  delight  the  town  with  a  few 
historical  reminiscences.  In  far  antiquity,  beneath 
a  darksome  shadow  of  venerable  boughs,  a  spring 
bubbled  out  of  the  leaf-strown  earth,  in  the  very  spot 
where  you  now  behold  me,  on  the  sunny  pavement. 
The  water  was  as  bright  and  clear,  and  deemed 
as  precious,  as  liquid  diamonds.  The  Indian  sa 
gamores  drank  of  it,  from  time  immemorial,  till  the 
fatal  deluge  of  the  fire-water  burst  upon  the  red 
men,  and  swept  their  whole  race  away  from  the 
cold  fountains.  Endicott,  and  his  followers,  came 
next,  and  often  knelt  down  to  drink,  dipping  their 
long  beards  in  the  spring.  The  rich'est  goblet,  then, 
was  of  birch  bark.  Governor  Winthrop,  after  a 
journey  afoot  from  Boston,  drank  here,  out  of  the 
hollow  of  his  hand.  The  elder 'Higginson  here 
wet  his  palm,  and  laid  it  on  the  brow  of  the  first 
town-born  child.  For  many  years  it  was  the  water 
ing-place,  and,  as  it  were,  the  wash-bowl  of  the 
vicinity — whither  all  decent  folks  resorted,  to  puri 
fy  their  visages,  and  gaze  at  them  afterwards — >at 
least  the  pretty  maidens  did — in  the  mirror  which 
it  made.  On  Sabbath  days,  whenever  a  babe  was 
to  be  baptized,  the  sexton  filled  his  basin  here,  and 
placed  it  on  the  communion-table  of  the  humble 


NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE. 


473 


meeting-house,  which  partly  covered  the  site  of 
yonder  stately  brick  one.  Thus,  one  generation 
after  another  was  consecrated  to  Heaven  by  its 
waters,  and  cast  their  waxing  and  waning  shadows 
into  its  glassy  bosom,  and  vanished  from  the  earth, 
as  if  mortal  life  were  but  a  flitting  image  in  a  foun 
tain.  Finally,  the  fountain  vanished  also.  Cel 
lars  were  dug  on  all  sides,  and  cart-loads  of  gravel 
flung  upon  its  source,  whence  oozed  a  turbid 
stream,  forming  a  mudpuddle,  at  the  corner  of  two 
streets.  In  the  hot  months,  when  its  refreshment 
was  most  needed,  the  dust  flew  in  clouds  over  the 
forgotten  birthplace  of  the  waters,  now  their  grave. 
But,  in  the  course  of  time,  a  Town  Purnp  was  sunk 
into  the  source  of  the  ancient  spring;  and  when 
the  first  decayed,  another  took  its  place — and  then 
another,  and  still  another — till  here  stand  I,  gentle 
men  and  ladies,  to  serve  you  with  my  iron  goblet. 
Drink,  and  be  refreshed !  The  water  is  pure  and 
cold  as  that  which  slaked  the  thirst  of  the  red  sa- 
gamon1,  beneath  the  aged  boughs,  though  now  the 
gem  of  the  wilderness  is  treasured  under  these  hot  i 
stones,  where  no  shadow  falls,  but  from  the  brick  j 
buildings.  And  be  it  the  moral  of  my  story,  that,  j 
as  this  wasted  and  long-lost  fountain  is  now  known 
and  prized  again,  so  shall  the  virtues  of  cold  water, 
too  little  valued  since  your  fathers'  days,  be  re 
cognised  by  all. 

Your  pardon,  good  people  !  I  must  interrupt  my 
stream  of  eloquence,  and  spout  forth  a  stream  of 
water,  to  replenish  the  trough  for  this  teamster  and 
his  two  yoke  of  oxen,  who  have  come  from  Tops- 
field,  or  somewhere  along  that  way.  No  part  of 
my  business  is  pleasanter  than  the  watering  of  cat 
tle.  Look !  how  rapidly  they  lower  the  watermark 
on  the  sides  of  the  trough,  till  their  capacious 
stomachs  are  moistened  with  a  gallon  or  two  apiece, 
and  they  can  afford  time  to  breathe  it  in,  with  sighs 
of  calm  enjoyment.  Now  they  roll  their  quiet  eyes 
around  the  brim  of  their  monstrous  drinking-ves- 
sel.  An  ox  is  your  true  toper. 

But  I  perceive,  my  dear  auditors,  that  you  are 
impatient  for  the  remainder  of  my  discourse.  Im 
pute  it,  I  beseech  you,  to  no  defect  of  modesty,  if 
I  insist  a  little  longer  on  so  fruitful  a  topic  as  my 
own  multifarious  merits.  It  is  altogether  for  your 
good.  The  better  you  think  of  me,  the  better  men 
and  women  will  you  find  yourselves.  I  shall  say 
nothing  of  my  all-important  aid  on  washing  days; 
though,  on  that  account  alone,  I  might  call  myself 
the  household  god  of  a  hundred  families.  Far  be 
it  from  me  also,  to  hint,  my  respectable  friends,  at 
the  show  of  dirty  faces,  which  you  would  present, 
without  my  pains  to  keep  you  clean.  Nor  will  I 
remind  you  how  often,  when  the  midnight  bells 
;nakc  you  tremble  for  your  combustible  town,  you 
aave  fled  to  the  Town  Pump,  and  found  me  al 
ways  at.  my  post,  firm,  amid  the  confusion,  and 
ready  to  drain  my  vital  current  in  your  behalf. 
Neither  is  it  worth  while  to  lay  much  stress  on  my 
claims  to  a  medical  diploma,  as  the  physician,  whose 
simple  rule  of  practice  is  preferable  to  all  the  nau 
seous  lore  which  has  found  men  sick  or  left  them  so, 
since  the  days  of  Hippocrates.  Let  us  take  a  broader 
view  of  my  beneficial  influence  on  mankind. 


No ;  these  are  trifles,  compared  with  the  merits 
which  wise  rnen  concede  to  me — if  not  in  my  sin 
gle  self,  yet  as  the  representative  of  a  class — of  be 
ing  the  grand  reformer  of  the  age.  From  my 
spout,  and  such  spouts  as  mine,  must  flow  the 
stream,  that  shall  cleanse  our  earth  of  the  vast  por 
tion  of  its  crime  and  anguish,  which  has  gushed 
from  the  fiery  fountains  of  the  still.  In  this  mighty 
enterprise,  the  cow  shall  be  my  great  confederate. 
Milk  and  water  !  The  TOWN  PUTHP  and  the. Cow  ! 
Such  is  the  glorious  copartnership,  that  shall  tear 
down  the  distilleries  and  brewhoiises,  uproot  the 
vineyards,  shatter  the  cider-presses,  ruin  the  tea 
and  coffee  trade,  and,  finally  monopolize  the  whole 
business  of  quenching  thirst.  Blessed  consumma 
tion  !  Then,  Poverty  shall  pass  away  from  the 
land,  finding  no  hovel  so  wretched,  where  her 
squalid  form  may  shelter  itself.  Then  Disease, 
for  lack  of  other  victims,  shall  gnaw  its  own  heart, 
and  die.  Then  Sin,  if  she  do  not  die,  shall  lose  half 
her  strength.  Until  now,  the  phrensy  of  heredi 
tary  fever  has  raged  in  the  human  blood,  transmitted 
from  sire  to  son,  and  rekindled,  in  every  genera 
tion,  by  fresh  draughts  of  liquid  flame.  When 
that  inward  fire  shall  be  extinguished,  the  heat  of 
passion  cannot  but  grow  cool,  and  war — the  drunk 
enness  of  nations — perhaps  will  cease.  At  least, 
there  will  be  no  war  of  households.  The  husband 
and  wife,  drinking  deep  of  peaceful  joy — a  calm 
bliss  of  temperate  affections — shall  pass  hand  in 
hand  through  life,  and  lie  down,  not  reluctantly,  at 
its  protracted  close.  To  them,  the  past  will  be  no 
turmoil  of  mad  dreams,  nor  the  future  an  eternity 
of  such  moments  as  follow  the  delirium  of  the 
drunkard.  Their  dead  faces  shall  express  what 
their  spirits  were,  and  are  to  be,  by  a  lingering 
smile  of  memory  and  hope. 

Ahem  !  Dry  work,  this  speechifying ;  especially 
to  an  unpractised  orator.  I  never  conceived,  till 
now,  what  toil  the  temperance  lecturers  undergo 
for  my  sake.  Hereafter,  they  shall  have  the  busi 
ness  to  themselves.  Do,  some  kind  Christian, 
pump  a  stroke  or  two,  just  to  wet  my  whistle. 
Thank  you,  sir!  My  dear  hearers,  when  the  world 
shall  have  been  regenerated,  by  my  instrumentali 
ty,  you  will  collect  your  useless  vats  and  liquor 
casks  into  one  great  pile,  and  make  a  bonfire,  in 
honour  of  the  Town  Pump.  And,  when  I  shall 
have  decayed,  like  my  predecessors,  then,  if  you  re 
vere  my  memory,  let  a  marble  fountain,  richly 
sculptured,  take  my  place  upon  the  spot.  Such 
monuments  should  be  erected  everywhere,  and  in 
scribed  with  the  names  of  the  distinguished  cham 
pions  of  my  cause.  Now  listen;  for  something 
very  important  is  to  come  next. 

There  are  two  or  three  honest  friends  of  mine — 
and  true  friends,  I  know,  they  are — who,  neverthe 
less,  by  their  fiery  pugnacity  in  my  behalf,  do  put 
me  in  fearful  hazard  of  a  broken  nose,  or  even  a 
total  overthrow  upon  the  pavement,  and  the  loss 
of  the  treasure  which  I  guard.  I  pray  you,  gentle 
men,  let  this  fault  be  amended.  Is  it  decent,  think 
you,  to  get  tipsy  with  zeal  for  temperance,  and  take 
up  the  honourable  cause  of  the  Town  Pump,  in 
the  style  of  a  toper,  fighting  for  his  brandy  bottle] 


474 


NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE. 


Or,  can  the  excellent  qualities  of  cold  water  be  no 
otherwise  exemplified,  than  by  plunging,  slapdash, 
into  hot  water,  and  wofully  scalding  yourselves  and 
other  people  1  Trust  me,  they  may.  In  the  moral 
warfare,  which  you  are  to  wage — and,  indeed,  in 
the  whole  conduct  of  your  lives — you  cannot  choose 
a  better  example  than  myself,  who  have  never  per 
mitted  the  dust  and  sultry  atmosphere,  the  turbu 
lence  and  manifold  disquietudes  of  the  world  around 
me,  to  reach  that  deep,  calm  well  of  purity,  which 
may  be  called  my  soul.  And  whenever  I  pour  out 
that  soul,  it  is  to  cool  earth's  fever,  or  cleanse  its 
stains. 

One  o'clock !  Nay,  then,  if  the  dinner-bell  be 
gins  to  speak,  I  may  as  well  hold  my  peace.  Here 
comes  a  pretty  young  girl  of  my  acquaintance,  with 
a  large  stone  pitcher  for  me  to  fill.  May  she  draw 
a  husband,  while  drawing  her  water,  as  Rachel  did 
of  old.  Hold  out  your  vessel,  my  dear!  There 
it  is,  full  to  the  brim ;  so  now  run  home,  peeping 
at  your  sweet  image  in  the  pitcher,  as  you  go;  and 
forget  not,  in  a  glass  of  my  own  liquor,  to  drink — • 
"  SUCCESS  TO  THE  TOWN  PUMP  !" 


DAVID  SWAN.— A  FANTASY. 

FROM  THE   SAME. 

WE  can  be  but  partially  acquainted  even  with 
the  events  which  actually  influence  our  course 
through  life,  and  our  final  destiny.  There  are  in 
numerable  other  events,  if  such  they  may  be  called, 
which  come  close  upon  us,  yet  pass  away  without 
actual  results,  or  even  betraying  their  near  approach, 
by  the  reflection  of  any  light  or  shadow  across 
our  minds.  Could  we  know  all  the  vicissitudes  of 
our  fortunes,  life  would  be  too  full  of  hope  and 
fear,  exultation  or  disappointment,  to  afford  us  a 
single  hour  of  true  serenity.  This  idea  may  be 
illustrated  by  a  page  from  the  secret  history  of  Da 
vid  Swan. 

We  have  nothing  to  do  with  David,  until  we 
find  him,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  on  the  high  road 
from  his  native  place  to  the  city  of  Boston,  where 
his  uncle,  a  small  dealer  in  the  grocery  line,  was  to 
take  him  behind  the  counter.  Be  it  enough  to  say, 
that  he  was  a  native  of  New  Hampshire,  born  of 
respectable  parents,  and  had  received  an  ordinary 
school  education,  with  a  classic  finish  by  a  year  at 
Gilmanton  academy.  After  journeying  on  foot, 
from  sunrise  till  nearly  noon  of  a  summer's  day, 
his  weariness  and  the  increasing  heat  determined 
him  to  sit  down  in  the  first  convenient  shade,  and 
await  the  coining  up  of  the  stage-coach.  As  if 
planted  on  purpose  for  him,  there  soon  appeared  a 
little  tuft  of  maples,  with  a  delightful  recess  in  the 
midst,  and  such  a  fresh  bubbling  spring,  that  it 
seemed  never  to  have  sparkled  for  any  wayfarer 
but  David  Swan.  Virgin  or  not,  he  kissed  it  with 
his  thirsty  lips,  and  then  flung  himself  along  the 
brink,  pillowing  his  head  upon  some  shirts  and -a 
pair  of  pantaloons,  tied  up  in  a  striped  cotton  hand- 
kerehiei  The  sunbeams  could  not  reach  him  ;  the 
dust  did  not  yet  rise  from  the  road,  after  the  heavy 


rain  of  yesterday ;  and  his  grassy  lair  suited  the 
young  man  better  than  a  bed  of  down.  The  spring 
murmured  drowsily  beside  him ;  the  branches  waved 
dreamily  across  the  blue  sky,  overhead ;  and  a  deep 
sleep,  perchance  hiding  dreams  within  its  depths, 
fell  upon  David  Swan.  But  we  are  to  relate  events 
which  he  did  not  dream  of. 

While  he  lay  sound  asleep  in  the  shade,  other 
people  were  wide  awake,  and  passed  to  and  fro, 
a-foot,  on  horseback,  and  in  all  sorts  of  vehicles, 
along  the  sunny  road  by  his  bedchamber.  Some 
looked  neither  to  the  right  hand  nor  the  left,  and 
knew  not  that  he  was  there  ;  some  merely  granted 
that  way,  without  admitting  the  slumberer  among 
their  busy  thoughts;  some  laughed  to  see  how 
soundly  he  slept ;  and  several,  whose  hearts  were 
brimming  full  of  scorn,  ejected  their  venomous  su 
perfluity  on  David  Swan.  A  middle-aged  widow, 
when  nobody  else  was  near,  thrust  her  head  a  lit 
tle  way  into  the  recess,  and  vowed  that  the  young 
fellow  looked  charming  in  his  sleep.  A  temperance 
lecturer  saw  him,  and  wrought  poor  David  into  the 
texture  of  his  evening's  discourse,  as  an  awful  in 
stance  of  dead  drunkenness  by  the  road-side.  But, 
censure,  praise,  merriment,  scorn,  and  indifference, 
were  all  one,  or  rather  all  nothing,  to  David  Swan. 

He  had  slept  only  a  few  moments,  when  a  brown 
carriage,  drawn  by  a  handsome  pair  of  horses, 
bowled  easily  along,  and  was  brought  to  a  stand 
still,  nearly  in  front  of  David's  resting-place.  A 
linch-pin  had  fallen  out,  and  permitted  one  of  the 
wheels  to  slide  off.  The  damage  was  slight,  and 
occasioned  merely  a  momentary  alarm  to  an  elder 
ly  merchant  and  his  wife,  who  were  returning  to 
Boston  in  the  carriage.  While  the  coachman  and 
a  servant  were  replacing  the  wheel,  the  lady  and 
gentleman  sheltered  themselves  beneath  the  maple 
trees,  and  there  espied  the  bubbling  fountain,  and 
David  Swan  asleep  beside  it.  Impressed  with  the 
awe  which  the  humblest  sleeper  usually  sheds 
around  him,  the  merchant  trod  as  lightly  as  the 
gout  would  allow;  and  his  spouse  took  good  heed 
not  to  rustle  her  silk  gown  lest  David  should  start 
up,  all  of  a  sudden. 

"How  soundly  he  sleeps!"  whispered  the  old 
gentleman.  "  From  what  a  depth  he  draws  that 
easy  breath !  Such  sleep  as  that  brought  on  with 
out  an  opiate,  would  be  worth  more  to  me  than 
half  my  income ;  for  it  would  suppose  health,  and 
an  untroubled  mind." 

"  And  youth,  besides,"  said  the  lady.  "  Healthy 
and  quiet  age  does  not  sleep  thuo.  Our  slumber 
is  no  more  like  his  than  our  wakefulness." 

The  longer  they  looked,  the  more  did  this  elder 
ly  couple  feel  interested  in  the  unknown  youth,  to 
whom  the  way-side  and  the  maple  shade  were  as 
a  secret  chamber,  with  the  rich  gloom  of  damask 
curtains  brooding  over  him.  Perceiving  that  a  stray 
sunbeam  glimmered  down  his  face,  the  lady  con 
trived  to  twist  a  branch  aside,  so  as  to  intercept  it. 
And  having  done  this  little  act  of  kindness,  she 
began  to  feel  like  a  mother  to  him. 

"Providence  seems  to  have  laid  him  here,"  whis 
pered  she  to  her  husband,  "  and  to  have  brought  us 
hither  to  find  him,  after  our  disappointment  in  our 


NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE. 


475 


cousin's  son.  Methinks  I  can  see  a  likeness  to 
our  departed  Henry.  Shall  we  awaken  him?" 

"To  what  purpose?"  sard  the  merchant,  hesi 
tating.  «  We  know  nothing  of  the  youth's  cha 
racter." 

"  That  open  countenance  !"  replied  his  wife,  in 
the  same  hushed  voice,  yet  earnestly.  «  This  in 
nocent  sleep!" 

While  these  whispers  were  passing,  the  sleeper's 
heart  did  not  throb,  nor  his  breath  become  agitated, 
nor  his  features  betray  the  least  token  of  interest. 
Yet  Fortune  was  bending  over  him,  just  ready  to 
let  fall  a  burden  of  gold.  The  old  merchant  had 
lost  his  only  son,  and  had  no  heir  to  his  wealth, 
except  a  distant  relative,  with  whose  conduct  he 
was  dissatified.  In  such  cases,  people  sometimes 
do  stranger  things  than  to  act  the  magician,  and 
awaken  a  young  man  to  splendour,  who  fell  asleep 
in  poverty. 

"  Shall  we  not  awaken  him?"  repeated  the  lady, 
persuasively. 

"  The  coach  is  ready,  sir,"  said  the  servant,  be 
hind. 

The  old  couple  started,  reddened,  and  hurried 
away,  mutually  wondering,  that  they  should  ever 
have  dreamed  of  doing  any  thing  so  very  ridicu 
lous.  The  merchant  threw  himself  back  in  the 
carriage,  and  occupied  his  rnind  with  the  plan  of  a 
magnificent  asylum  for  unfortunate  men  of  busi 
ness.  Meanwhile,  David  Swan  enjoyed  his  nap. 

The  carriage  could  not  have  gone  above  a  mile 
or  two,  when  a  pretty  young  girl  came  along,  with 
a  tripping  pace,  which  showed  precisely  how  her 
little  heart  was  dancing  in  her  bosom.  Perhaps  it 
was  this  merry  kind  of  motion  that  caused — is 
there  any  harm  in  saying  it  ? — her  garter  to  slip  its 
knot.  Conscious  that  the  silken  girth,  if  silk  it 
were,  was  relaxing  its  hold,  she  turned  aside  into 
the  shelter  of  the  maple  trees,  and  there  found  a 
young  man  asleep  by  the  spring !  Blushing,  as 
red  as  any  rose,  that  she  should  have  intruded  into 
a  gentleman's  bed-chamber,  and  for  such  a  purpose 
too,  she  was  about  to  make  her  escape  on  tiptoe. 
But,  there  was  peril  near  the  sleeper.  A  monster 
of  a  bee  had  been  wandering  overhead — buzz, 
buzz,  buzz — now  among  the  leaves,  now  flashing 
through  the  strips  of  sunshine,  and  now  lost  in  the 
dark  shade,  till  finally  he  appeared  to  be  settling  on 
the  eyelid  of  David  Swan.  The  sting  of  a  bee  is 
sometimes  deadly.  As  free-hearted  as  she  was  in 
nocent,  the  girl  attacked  the  intruder  with  her  hand 
kerchief,  brushed  him  soundly,  and  drove  him  from 
beneath  the  maple  shade.  How  sweet  a  picture  ! 
This  good  deed  accomplished,  with  quickened 
breath,  and  a  deeper  blush,  she  stole  a  glance  at 
the  youthful  stranger,  for  whom  she  had  been  bat 
tling  with  a  dragon  in  the  air. 

<»  He  is  handsome !"  thought  she,  and  blushed 
redder  yet. 

How  could  it  be  that  no  dream  of  bliss  grew  so 
strong  within  him,  that,  shattered  by  its  very 
strength,  .it  should  part  asunder,  and  allow  him  to 
perceive  the  girl  among  its  phantoms  ?  Why,  at 
least,  did  no  smile  of  welcome  brighten  upon  his 
face  ?  She  was  come,  the  maid  whose  soul,  ac 


cording  to  the  old  and  beautiful  idea,  had  been 
severed  from  his  own,  and  whom,  in  all  his  vague 
but  passionate  desires,  he  yearned  to  meet.  Her, 
onty,  could  he  love  with  perfect  love — him,  only, 
could  she  receive  into  the  depths  of  her  heart — .and 
now  her  image  was  faintly  blushing  in  the  foun 
tain,  by  his  side ;  should  it  pass  away,  its  happy 
lustre  would  never  gleam  upon  his  life  again. 

"  How  sound  he  sleeps !"  murmured  the  girl. 

She  departed,  but  did  not  trip  along  the  road  so 
lightly  as  when  she  came. 

Now,  this  girl's  father  was  a  thriving  country 
merchant  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  happened,  at 
that  identical  time,  to  be  looking  out  for  just  such 
a  young  man  as  David  Swan.  Had  David  formed 
a  way-side  acquaintance  with  the  daughter,  he 
would  have  become  the  father's  clerk,  and  all  else 
in  natural  succession.  So  here,  again,  had  good 
fortune — the  best  of  fortunes — stolen  so  near,  that 
her  garments  brushed  against  him ;  and  he  knew 
nothing  of  the  matter. 

The  girl  was  hardly  out  of  sight,  when  two  men 
turned  aside  beneath  the  maple  shade.  Both  had 
dark  faces,  set  off  by  cloth  caps,  which  were  drawn 
down  aslant  over  their  brows.  Their  dresses  were 
shabby,  yet  had  a  certain  smartness.  These  were 
a  couple  of  rascals,  who  got  their  living  by  what 
ever  the  devil  sent  them,  and  now,  in  the  interim 
of  other  business,  had  staked  the  joint  profits  of 
their  next  piece  of  villany  on  a  game  of  cards, 
which  was  to  have  been  decided  here  under  the 
trees.  But,  finding  David  asleep  by  the  spring, 
one  of  the  rogues  whispered  to  his  fellow — 

"  Hist ! — Do  you  see  that  bundle  under  his 
head  ?" 

The  other  villain  nodded,  winked,  and  leered. 

"I'll  bet  you  a  horn  of  brandy,"  said  the  first, 
"  that  the  chap  has  either  a  pocketbook,  or  a  snug 
little  hoard  of  small  change,  stowed  away  amongst 
his  shirts.  And  if  not  there,  we  shall  find  it  in 
his  pantaloons'  pocket." 

"But  how  if  he  wakes?"  said  the  other. 

His  companion  thrust  aside  his  waistcoat,  pointed 
to  the  handle  of  a  dirk,  and  nodded. 

"  So  be  it !"  muttered  the  second  villain. 

They  approached  the  unconscious  David,  and, 
while  one  pointed  the  dagger  toward  his  heart,  the 
other  began  to  search  the  bundle  beneath  his  head. 
Their  two  faces,  grim,  wrinkled,  and  ghastly  with 
guilt  and  fear,  bent  over  their  victim,  looking  hor 
rible  enough  to  be  mistaken  for  fiends,  should  he 
suddenly  awake.  Nay,  had  the  villains  glanced 
aside  into  the  spring,  even  they  would  hardly  have 
known  themselves,  as  reflected  there.  But  David 
Swan  had  never  worn  a  more  tranquil  aspect,  even 
when  asleep  on  his  mother's  breast. 

"  I  must  take  away  the  bundle,"  whispered  one. 

« If  he  stirs,  I'll  strike,"  muttered  the  other. 

But,  at  this  moment,  a  dog,  scenting  along  the 
ground,  came  in  beneath  the  maple  trees,  and  gazed 
alternately  at  each  of  these  wicked  men,  and  then 
at  the  quiet  sleeper.  He  then  lapped  out  of  the 
fountain. 

"  Pshaw !"  said  one  villain.  "  We  can  do  no 
thing  now.  The  dog's  master  must  be  close  behind." 


476 


NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE. 


"  Let's  take  a  drink,  and  be  off,"  said  the  other. 

The  man,  with  the  dagger,  thrust  back  the 
weapon  into  his  bosom,  and  drew  forth  a  pocket- 
pistol,  but  not  of  that  kind  which  kills  by  a  single 
discharge.  It  was  a  flask  of  liquor,  with  a  block- 
tin  tumbler  screwed  upon  the  mouth.  Each  drank 
a  comfortable  dram,  and  left  the  spot,  with  so  many 
jests,  and  such  laughter  at  their  unaccomplished 
wickedness,  that  they  might  be  said  to  have  gone  on 
their  way  rejoicing.  In  a  few  hours,  they  had  for 
gotten  the  whole  affair,  nor  once  imagined  that  the 
recording  angel  had  written  down  the  crime  of  mur 
der  against  their  souls,  in  letters  as  durable  as  eter 
nity.  As  for  David  Swan,  he  still  slept  quietly, 
neither  conscious  of  the  shadow  of  death  when  it 
hung  over  him,  nor  of  the  glow  of  renewed  life, 
when  that  shadow  was  withdrawn. 

He  slept,  but  no  longer  so  quietly  as  at  first. 
An  hour's  repose  had  snatched,  from  his  elastic 
frame,  the  weariness  with  which  many  hours  of 
toil  had  burdened  it.  Now,  he  stirred — now,  moved 
his  lips,  without  a  sound — now,  talked,  in  an  in 
ward  tone,  to  the  noonday  spectres  of  his  dream. 
But  a  noise  of  wheels  came  rattling  louder  and 
louder  along  the  road,  until  it  dashed  through  the 
dispersing  mist  of  David's  slumber — and  there  was 
the  stage-coach.  He  started  up,  with  all  his  ideas 
about  him. 

"  Halloo,  driver ! — Take  a  passenger  1"  shouted 
he. 

"  Room  on  top  !"  answered  the  driver. 

Up  mounted  David,  and  bowled  away  merrily 
toward  Boston,  without  so  much  as  a  parting  glance 
at  that  fountain  of  dreamlike  vicissitude.  He  knew 
not  that  a  phantom  of  Wealth  had  thrown  a  golden 
hue  upon  its  waters — nor  that  one  of  Love  had 
sighed  softly  through  their  murmur — nor  that  one  of 
Death  had  threatened  to  crimson  them  with  his 
blood — all,  in  the  brief  hour  since  he  lay  down  to 
sleep.  Sleeping  or  waking,  we  hear  not  the  airy 
footsteps  of  the  strange  things  that  almost  happen. 
Does  it  not  argue  a  superintending  Providence, 
that,  while  viewless  and  unexpected  events  thrust 
themselves  continually  athwart  our  path,  there 
should  still  be  regularity  enough,  in  mortal  life,  to 
render  foresight  even  partially  available  1 


THE  CELESTIAL  RAILROAD. 

FROM  MOSSES   FROM   AN  OLD   MANSE. 

NOT  a  great  while  ago,  passing  through  the  gate 
of  dreams,  I  visited  that  region  of  the  earth  in 
which  lies  the  famous  city  of  Destruction.  It  in 
terested  me  much  to  learn  that,  by  the  public  spirit 
of  some  of  the  inhabitants,  a  railroad  has  recently 
been  established  between  this  populous  and  flou 
rishing  town,  and  the  Celestial  City.  Having  a 
little  time  upon  my  hands,  I  resolved  to  gratify  a 
liberal  curiosity  to  make  a  trip  thither.  According 
ly,  one  fine  morning,  after  paying  my  bill  at  the 
hotel,  and  directing  the  porter  to  stow  my  luggage 
behind  a  coach,  I  took  my  seat  in  the  vehicle  and 
eet  out  for  the  Station-house.  It  was  my  good  for 


tune  to  enjoy  the  company  of  gentlemen — one  Mr. 
Smooth-it-away — -who,  though  he  had  never  actu 
ally  visited  the  Celestial  City,  yet  seemed  as  well 
acquainted  with  its  laws,  customs,  policy,  and  sta 
tistics,  as  with  those  of  the  city  of  Destruction,  of 
which  he  was  a  native  townsman.  Being,  more 
over,  a  director  of  the  railroad  corporation,  and  one 
of  its  largest  stockholders,  he  had  it  in  his  power 
to  give  me  all  desirable  information  respecting  that 
praiseworthy  enterprise. 

Our  coach  rattled  out  of  the  city,  and  at  a  short 
distance  from  its  outskirts,  passed  over  -a.  bridge,  of 
elegant  construction,  but  somewhat  too  slight,  as  I 
imagined,  to  sustain  any  considerable  weight.  On 
both  sides  lay  an  extensive  quagmire,  which  could 
not  huve  been  more  disagreeable  either  to  sight  or 
smell,  had  all  the  kennels  of  the  earth  emptied  their 
pollution  there. 

"  This,"  remarked  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  «  is  the 
famous  Slough  of  Despond — a  disgrace  to  all  the 
neighbourhood;  and  the  greater,  that  it  might  so 
easily  be  converted  into  firm  ground." 

"  I  have  understood,"  said  I,  «  that  efforts  have 
been  made  for  that  purpose,  from  time  immemorial. 
Bunyan  mentions  that  above  twenty  thousand  cart 
loads  of  wholesome  instructions  had  been  thrown 
in  here,  without  effect." 

"  Very  probably  ! — and  what  effect  could  be  an 
ticipated  from  such  unsubstantial  stuff]"  cried  Mr. 
Smooth-it-away.  "  You  observe  this  convenient 
bridge.  We  obtained  a  sufficient  foundation  for 
it  by  throwing  into  the  Slough  some  editions  of 
books  of  morality,  volumes  of  French  philosophy 
and  German  rationalism,  tracts,  sermons,  and  essays 
of  modern  clergymen,  extracts  from  Plato,  Confu 
cius,  and  various  Hindoo  sages,  together  with  a 
few  ingenious  commentaries  upon  texts  of  Scrip 
ture — all  of  which,  by  some  scientific  process,  have 
been  converted  into  a  mass  like  granite.  The 
whole  bog  might  be  filled  up  with  similar  matter." 

It  pally  seemed  to  me,  however,  that  the  bridge 
vibrated  and  heaved  up  and  down  in  a  very  formi 
dable  manner;  acid,  in  spite  of  Mr.  Smooth-it- 
away's  testimony  to  the  solidity  of  its  foundation, 
I  should  be  loth  to  cross  it  in  a  crowded  omnibus ; 
especially,  if  each  passenger  were  encumbered  with 
as  heavy  luggage  as  that  gentleman  and  myself. 
Nevertheless,  we  got  over  without  accident,  and 
soon  found  ourselves  at  the  Station-house.  This 
very  neat  and  spacious  edifice  is  erected  on  the  site 
of  the  little  Wicket-Gate,  which  formerly,  as  all 
old  pilgrims  will  recollect,  stood  directly  across  the 
highway,  and,  by  its  inconvenient  narrowness,  was 
a  great  obstruction  to  the  traveller  of  liberal  mind 
and  expansive  stomach.  The  reader  of  John  Bun 
yan  will  be  glad  to  know,  that  Christian's  old  friend 
I  Evangelist,  who  was  accustomed  to  supply  each 
pilgrim  with  a  mystic  roll,  now  presides  at  the  ticket 
office.  Some  malicious  persons,  it  is  true,  deny 
the  identity  of  this  reputable  character  with  the 
Evangelist  of  old  times,  and  even  pretend  to  bring 
competent  evidence  of  an  imposture.  Without  in 
volving  myself  in  a  dispute,  I  shall  merely  observe, 
that,  so  far  as  my  experience  got s,  the  square  pieces 
of  pasteboard,  now  delivered  to  passengers,  are 


NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE. 


477 


much  more  convenient  and  useful  along  the  road, 
than  the  antique  roll  of  parchment.  Whether 
they  will  be  as  readily  received  at  the  gate  of  the 
Celestial  City,  I  decline  giving  an  opinion. 

A  large  number  of  passengers  were  already  at 
the  Station-house,  awaiting  the  departure  of  the 
cars.  By  the  aspect  and  demeanour  of  these  per 
sons,  it  was  easy  to  judge  that  the  feelings  of 
the  community  had  undergone  a  very  favourable 
change,  in  reference  to  the  celestial  pilgrimage.  It 
would  have  done  Bunyan's  heart  good  to  see  it. 
Instead  of  a  lonely  and  ragged  man,  with  a  huge 
burden  on  his  back,  plodding  along  sorrowfully  ou 
foot,  while  the  whole  city  hooted  after  him,  here 
were  parties  of  the  first  gentry  and  most  respecta 
ble  people  in  the  neighbourhood,  setting  forth  to 
ward  the  Celestial  City,  as  cheerfully  as  if  the  pil 
grimage  were  merely  a  summer  tour.  Among  the 
gentlemen  were  characters  of  deserved  eminence, 
magistrates,  politicians,  and  men  of  wealth,  by 
whose  example  religion  could  not  but  be  greatly 
recommended  to  their  meaner  brethren.  In  the 
ladies'  apartment,  too,  I  rejoiced  to  distinguish  some 
of  those  flowers  of  fashionable  society,  who  are  so 
well  fitted  to  adorn  the  most  elevated  circles  of  the 
Celestial  City.  There  was  much  pleasant  conver 
sation  about  the  news  of  the  day,  topics  of  business, 
politics,  or  the  lighter  matters  of  amusement;  while 
religion,  though  indubitably  the  main  thing  at  heart, 
was  thrown  tastefully  into  the  back-ground.  Even 
an  infidel  would  have  heard  little  or  nothing  to 
shock  his  sensibility. 

One  great  convenience  of  the  new  method  of 
going  on  pilgrimage,  I  must  not  forget  to  mention. 
Our  enormous  burdens,  instead  of  being  carried  on 
our  shoulders,  as  had  been  the  custom  of  old,  were 
all  snugly  deposited  in  the  baggage-car,  and,  as  I 
was  assured,  would  be  delivered  to  their  respective 
owners  at  the  journey's  end.  Another  thing,  like 
wise,  the  benevolent  reader  will  be  delighted  to  un 
derstand.  It  may  be  remembered  that  there  was 
an  ancient  feud,  between  Prince  Beelzebub  and  the 
keeper  of  the  Wicket-Gate,  and  that  the  adherents 
of  the  former  distinguished  personage  were  accus 
tomed  to  shoot  deadly  arrows  at  honest  pilgrims, 
while  knocking  at  the  door.  This  dispute,  much 
to  the  credit  as  well  of  the  illustrious  potentate 
above-mentioned,  as  of  the  worthy  and  enlightened 
Directors  of  the  railroad,  has  been  pacifically  ar 
ranged,  on  the  principle  of  mutual  compromise. 
The  Prince's  subjects  are  now  pretty  numerously 
employed  about  the  Station-house,  some  in  taking 
care  of  the  baggage,  others  in  collecting  fuel,  feed 
ing  the  engines,  and  such  congenial  occupations ; 
and  I  can  conscientiously  affirm,  that  persons  more 
attentive  to  their  business,  more  willing  to  accom 
modate,  or  more  generally  agreeable  to  the  passen 
gers,  are  not  to  be  found  on  any  railroad.  Every 
good  heart  must  surely  exult  at  so  satisfactory  an 
arrangement  of  an  immemorial  difficulty. 

«  Where  is  Mr.  Great-heart  1"  inquired  I.  "  Be 
yond  a  doubt,  the  Directors  have  engaged  that  fa 
mous  old  champion  to  be  chief  conductor  on  the 
railroad  1" 

«  Why,  no,"  said  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  with  a 


dry  cough.  "  He  was  offered  the  situation  of  brake- 
man  ;  but,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  our  friend  Great- 
heart  has  grown  preposterously  stiff  and  narrow  in 
his  old  age.  He  has  so  often  guided  pilgrims  over 
the  road,  on  foot,  that  he  considers  it  a  sin  to  travel 
in  any  other  fashion.  Besides,  the  old  fellow  had 
entered  so  heartily  into  the  ancient  feud  with  Prince 
Beelzebub,  that  he  would  have  been  perpetually  at 
blows  or  ill  language  with  some  of  the  prince's 
subjects,  and  thus  have  embroiled  us  anew.  So, 
on  the  whole,  we  were  not  sorry  when  honest  Great- 
heart  went  off  to  the  Celestial  City,  in  a  huff',  and 
left  us  at  liberty  to  choose  a  more  suitable  and  ac 
commodating  man.  Yonder  comes  the  conductor 
of  the  train.  You  will  probably  recognise  him  at 
once." 

The  engine  at  this  moment  took  its  station  in 
advance  of  the  cars,  looking,  I  must  confess,  much 
more  like  a  sort  of  mechanical  demon  that  would 
hurry  us  to  the  infernal  regions,  than  a  laudable 
contrivance  for  smoothing  our  way  to  the  Celestial 
City.  On  its  top  sat  a  personage  almost  enveloped 
in  smoke  and  flame,  which — not  to  startle  the  read 
er — appeared  to  gush  from  his  own  mouth  and 
stomach,  as  well  as  from  the  engine's  brazen  ab 
domen. 

"Do  my  eyes  deceive  me1?"  cried  I.  "What 
on  earth  is  this !  A  living  creature  1 — if  so,  he  is 
own  brother  to  the  engine  he  rides  upon  !" 

"  Poh,  poh,  you  are  obtuse  !"  said  Mr.  Smooth- 
it-away,  with  a  hearty  laugh.  "  Don't  you  know 
Apollyon,  Christian's  old  enemy,  with  whom  he 
fought  so  fierce  a  battle  in  the  Valley  of  Humilia 
tion  1  He  was  the  very  fellow  to  manage  the  en 
gine  ;  and  so  we  have  reconciled  him  to  the  cus 
tom  of  going  on  pilgrimage,  and  engaged  him  as 
chief  conductor." 

"  Bravo,  bravo  !"  exclaimed  I,  with  irrepressible 
enthusiasm,  "this  shows  the  liberality  of  the  age; 
this  proves,  if  any  thing  can,  that  all  musty  preju 
dices  are  in  a  fair  way  to  be  obliterated.  And  how 
will  Christian  rejoice  to  hear  of  this  happy  trans 
formation  of  his  old  antagonist !  I  promise  myself 
great  pleasure  in  informing  him  of  it,  when  we 
reach  the  Celestial  City." 

The  passengers  being  all  comfortably  seated,  we 
now  rattled  away  merrily,  accomplishing  a  greater 
distance  in  ten  minutes  than  Christian  probably 
trudged  over  in  a  day.  It  was  laughable  while  we 
glanced  along,  as  it  were,  at  the  tail  of  a  thunder 
bolt,  to  observe  two  dusty  foot-travellers,  in  the  old 
pilgrim-guise,  with  cockle-shell  and  staff,  their  mys 
tic  rolls  of  parchment  in  their  hands,  and  their  in 
tolerable  burdens  on  their  backs.  The  preposter 
ous  obstinacy  of  these  honest  people,  in  persisting 
to  groan  and  stumble  along  the  difficult  pathway, 
rather  than  take  advantage  of  modern  improve 
ments,  excited  great  mirth  among  our  wiser  brother 
hood.  We  greeted  the  two  pilgrims  with  many 
pleasant  gibes  and  a  roar  of  laughter;  whereupon, 
they  gazed  at  us  with  such  woful  and  absurdly 
compassionate  visages,  that  our  merriment  grew 
tenfold  more  obstreperous.  Apollyon,  also,  entered 
heartily  into  the  fun,  and  contrived  to  flirt  the 
smoke  and  flame  of  the  engine,  or  of  his  own 


478 


NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE. 


breath,  into  their  faces,  and  envelope  them  in  an 
atmosphere  of  scalding  steam.  These  little  prac 
tical  jokes  amused  us  mightily,  and  doubtless 
afforded  the  pilgrims  the  gratification  of  considering 
themselves  martyrs. 

At  some  distance  from  the  railroad,  Mr.  Smooth- 
it-away  pointed  to  a  large,  antique  edifice,  which, 
he  observed,  was  a  tavern  of  long  standing,  arid 
had  formerly  been  a  noted  stopping-place  for  pil 
grims.  In  Bunyan's  road-book  it  is  mentioned  as 
the  Interpreter's  House. 

"  I  have  long  had  a  curiosity  to  visit  that  old 
mansion,"  remarked  I. 

«  It  is  not  one  of  our  stations,  as  you  perceive," 
said  my  companion.  "  The  keeper  was  violently 
opposed  to  the  railroad ;  and  well  he  might  be,  as 
the  track  left  his  house  of  entertainment  on  one 
side,  and  thus  was  pretty  certain  to  deprive  him  of 
all  his  reputable  customers.  But  the  foot-path  still 
passes  his  door ;  and  the  old  gentleman  now  and 
then  receives  a  call  from  some  simple  traveller,  and 
entertains  him  with  fare  as  old-fashioned  as  himself." 

Before  our  talk  on  this  subject  came  to  a  conclu 
sion,  we  were  rushing  by  the  place  where  Chris 
tian's  burden  fell  from  his  shoulders,  at  the  sight  of 
the  Cross.  This  served  as  a  theme  for  Mr.  Smooth- 
it-away,  Mr.  Live-for-the-world,  Mr.  Hide-sin-in- 
the-heart,  Mr.  Scaly -conscience,  and  a  knot  of  gen 
tlemen  from  the  town  of  Shun-repentance,  to  des 
cant  upon  the  inestimable  advantages  resulting  from 
the  safety  of  our  baggage.  Myself,  and  all  the 
passengers  indeed,  joined  with  great  unanimity  in 
this  view  of  the  matter ;  for  our  burdens  were  rich 
in  many  things  esteemed  precious  throughout  the 
world  ;  and  especially,  we  each  of  us  possessed  a 
great  variety  of  favourite  Habits,  which  we  trusted 
would  not  be  out  of  fashion,  even  in  the  polite  circles 
of  the  Celestial  City.  It  would  have  been  a  sad 
spectacle  to  see  such  an  assortment  of  valuable 
articles  tumbling  into  the  sepulchre.  Thus  plea 
santly  conversing  on  the  favourable  circumstances 
of  our  position,  as  compared  with  those  of  past  pil 
grims,  and  of  narrow-minded  ones  at  the  present 
day,  we  soon  found  ourselves  at  the  foot  of  the 
Hill  of  Difficulty.  Through  the  very  heart  of  this 
rocky  mountain  a  tunnel  has  been  constructed,  of 
most  admirable  architecture,  with  a  lofty  arch  and 
a  spacious  double-track  ;  so  that,  unless  the  earth 
and  rocks  chance  to  crumble  down,  it  will  remain 
an  eternal  monument  of  the  builder's  skill  and  en 
terprise.  It  is  a  great  though  incidental  advantage, 
that  the  materials  from  the  heart  of  the  Hill  of  Dif 
ficulty  have  been  employed  in  filling  up  the  Valley 
of  Humiliation;  thus  obviating  the  necessity  of  de 
scending  into  that  disagreeable  and  unwholesome 
hollow. 

"  This  is  a  wonderful  improvement,  indeed,"  said 
I.  "  Yet  I  should  have  been  glad  of  an  opportuni 
ty  to  visit  the  Palace  Beautiful,  and  be  introduced 
to  the  charming  young  ladies — Miss  Prudence,  Miss 
Piety,  Miss  Charity,  and  the  rest — who  have  the 
kindness  to  entertain  pilgrims  there." 

"  Young  ladles !"  cried  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  as 
soon  as  he  could  speak  for  laughing.  "  And  charm 
ing  young  ladies !  Why,  my  dear  fellow,  they  are 


old  maids,  every  soul  of  them — prim,  starched,  dry, 
and  angular — and  not  one  of  them,  I  will  venture 
to  say,  has  altered  so  much  as  the  fashion  of  her 
gown  since  the  days  of  Christian's  pilgrimage." 

«  Ah,  well,"  said  I,  much  comforted,  "  then  I  can 
very  readily  dispense  with  their  acquaintance." 

The  respectable  Apollyon  was  now  putting  on 
the  steam  at  a  prodigious  rate ;  anxious,  perhaps, 
to  get  rid  of  the  unpleasant  reminiscences  con 
nected  with  the  spot  where  he  had  so  disastrously 
encountered  Christian.  Consulting  Mr.  Bunyan's 
road-book,  I  perceived  that  we  must  now  be  within 
a  few  miles  of  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death  ; 
into  which  doleful  region,  at  our  present  speed,  we 
should  plunge  much  sooner  than  seemed  at  all  de 
sirable.  In  truth,  I  expected  nothing  better  than 
to  find  myself  in  the  ditch  on  one  side,  or  the  quag 
on  the  other.  But  on  communicating  my  appre 
hensions  to  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  he  assured  me 
that  the  difficulties  of  this  passage,  even  in  its 
worst  condition,  had  been  vastly  exaggerated,  and 
that,  in  its  present  state  of  improvement,  I  might 
consider  myself  as  safe  as  on  any  railroad  in  Chris 
tendom. 

Even  while  we  were  speaking,  the  train  shot  in 
to  the  entrance  of  this  dreaded  Valley.  Though 
I  plead  guilty  to  some  foolish  palpitations  of  the 
heart,  during  our  headlong  rush  over  the  cause 
way  here  constructed,  yet  it  were  unjust  to  with 
hold  the  highest  encomiums  on  the  boldness  of  its 
original  conception,  and  the  ingenuity  of  those  who 
executed  it.  It  was  gratifying,  likewise,  to. observe 
how  much  care  had  been  taken  to  dispel  the  ever 
lasting  gloom,  and  supply  the  defect  of  cheerful  sun 
shine  ;  not  a  ray  of  which  has  ever  penetrated 
among  these  awful  shadows.  For  this  purpose,  the 
inflammable  gas,  which  exudes  plentifully  from  the 
soil,  is  collected  by  means  of  pipes,  and  thence 
communicated  to  a  quadruple  row  of  lamps,  along 
the  whole  extent  of  the  passage.  Thus  a  radiance 
has  been  created,  even  out  of  the  fiery  and  sulphu 
rous  curse  that  rests  for  ever  upon  the  Valley ;  a 
radiance  hurtful,  however,  to  the  eyes,  and  some 
what  bewildering,  as  I  discovered  by  the  changes 
which  it  wrought  in  the  visages  of  my  companions. 
In  this  respect,  as  compared  with  natural  daylight, 
there  is  the  same  difference  as  between  truth  and 
falsehood ;  but  if  the  reader  have  ever  travelled 
through  the  dark  Valley,  he  will  have  learned  to 
be  thankful  for  any  light  that  he  could  get ;  if  not 
from  the  sky  above,  then  from  the  blasted  soil  be 
neath.  Such  was  the  red  brilliancy  of  these  lamps, 
that  they  appeared  to  build  walls  of  fire  on  both  sides 
of  the  track,  between  which  we  held  our  course 
of  lightning  speed,  while  a  reverberating  thunder 
filled  the  Valley  with  its  echoes.  Had  the  engine 
run  off  the  track — a  catastrophe,  it  is  whispered, 
by  no  means  unprecedented — the  bottomless  pit,  if 
there  be  any  such  a  place,  would  undoubtedly  have 
received  us.  Just  as  some  dismal  fooleries  of  this 
nature  had  made  my  heart  quake,  there  came  a 
tremendous  shriek,  careering  along  the  Valley  as 
if  a  thousand  devils  had  burst  their  lungs  to  utter 
it,  but  which  proved  to  be  merely  the  whistle  of  the 
engine,  on  arriving  at  a  stopping-place. 


NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE. 


479 


The  spot,  where  we  had  now  paused,  is  the  same 
that  our  friend  Bunyan — truthful  man,  but  infected 
with  many  fantastic  notions — has  designated,  in 
terms  plainer  than  I  like  to  repeat,  as  the  mouth  of 
the  infernal  region.  This,  however,  must  be  a  mis 
take  ;  inasmuch  as  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  while  he 
remained  in  the  smoky  and  lurid  cavern,  took  oc 
casion  to  prove  that  Tophet  has  not  even  a  meta 
phorical  existence.  The  place,  he  assured  us,  is 
no  other  than  the  crater  of  a  half-extinct  volcano, 
in  which  the  Directors  had  caused  forges  to  be  set 
up,  for  the  manufacture  of  railroad  iron.  Hence, 
also,  is  obtained  a  plentiful  supply  of  fuel  for  the 
use  of  the  engines.  Whoever  has  gazed  into  the 
dismal  obscurity  of  the  broad  cavern-mouth,  whence 
ever  and  anon  darted  huge  tongues  of  dusky  flame, 
— and  had  seen  the  strange,  half-shaped  monsters, 
and  visions  of  faces  horribly  grotesque,  into  which 
the  smoke  seemed  to  wreathe  itself, — and  had  heard 
the  awful  murmurs,  and  shrieks,  and  deep  shud 
dering  whispers  of  the  blast,  sometimes  forming 
themselves  into  words  almost  articulate, — would 
have  seized  upon  Mr.  Smooth-it-away 's  comfortable 
explanation,  as  greedily  as  we  did.  The  inhabit 
ants  of  the  cavern,  moreover,  were  unlovely  per 
sonages,  dark,  smoke-begrimed,  generally  deformed, 
with  mis-shapen  feet,  and  a  glow  of  dusky  redness 
in  their  eyes;  as  if  their  hearts  had  caught  fire, 
and  were  blazing  out  of  the  upper  windows.  It 
struck  me  as  a  peculiarity,  that  the  labourers 
at  the  forge,  and  those  who  brought  fuel  to  the 
engine,  when  they  began  to  draw  short  breath, 
positively  emitted  smoke  from  their  mouth  and 
nostrils. 

Among  the  idlers  about  the  train,  most  of  whom 
were  puffing  cigars  which  they  had  lighted  at  the 
flame  of  the  crater,  I  was  perplexed  to  notice  se 
veral  who,  to  my  certain  knowledge,  had  heretofore 
set  forth  by  railroad  for  the  Celestial  City.  They 
looked  dark,  wild,  and  smoky,  with  a  singular  re 
semblance,  indeed,  to  the  native  inhabitants ;  like 
whom,  also,  they  had  a  disagreeable  propensity  to 
ill-natured  gibes  and  sneers,  the  habit  of  which  had 
wrought  a  settled  contortion  of  their  visages.  Hav 
ing  been  on  speaking  terms  with  one  of  these  per 
sons — an  indolent,  good-for-nothing  fellow,  who 
went  by  the  name  of  Take-it-easy — I  called  him, 
and  inquired  what  was  his  business  there. 

"  Did  you  not  start,"  said  I,  «<  for  the  Celestial 
City  1" 

"  That's  a  fact,"  said  Mr.  Take-it-easy,  careless 
ly  puffing  some  smoke  into  my  eyes.  "But  I 
heard  such  bad  accounts,  that  I  never  took  pains 
to  climb  the  hill,  on  which  the  city  stands.  No  bu 
siness  doing — no  fun  going  on — nothing  to  drink, 
and  no  smoking  allowed — and  a  thrumming  of 
church-music  from  morning  till  night!  I  would 
not  stay  in  such  a  place,  if  they  offered  me  house- 
room  and  living  free." 

«  But,  my  good  Mr. Take-it-easy,"  cried  I,  "why 
taks  up  your  residence  here,  of  all  places  in  the 
world  ?"  " 

"  Oh,"  said  the  loafer,  with  a  grin,  "  it  is  very 
warm  hereabouts,  and  I  meet  with  plenty  of  old 
acqaaintances,  and  altogether  the  place  suits  me. 


I  hope  to  see  you  back  again,  some  day  soon.     A 
pleasant  journey  to  you  !" 

While  he  was  speaking,  the  bell  of  the  engine 
rang,  and  we  dashed  away,  after  dropping  a  few 
passengers,  but  receiving  no  new  ones.  Rattling 
onward  through  the  Valley,  we  were  dazzled  with 
the  fiercely  gleaming  gas-lamps  as  before.  But 
sometimes,  in  the  dark  of  intense  brightness,  grim 
faces,  that  bore  the  aspect  and  expression  of  indi 
vidual  sins,  or  evil  passions,  seemed  to  thrust  them 
selves  through  the  veil  of  light,  glaring  upon  us, 
and  stretching  forth  a  great  dusky  hand,  as  if  to 
impede  our  progress.  I  almost  thought,  that  they 
were  my  own  sins  that  appalled  me  there.  These 
were  freaks  of  imagination — nothing  more,  cer 
tainly, — mere  delusions,  which  I  ought  to  be  hear 
tily  ashamed  of—but,  all  through  the  Dark  Valley, 
I  was  tormented,  and  pestered,  and  dolefully  be 
wildered,  with  the  same  kind  of  waking  dreams. 
The  mephitic  gases  of  that  region  intoxicate  the 
brain.  As  the  light  of  natural  day,  however,  be 
gan  to  struggle  with  the  glow  of  the  lanterns,  these 
vain  imaginations  lost  their  vividness,  and  finally 
vanished  with  the  first  ray  of  sunshine  that  greeted 
our  escape  from  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death. 
Ere  we  had  gone  a  mile  beyond  it,  I  could  well- 
nigh  have  taken  my  oath,  that  this  whole  gloomy 
passage  was  a  dream. 

At  the  end  of  the  Valley,  as  John  Bunyan  men 
tions,  is  a  cavern,  where,  in  his  days,  dwelt  two 
cruel  giants,  Pope  and  Pagan,  who  had  strewn  the 
ground  about  their  residence  with  the  bones  of 
slaughtered  pilgrims.  These  vile  old  troglodytes 
are  no  longer  there ;  but  in  their  deserted  cave 
another  terrible  giant  has  thrust  himself,  and  makes 
it  his  business  to  seize  upon  honest  travellers,  and 
fat  them  for  his  table  with  plentiful  meals  of  smoke, 
mist,  moonshine,  raw  potatoes,  and  saw-dust.  He 
is  a  German  by  birth,  and  is  called  Giant  Tran- 
scendentalist ;  but  as  to  his  form,  his  features,  his 
substance,  and  his  nature  generally,  it  is  the  chief 
peculiarity  of  this  huge  miscreant,  that  neither  he 
for  himself,  nor  anybody  for  him,  has  ever  been 
able  to  describe  them.  As  we  rushed  by  the  ca 
vern's  mouth,  we  caught  a  hasty  glimpse  of  him, 
looking  somewhat  like  an  ill-proportioned  figure, 
but  considerably  more  like  a  heap  of  fog  and  duski 
ness.  He  shouted  after  us,  but  in  so  strange  a 
phraseology,  that  we  knew  not  what  he  meant,  nor 
'  whether  to  be  encouraged  or  affrighted. 

It  was  late  in  the  day,  when  the  train  thundered 
into  the  ancient  city  of  Vanity,  where  Vanity  Fair 
is  still  at  the  height  of  prosperity,  and  exhibits  an 
epitome  of  whatever  is  brilliant,  gay,  and  fascinat 
ing,  beneath  the  sun.  As  I  purposed  to  make  a 
considerable  stay  here,  it  gratified  me  to  learn  that 
there  is  no  longer  the  want  of  harmony  between 
the  townspeople  and  pilgrims,  which  impelled  the 
former  to  such  lamentably  mistaken  measures  as 
the  persecution  of  Christian,  and  the  fiery  martyr 
dom  of  Faithful.  On  the  contrary,  as  the  new 
railroad  brings  with  it  great  trade  and  a  constant 
influx  of  strangers,  the  lord  of  Vanity  Fair  is.  its 
,  chief  patron,  and  the  capitalists  of  the  city  are 
1  among  the  largest  stockholders  Many  passen 


480 


NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE. 


gers  stop  to  take  their  pleasure  or  make  their  pro 
fit  in  the  Fair,  instead  of  going  onward  to  the  Ce 
lestial  City.  Indeed,  such  are  the  charms  of  the 
place,  that  people  often  affirm  it  to  be  the  true  and 
only  heaven ;  stoutly  contending  that  there  is  no 
other,  that  those  who  seek  further  are  mere  dream 
ers,  and  that,  if  the  fabled  brightness  of  the  Celes 
tial  City  lay  but  a  bare  mile  beyond  the  gates  of 
Vanity,  they  would  not  be  fools  enough  to  go 
thither.  Without  subscribing  to  these,  perhaps, 
exaggerated  encomiums,  I  can  truly  say,  that  my 
abode  in  the  city  was  mainly  agreeable,  and  my 
intercourse  with  the  inhabitants  productive  of  much 
amusement  and  instruction. 

Being  naturally  of  a  serious  turn,  my  attention 
was  directed  to  the  solid  advantages  derivable  from 
a  residence  here,  rather  than  to  the  effervescent 
pleasures,  which  are  the  grand  object  with  too  many 
visitants.  The  Christian  reader,  if  he  have  had 
no  accounts  of  the  city  later  than  Bunyan's  time, 
will  be  surprised  to  hear  that  almost  every  street 
has  its  church,  and  that  the  reverend  clergy  are 
nowhere  held  in  higher  respect  than  at  Vanity 
Fair.  And  well  do  they  deserve  such  honourable 
estimation ;  for  the  maxims  of  wisdom  and  virtue 
which  fall  from  their  lips,  come  from  as  deep  a 
spiritual  source,  and  tend  to  as  lofty  a  religious  aim, 
as  those  of  the  sagest  philosophers  of  old.  In  jus 
tification  of  this  high  praise,  I  need  only  mention 
the  names  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Shallow-deep ;  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Stumble-at-Truth ;  that  fine  old  clerical  cha 
racter,  the  Rev.  Mr.  This-to-day,  who  expects  short 
ly  to  resign  his  pulpit  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  That-to-mor- 
row;  together  with  the  Rev.  Mr.  Bewilderment; 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Clog-the-spirit ;  and,  last  and  great 
est,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Wind-of-doctrine.  The  labours 
of  these  eminent  divines  are  aided  by  those  of  in 
numerable  lecturers,  who  diffuse  such  a  various 
profundity,  in  all  subjects  of  human  or  celestial 
science,  that  any  man  may  acquire  an  omnigenous 
erudition,  without  the  trouble  of  even  learning  to 
read.  Thus  literature  is  etherealized  by  assuming 
for  its  medium  the  human  voice ;  and  knowledge, 
depositing  all  its  heavier  particles — except,  doubt 
less,  its  gold — becomes  exhaled  into  a  sound,  which 
forthwith  steals  into  the  ever-open  ear  of  the  com 
munity.  These  ingenious  methods  constitute  a  sort 
of  machinery,  by  which  thought  and  study  are  done 
to  every  person's  hand,  without  his  putting  himself 
to  the  slightest  inconvenience  in  the  matter.  There 
is  another  species  of  machine  for  the  wholesale 
manufacture  of  individual  morality.  This  excel 
lent  result  is  effected  by  societies  for  all  manner  of 
virtuous  purposes ;  with  which  a  man  has  merely 
to  connect  himself,  throwing,  as  it  were,  his  quota 
of  virtue  into  the  common  stock ;  and  the  presi 
dent  and  directors  will  take  care  that  the  aggregate 
amount  be  well  applied.  All  these,  and  other  won 
derful  improvements  in  ethics,  religion,  and  litera 
ture,  being  made  plain  to  my  comprehension,  by 
the  ingenious  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  inspired  me 
with  a  yast  admiration  of  Vanity  Fair. 

It  would  fill  a  volume,  in  an  age  of  pamphlets, 
were  I  to  record  all  my  observations  in  this  great 
capital  of  human  business  and  pleasure.  There 


was  an  unlimited  range  of  society — the  powerful, 
the  wise,  the  witty,  and  the  famous  in  every  walk  of 
life — princes,  presidents,  poets,  generals,  artists,  ac 
tors,  and  philanthropists,  all  making  their  own  mar 
ket  at  the  Fair,  and  deeming  no  price  too  exorbitant 
for  such  commodities  as  hit  their  fancy.  It  is  well 
worth  one's  while,  even  if  he  had  no  idea  of  buy 
ing  or  selling,  to  loiter  through  the  bazaars,  and 
observe  the  various  sorts  of  traffic  that  were  going 
forward. 

Some  of  the  purchasers,  I  thought,  made  very 
foolish  bargains.  For  instance,  a  young  man  hav 
ing  inherited  a  splendid  fortune,  laid  out  a  consi 
derable  portion  of  it  in  the  purchase  of  diseases, 
and  finally  spent  all  the  rest  for  a  heavy  lot  of  re 
pentance  and  a  suit  of  rags.  A  very  pretty  girl 
bartered  a  heart  as  clear  as  crystal,  and  which 
seemed  her  most  valuable  possession,  for  another 
jewel  of  the  same  kind,  but  so  worn  and  defaced 
as  to  be  utterly  worthless.  In  one  shop,  there 
were  a  great  many  crowns  of  laurel  and  myrtle, 
which  soldiers,  authors,  statesmen,  and  various 
other  people,  pressed  eagerly  to  buy;  some  pur 
chased  these  paltry  wreaths  with  their  lives ;  others 
by  a  toilsome  servitude  of  years ;  and  many  sacri 
ficed  whatever  was  most  valuable,  yet  finally  slunk 
away  without  the  crown.  There  was  a  sort  of 
stock  or  scrip,  called  Conscience,  which  seemed  to 
be  in  great  demand,  and  would  purchase  almost 
any  thing.  Indeed,  few  rich  commodities  were  to 
be  obtained  without  paying  a  heavy  sum  in  this  par 
ticular  stock,  and  a  man's  business  was  seldom  very 
lucrative,  unless  he  knew  precisely  when  and  how 
to  throw  his  hoard  of  Conscience  into  the  market. 
Yet  as  this  stock  was  the  only  thing  of  permanent 
value,  whoever  parted  with  it  was  sure  to  find  him 
self  a  loser,  in  the  long  run.  Several  of  the  spe 
culations  were  of  a  questionable  character.  Oc 
casionally,  a  member  of  Congress  recruited  his 
pocket  by  the  sale  of  his  constituents ;  and  I  was 
assured  that  public  officers  have  often  sold  their 
country  at  a  very  moderate  price.  Thousands  sold 
their  happiness  for  a  whim.  Gilded  chains  were  in 
great  demand,  and  purchased  at  almost  any  sacrifice. 
In  truth,  those  who  desired,  according  to  the  old 
adage,  to  sell  any  thing  valuable  for  a  song,  might 
find  customers  all  over  the  Fair ;  and  there  were 
innumerable  messes  of  pottage,  piping  hot,  for  such 
as  chose  to  buy  them  with  their  birthrights.  A 
few  articles,  however,  could  not  be  found  genuine 
at  the  Vanity  Fair.  If  a  customer  wished  to  re 
new  his  stock  of  youth*,  the  dealers  offered  him  a 
set  of  false  teeth  and  an  auburn  wig ;  if  he  de 
manded  peace  of  mind,  they  recommended  opium 
or  a  brandy-bottle. 

Tracts  of  land  and  golden  mansions,  situate  in 
the  Celestial  City,  were  often  exchanged,  at  very 
disadvantageous  rates,  for  a  few  years'  lease  of 
small,  dismal,  inconvenient  tenements  in  Vanity 
Fair.  Prince  Beelzebub  himself  took  great  inte 
rest  in  this  sort  of  traffic,  and  sometimes  conde 
scended  to  meddle  with  smaller  matters.  I  once 
had  the  pleasure  to  see  him  bargaining  with  a  miser 
for  his  soul,  which,  after  much  ingenious  skirmish 
ing  on  both  sides,  his  Highness  succeeded  in  ob- 


NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE. 


481 


taining  at  about  the  value  of  sixpence.  The  prince 
remarked,  with  a  smile,  that  he  was  loser  by  the 
transaction. 

Day  after  day,  as  I  walked  the  streets  of  Vanity, 
my  manners  and  deportment  became  more  and 
more  like  those  of  the  inhabitants.  The  place  be 
gan  to  seem  like  home  ;  the  idea  of  pursuing  my 
travels  to  the  Celestial  City  was  almost  obliterated 
from  my  mind.  I  was  reminded  of  it,  however, 
by  the  sight  of  the  same  pair  of  simple  pilgrims  at 
whom  we  had  laughed  so  heartily,  when  Apollyon 
puffed  smoke  and  steam  into  their  faces,  at  the 
commencement  of  our  journey.  There  they  stood 
amid  the  densest  bustle  of  Vanity — the  dealers  of 
fering  them  their  purple,  and  fine  linen,  and  jew 
els;  the  men  of  wit  and  humour  gibing  at  them; 
a  pair  of  buxom  ladies  ogling  them  askance ;  while 
the  benevolent  Mr.  Smooth-it-away  whispered  some 
of  his  wisdom  at  their  elbows,  and  pointed  to  a 
newly -erected  temple, — but  there  were  these  wor 
thy  simpletons,  making  the  scene  look  wild  and 
monstrous,  merely  by  their  sturdy  repudiation  of 
all  part  .in  its  business  or  pleasures. 

One  of  them — his  name  was  Stick-to-the-right — 
perceived  in  my  face,  I  suppose,  a  species  of  sym 
pathy  and  almost  admiration,  which,  to  my  own 
great  surprise,  I  could  not  help  feeling  for  this  prag 
matic  couple.  It  prompted  him  to  address  me. 

"  Sir,"  inquired  he,  with  a  sad,  yet  mild  and 
kindly  voice,  "do  you  call  yourself  a  pilgrim!" 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  "my  right  to  that  appellation 
is  indubitable.  I  am  merely  a  sojourner  here  in 
Vanity  Fair,  being  bound  to  the  Celestial  City  by 
the  new  railroad." 

"  Alas,  friend,"  rejoined  Mr.  Stick-to-the-right, 
«I  do  assure  you,  and  beseech  you  to  receive  the 
truth  of  my  words,  that  that  whole  concern  is 
a  bubble.  You  may  travel  on  it  all  your  lifetime, 
were  you  to  live  thousands  of  years,  and  yet  never 
get  beyond  the  limits  of  Vanity  Fair !  Yea ; 
though  you  should  deem  yourself  entering  the  gates 
of  the  Blessed  City,  it  will  be  nothing  but  a  mise 
rable  delusion." 

« The  Lord  of  the  Celestial  City,"  began  the 
other  pilgrim,  whose  name  was  Mr.  Foot-it-to-Hea- 
ven,  "  has  refused,  arid  will  ever  refuse,  to  grant  an 
act  of  incorporation  for  this  railroad ;  and  unless 
that  be  obtained,  no  passenger  can  ever  hope  to  en 
ter  his  dominions.  Wherefore,  every  man,  who 
buys  a  ticket,  must  lay  his  account  with  losing  the 
purchase-money — which  is  the  value  of  his  own 
soul." 

"  Poh,  nonsense !"  said  Mr.  Smooth-it-away, 
taking  my  arm  and  leading  me  off,  "  these  fellows 
ought  to  be  indicted  for  a  libel.  If  the  law  stood 
as  it  once  did  in  Vanity  Fair,  we  should  see  them 
grinning  through  the  iron  bars  of  the  prison  win 
dow." 

This  incident  made  a  considerable  impression  on 
my  mind,  and  contributed  with  other  circumstances 
to  indispose  me  to  a  permanent  residence  in  the 
city  of  Vanity  ;  although,  of  course,  I  was  not  sim 
ple  enough  to  give  up  my  original  plan  of  gliding 
along  easily  and  commodiously  by  railroad.  Still, 
I  grew  anxious  to  be  gone.  There  was  one  strange 
61 


thing  that  troubled  me;  amid  the  occupations  or 
amusements  of  the  fair,  nothing  was  more  common 
thanrfor  a  person — whether  at  a  feast,  theatre,  or 
church,  or  trafficking  for  wealth  and  honours,  or 
whatever  he  might  be  doing,  and  however  unsea 
sonable  the  interruption — suddenly  ,to  vanish  like ' 
a  soap-bubble,  and  be  never  more  seen  of  his  fel 
lows  ;  and  so  accustomed  were  the  latter  to  such 
little  accidents,  that  they  went  on  with  their  busi 
ness,  as  quietly  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  But 
it  was  otherwise  with  me. 

Finally,  after  a  pretty  long  residence  at  the  Fair, 
I  resumed  my  journey  toward  the  Celestial  City, 
still  with  Mr.  Smooth-it-away  at  my  side.  At  a 
short  distance  beyond  the  suburbs  of  Vanity,  we 
passed  the  ancient  silver  mine,  of  which  Demas 
was  the  first  discoverer,  and  which  is  now  wrought 
to  great  advantage,  supplying  nearly  all  the  coined 
currency  of  the  world.  A  little- further  onward 
was  the  spot  where  Lot's  wife  had  stood  for  ages, 
under  the  semblance  of  a  pillar  of  salt.  Curious 
travellers  have  long  since  carried  it  away  piecemeal. 
Had  all  regrets  been  punished  as  rigorously  as 
this  poor  dame'^  were,  my  yearning  for  the  relin 
quished  delights  of  Vanity  Fair  might  have  pro 
duced  a  similar  change  in  my  own  corporeal  sub 
stance,  and  left  me  a  warning  to  future  pilgrims. 

The  next  remarkable  object  was  a  large  edifice, 
constructed  of  moss-grown  stone,  but  in  a  modern 
and  airy  style  of  architecture.  The  engine  came 
to  a  pause  in  its  vicinity  with  the  usual  tremendous 
shriek. 

"  This  was  formerly  the  castle  of  the  redoubted 
giant  Despair,"  observed  Mr.  Smooth-it-away ; 
"but,  since  his  death,  Mr.  Flimsy-faith  has  re 
paired  it,  and  now  keeps  an  excellent  house  of 
entertainment  here.  It  is  one  of  our  stopping- 
places." 

"  It  seems  but  slightly  put  together,"  remarked 
I,  looking  at  the  frail,  yet  ponderous  walls.  "  I  do 
not  envy  Mr.  Flimsy-faith  his  habitation.  Some 
day  it  will  thunder  down  upon  the  heads  of  the 
occupants." 

« We  shall  escape,  at  all  events,"  said  Mr. 
Smooth-it-away ;  "  for  Apollyon  is  putting  on  the 
steam  again." 

The  road  now  plunged  into  a  gorge  of  the  De 
lectable  Mountains,  and  traversed  the  field  where, 
in  former  ages,  the  blind  men  wandered  and  stum 
bled  among  the  tombs.  One  of  these  ancient  tomb 
stones  had  been  thrust  across  the  track,  by  some 
malicious  person,  and  gave  the  train  of  cars  a  ter 
rible  jolt.  Far  up  the  rugged  side  of  a  mountain, 
I  perceived  a  rusty  iron  door,  half  overgrown  with 
bushes  and  creeping  plants,  but  with  smoke  issuing 
from  its  crevices. 

«  Is  that,"  inquired  I,  « the  very  door  in  the  hill 
side,  which  the  shepherds  assured  Christian  was 
a  by-way  to  Hell !" 

"  That  was  a  joke  on  the  part  of  the  shepherds," 
said  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  with  a  smile.  "It  is 
neither  more  nor  less  than  the  door  of  a  cavern, 
which  they  use  as  a  smoke-house  for  the  prepara 
tion  of  mutton  hams." 

My  recollections  of  the  journey  are  now,  for  a 
2S 


482 


NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE. 


little  space,  dim  and  confused,  inasmuch  as  a  sin 
gular  drowsiness  here  overcame  me,  owing  to  the 
fact  that  we  were  passing  over  the  enchanted 
ground,  the  air  of  which  encourages  a  disposition 
to  sleep.  I  awoke,  however,  as  soon  as  we  crossed 
the  borders  of  the  pleasant  land  of  Beulah.  All 
the  passengers  were  rubbing  their  eyes,  comparing 
witches,  and  congratulating  one  another  on  the 
prospect  of  arriving  so  seasonably  at  the  journey's 
end.  The  sweet  breezes  of  this  happy  clime  came 
refreshingly  to  our  nostrils;  we  beheld  the  glim 
mering  gush  of  silver  fountains,  overhung  by  trees 
of  beautiful  foliage  and  delicious  fruit,  which  were 
propagated  by  grafts  from  the  celestial  gardens. 
Once,  as  we  dashed  onward  like  a  hurricane,  there 
was  a  flutter  of  wings,  and  the  bright  appearance 
of  an  angel  in  the  air,  speeding  forth  on  some  hea 
venly  mission.  The  engine  now  announced  the 
close  vicinity  of  the  final  Station-house,  by  one 
last  and  horrible  scream,  in  which  there  seemed  to 
be  distinguishable  every  kind  of  wailing  and  wo, 
and  bitter  fierceness  of  wrath,  all  mixed  up  with  the 
wild  laughter  of  a  devil  or  a  madman.  Through 
out  our  journey,  at  every  stopping-place,  Apollyon 
had  exercised  his  ingenuity  in  screwing  the  most 
abominable  sounds  out  of  the  whistle  of  the  steam- 
engine  ;  but  in  this  closing  effort  he  outdid  him 
self,  and  created  an  infernal  uproar,  which,  besides 
disturbing  the  peaceful  inhabitants  of  Beulah,  must 
have  sent  its  discord  even  through  the  celestial 
gates. 

While  the  horrid  clamor  was  still  ringing  in  our 
ears,  we  heard  an  exulting  strain,  as  if  a  thousand 
instruments  of  music,  with  height,  and  depth,  and 
sweetness  in  their  tones,  at  once  tender  and  trium 
phant,  were  struck  in  unison,  to  greet  the  approach 
of  some  illustrious  hero,  who  had  fought  the  good 
fight  and  won  a  glorious  victory,  and  was  come  to 
lay  aside  his  battered  arms  for  ever.  Looking  to 
ascertain  what  might  be  the  occasion  of  this  glad 
harmony,  I  perceived,  on  alighting  from  the  cars, 
that  a  multitude  of  shining  ones  had  assembled  on 
the  other  side  of  the  river,  to  welcome  two  poor 
pilgrims,  who  were  just  emerging  from  its  depths. 
They  were  the  same  whom  Apollyon  and  ourselves 
had  persecuted  with  taunts  and  gibes,  and  scalding 
steam,  at  the  commencement  of  our  journey — the 
same  whose  unworldly  aspect  and  impressive  words 
had  stirred  my  conscience,  amid  the  wild  revelries 
of  Vanity  Fain 

"  How  amazingly  well  those  men  have  got  on  !" 
cried  I  to  Mr.  Smooth-it-away.  » I  wish  we  were 
secure  of  as  good  a  reception." 

«  Never  fear — never  fear !"  answered  my  friend. 
•*  Come — make  haste ;  the  ferry-boat  will  be  off 
directly ;  and  in  three  minutes  you  will  be  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river.  No  doubt  you  will  find 
coaches  to  carry  you  up  to  the  city  gates." 

A  steam  ferry-boat,  the  last  improvement  on  this  j 
important  route,  lay  at  the  river  side,  puffing,  snort-  | 
ing,  and  emitting  all  those  other  disagreeable  utter-  ; 
ances,  which  betoken  the  departure  to  be  immedi-  j 
ate  I  hurried  on  board  with  the  rest  of  the  pas-  | 


sengers,  most  of  whom  were  in  great  perturbation  ; 
some  brawling  out  for  their  baggage  ;  some  tearing 
their  hair  and  exclaiming  that  the  boat  would  ex 
plode  or  sink;  some  already  pale  with  the  heaving 
of  the  stream ;  some  guzing  affrighted  at  the  ugly  as 
pect  of  the  steersman  ;  and  some  still  dizzy  with  the 
slumberous  influences  of  the  Enchanted  Ground. 
Looking  back  to  the  shore,  I  was  amazed  to  discern 
Mr.  Smooth-it-away  waving  his  hand  in  token  of 
farewell ! 

"  Don't  you  go  over  to  the  Celestial  City 1"  ex 
claimed  I. 

"  Oh,  no  !"  answered  he  with  a  queer  smile,  and 
that  same  disagreeable  contortion  of  visage  which 
I  had  remarked  in  the  inhabitants  of  the  Dark  Val 
ley.  «  Oh,  no !  I  have  come  thus  far  only  for  the 
sake  of  your  pleasant  company.  Good-bye  !  We 
shall  meet  again." 

And  then  did  my  excellent  friend,  Mr.  Smooth- 
it-away,  laugh  outright ;  in  the  midst  of  which  ca- 
chinnation,  a  smoke-wreath  issued  from  his  mouth 
and  nostrils,  while  a  twinkle  of  lurid  flame  darted 
out  of  either  eye,  proving  indubitably  that  his  heart 
was  all  of  a  red  blaze.  The  impudent  fiend  !  To 
deny  the  existence  of  Tophet,  when  he  felt  its 
fiery  tortures  raging  within  his  breast !  I  rushed 
to  the  side  of  the  boat,  intending  to  fling  myself  on 
shore.  But  the  wheels,  as  they  began  their  revo 
lutions,  threw  a  dash  of  spray  over  me,  so  cold — 
so  deadly  cold,  with  the  chill  that  will  never  leave 
those  waters,  until  Death  be  drowned  in  his  own 
river — that,  with  a  shiver  and  a  heart-quake,  I 
awoke.  Thank  heaven,  it  was  a  Dream  ! 


SPRING. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

THANK  Providence  for  Spring!  The  earth — 
and  man  himself,  by  sympathy  with  his  birth-place 
— would  be  far  other  than  we  find  them,  if  life 
toiled  wearily  onward,  without  this  periodical  infu 
sion  of  the  primal  spirit.  Will  the  world  ever  be 
so  decayed,  that  spring  may  not  renew  its  green 
ness  1  Can  man  be  so  dismally  age-stricken,  that 
no  faintest  sunshine  of  his  youth  may  revisit  him 
once  a  year  1  It  is  impossible.  The  moss  on  our 
time-worn  mansion  brightens  into  beauty  ;  the  good 
old  pastor,  who  once  dwelt  here,  renewed  his  prime, 
regained  his  boyhood,  in  the  genial  breezes  of  his 
ninetieth  spring.  Alas  for  the  worn  and  heavy 
soul,  if,  whether  in  youth  or  age,  it  have  outlived 
its  privilege  of  spring-time  sprightliness !  From 
such  a  soul,  the  world  must  hope  no  reformation 
of  its  evil — no  sympathy  with  the  lofty  faith  and 
gallant  struggles  of  those  who  contend  in  its  be 
half.  Summer  works  in  the  present,  and  thinks 
not  of  the  future ;  Autumn  is  a  rich  conservative  ; 
Winter  has  utterly  lost  its  faith,  and  clings  tremu 
lously  to  the  remembrance  of  what  has  been ;  but 
Spring,  with  its  outgushing  life,  is  the  true  type  ot 
the  Movement! 


N.  P.  WILLIS. 

[Born  1807.    Die(fl867.] 


NATHANIEL  PARKER  WILLIS  was  born  in 
Portland  on  the  twentieth  of  January,  1807. 
While  he  was  a  child  his  family  removed  to 
Boston,  and  in  the  Latin  School  of  that  city, 
and  the  Phillips  Academy  of  Andover  he  was 
fitted  for  college.  At  Yale,  which  he  entered 
in  the  seventeenth  year  of  his  age,  he  distin 
guished  himself  by  a  series  of  graceful  poems,  j 
on  sacred  subjects,  which  made  his  name 
widely  familiar,  and  immediately  after  he  gra 
duated,  in  1827,  he  was  engaged  by  Mr.  S. 
G.  Goodrich  (then  a  publisher  in  Boston,  and 
since  "  world  renowned"  as  author  of  the  ex 
cellent  books  which  have  appeared  under  the 
nomme  deplume  of  Peter  Parley,)  to  edit  The 
Legendary,  and  The  Token.  In  1828  he  es 
tablished  The  American  Monthly  Magazine, 
which  he  conducted  two  years  and  a  half,  at 
the  end  of  which  time  it  was  merged  in  The 
New  York  Mirror,  and  he  went  to  Europe. 
On  his  arrival  in  France  he  was  attached  to 
the  American  legation  by  Mr.  Rives,  then  our 
minister  at  the  court  of  Versailles,  and  with  a 
,  diplomatic  passport  he  travelled  in  that  coun- 
'  try,  Italy,  Greece,  Asia  Minor,  Turkey,  and 
last  of  all  in  England,  where  he  remained  two 
years,  and  was  married.  The  letters  which 
he  wrote  while  abroad,  under  the  title  of  Pen- 
cillings  by  the  Way,  were  first  published  in 
the  New  York  Mirror,  and  have  since  been 
collected  into  volumes,  in  which  shape  they 
have  passed  through  numerous  editions.  In 
1835  he  published  Inklings  of  Adventure,  a 
series  of  tales  and  sketches  which  appeared 
originally  in  a  London  Magazine  under  the 
signature  of  Philip  Slingsby.  In  1837  he  re 
turned  to  the  United  States,  and  retired  to  a 
pleasant  seat  on  the  Susquehanna,  where  he 
resided  two  years.  Early  in  1839  he  be'came 
one  of  the  editors  of  The  Corsair,  a  literary 
gazette,  in  New  York,  and  in  the  autumn  of 
that  year  he  went  again  to  London,  where  in 
*  the  following  winter  he  published  Loiterings 
/  of  Travel,  in  three  volumes,  and  Two  Ways 
of  Dying  for  a  Husband,  comprising  the  plays 
of  Bianca  Visconti  and  Tortesa  the  Usurer. 
In  1840  appeared  an  illustrated  edition  of  his 


Poems,  and  his  Letters  from  Under  a  Bridge, 
and  about  the  same  time  he  wrote  the  descrip 
tive  parts  of  the  beautiful  pictorial  works  en 
titled  A'merican  Scenery,  and  Ireland.  In 
1843,  with  Mr.  George  P.  Morris,  he  revived 
The  New  York  Mirror,  (which  had  been  dis 
continued  for  several  years,)  first  as  a  weekly 
and  afterward  as  a  daily  gazette,  but  withdrew 
from  it  upon  the  death  of  his  wife,  in  1844, 
and  made  another  visit  to  England,  where  he 
published  Dashes  at  Life  with  a  Free  Pencil, 
consisting  of  stories  and  sketches  illustrative 
of  contemporary  European  and  American  so 
ciety.*  On  his  return  to  New  York  he  issued 
his  Complete  Works,  in  a  close-printed  impe 
rial  octavo  volume  of  nine  hundred  pages,  con 
taining  about  as  much  as  twenty  common  duo 
decimos.  In  October,  1846,  he  was  married 
to  a  daughter  of  the  Honourable  Mr.  Grinnell, 
of  Massachusetts,  and  in  the  following  month 
he  settled  in  New  York,  where  he  was  once 
more  associated  with  Mr.  Morris  as  an  editor, 
in  conducting  The  Home  Journal,  a  weekly 
gazette  devoted  principally  to  literature. 

The  popularity  of  the  poems  of  Mr.  Willis 
has  led  to  their  publication  in  numerous  edi 
tions,  and  a  complete  collection  of  them,  illus 
trated  by  one  of  the  most  distinguished  of  odr 
artists,  F.  0.  C.  Darley,  was  published  in  1852, 
by  Carey  &  Hart. 

Mr.  Willis  is  a  brilliant  and  delicate  colour- 
ist  in  art.  He  does  not  communicate  his 
conceptions  by  any  process  like  drawing  or 

*In  the  preface  to  the  London  edition  of  his  Dashes  at 
Life,  Mr.  Willis  makes  the  following  remarks  upon  the 
effect  in  his  own  case  of  the  denial  of  copy  money  to 
foreigners : 

"Like  the  sculptor  who  made  toys  of  the  fragments  of 
his  unsaleable  Jupiter,  the  author,  in  the  following  col 
lection  of  brief  tales,  gives  material,  that,  hut  for  a  single 
objection,  would  have  been  moulded  into  works  of  larger 
des.gn.  That  objection  is  the  umnarketableness  of  Amc- 
rican  books  in  America,  owing  to  our  defective  law  of 
copyright.  The  foreign  author  being  allowed  no  pro 
perty  in  his  books,  the  American  publisher  gets  for  no 
thing  every  new  novel  brought  out  in  England.  Of 
course,  while  he  can  have  for  publication,  gratis,  the  new 
novels  of  Bulwer.  D'Israeli,  James,  and  others,  he  wil' 
not  pay  an  American  author  for  a  new  book,  even  if  n 
were  equally  good.  The  consequence  is,  that  we  must 
either  write  books  to  give  away,  or  take  some  vein  o< 
literature  where  the  competition  is  more  equal — an  alter 
native  which  makes  almost  all  American  authors  mere 
contributors  of  short  papers  to  periodicals." 


484 


N.  P.  WILLIS. 


moulding- ;  he  paints  them.  He  belongs  to  the 
Venetian  school  in  letters.  The  attraction  of 
his  writings  consists  not  in  the  outline  or 
general  cast  of  the  whole  work,  nor  even  in 
the  grandeur  or  gracefulness  of  particular 
scenes  or  ideas  or  passages  .within  it,  nor  yet 
in  the  showy  elegance  of  sentences  or  even 
of  phrases, — but  in  the  magical,  illuminating 
effect  of  a  single  word,  which,  chosen  from  a 
treasury  of  gems,  and  disposed  with  consum 
mate  skill  toward  every  ray  of  sympathy, 
blazes  with  various  lustre,  and  kindles  a  whole 
paragraph  into  pictorial  brightness  and  warmth. 
The  affinity  between  form  and  colour,  and  the 
extent  to  which  under  particular  circumstances 
one  is  suggested  by  the  other,  rank  among  the 
mysteries  of  our  mental  organization;  yet  it 
is  certain  that  the  most  defined  conceptions, 
and  the  most  distinct  impressions  of  shape 
may  be  surprised  into  the  mind  by  the  illu 
sory  play  of  tints, — which  communicate  with 
the  consciousness  by  signals  that  cheat  the 
eye.  There  is  not  a  more  remarkable  illustra 
tion  of  this,  in  literature,  than  is  furnished  by 
Mr.  Willis.  It  is  a  consequence  of  these 
peculiarities  that  the  beauties  of  his  writings 
are  chiefly  those  of  detail.  In  his  narratives, 
fascinated  by  the  almost  excessive  loveliness 
which  beams  upon  us  from  a  thousand  points 
as  we  pass  alcjpg,  we  forget  to  observe  that 
the  story  as  a  whole  has  little  probability,  con 
sistency,  or  dignity.  The  fabric  in  which  he 
deals  is  the  finest  Valenciennes;  in  which  all 
consideration  of  the  figure  or  plan  is  merged 
and  lost  in  the  richness  of  finish  that  glitters 
from  every  part. 

A  delicate  ideality  is  the  characteristic  of 
his  genius  :  a  faculty,  in  him,  not  impetuous 
or  energetic,  but  copious,  and  constant.  He 
views  his  subjects  always  from  the  picturesque 
point,  to  borrow  a  term  from  landscape  paint 
ing;  and  if  the  subject  naturally  is  not  sus 
ceptible  of  such  a  view,  he  elevates  and  dis 
poses  it  in  its  relations  to  other  objects,  so  as 
to  create  such  a  point  of  observation.  He 
looks  at  all  objects  through  a  poetical  medium. 
It  is  this  which  lends  so  unfading  a  charm  to 
all  his  productions ;  and  it  is  this,  especially, 


I  which  tinges  his  language  with  such  myste- 
I  rious  lustre.  His  sensibility  to  the  imagina 
tive  impression  of  a  scene  in  nature,  or  a  sitoa- 
j  tion  in  society,  is  exquisite ;  and  his  skill  in 
,  rendering  it  in  words,  with  precision  and  dis 
tinctness,  is  singularly  felicitous.  By  such 
a  faculty  he  has  accomplished  the  description 
of  landscapes  with  power  and  splendour  so 
extraordinary.  He  does  not  delineate  and  de 
fine  the  picture,  but  seizes  the  sentiments,  or 
ideas,  or  moral  images,  which  are  the  mental 
antitypes,  as  it  were,  of  the  scene,  and  repro 
duces  them  with  all  the  hues  of  fancy.  His 
portraitures  of  scenery,  therefore,  are  more 
vivid  than  accurate ;  and  the  connection  be 
tween  the  different  parts  is  according  to  the 
truth  of  the  mind  rather  than  the  truth  of  nature. 
The  life  and  fertility  of  the  mind  of  Mr. 
Willis  are  very  remarkable.  His  spirits  and 
faculties  seem  to  have  been  bathed  in  perpe 
tual  freshness.  The  stream  of  thought  and 
feeling,  in  him,  is  like  the  bubbling  out-spring 
of  a  natural  fountain,  which  flows  forth  with 
gayety  and  freedom,  if  it  flows  at  all.  His 
powers  seem  never  to  be  lessened  by  exhaus 
tion.  His  fancy  is  never  soiled  by  fatigue. 
He  never  copies  others,  and  he  never  repeats 
himself;  but  always  prompt,  and  always  vivid, 
his  mind  acts  with  the  certainty  of  a  natural 
prism  which  turns  every  ray  that  reaches  it 
into  peculiar  beauty. 

The  triumph  of  his  literary  fortunes  is  his 
having  reconciled  and  joined  the  broadest  and 
most  pervading  popularity  with  the  admiration 
of  the  most  highly  refined.  At  first  sight  he 
might  seem  to  have  written  for  only  polished 
and  fastidious  tastes, — for  a  state  of  society  in 
which  an  extreme  cultivation  borders  on  effe 
minacy  and  affectation  ;  yet  the  strongest  re 
sponse  to  his  genius  is  from  the  strenuous  and 
busy  world  of  excitement  and-  action.  To  the 
objection  which  has  sometimes  been  made, 
that  the  delicacies  of  his  genius  are  too  subtle, 
and  that  his  taste  is  somewhat  tinged  with 
|  quaintness  and  conceits,  his  friends  make  the 
'  ready' answer,  that  no  writer  commands  the 
attention  and  holds  the  sympathies  of  the 
public  with  greater  power. 


A  newly  arranged  edition  of  his  writings  was  published  in  1855  &  seq :  in  11  vols.,  12mo., 
riz. :  Rural  Letters,  People  I  have  met,  Life  Here  and  There,  Hurry-Graphs,  Pencillings  by 
the  way,  A  summer  cruise  in  the  Mediterranean,  Fun  Jottings,  A  Health  Trip  to  the  Tropics, 
Letters  from  Idlewild,  Famous  Persons  and  Places,  and  the  Rag  Bag.  An  edition  of  his  Poems, 
illustrated  with  wood-cuts,  is  issued  in  8vo. ;  a  plain  edition  in  16mo.  and  32  mo.,  also,  his 
Sacred  Poems,  beautifully  illustrated,  in  square  12mo.  He  died  Jan.  21,  1867. 


N.    P.    WILLIS. 


485 


THE  CHEROKEE'S  THREAT. 

FROM   INKLINGS   OF   ADVENTURE. 


AT  the  extremity  of  a  green  lane  in  the  outer 
skirt  of  the  fashionable  suburb  of  New  Haven 
stood  a  rambling  old  Dutch  house,  built  probably 
when  the  cattle  of  Mynheer  grazed  over  the  pre 
sent  site  of  the  town.  It  was  a  wilderness  of  irre 
gular  rooms,  of  no  describable  shape  in  its  exterior, 
and  from  its  southern  balcony,  to  use  an  express 
ive  Gallicism, "  gave  upon  the  bay."  Long  Island 
sound,  the  great  highway  from  the  northern  At 
lantic  to  New  York,  weltered  in  alternate  lead  and 
silver,  (oftener  like  the  brighter  metal,  for  the  cli 
mate  is  divine,)  between  the  curving  lip  of  the  bay 
and  the  interminable  and  sandy  shore  of  the  island 
some  six  leagues  distant ;  the  procession  of  ships 
and  steamers  stole  past  with  an  imperceptible  pro 
gress;  the  ceaseless  bells  of  the  college  chapel  came 
deadened  tWrough  the  trees  from  behind,  and  (the 
day  being  one  of  golden  autumn,  and  myself  and 
St.  John  waiting  while  black  Agatha  answered  the 
door-bell)  the -sun-steeped  precipice  of  East  Rock, 
with  its  tiara  of  blood-red  maples  flushing  like  a 
Turk's  banner  in  the  light,  drew  from  us  both  a 
truant  wish  for  a  ramble  and  a  holyday.  I  shall 
have  more  to  say  anon  of  the  foliage  of  an  Ameri 
can  October :  but  just  now,  while  I  remember  it, 
I  wish  to  record  a  belief  of  my  own,  that  if,  as  phi 
losophy  supposes,  w«  have  lived  other  lives — if 

"our  star 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 

And  cometh  from  afar1' — 

it  is  surely  in  the  days  tempered  like  the  one  I  am 
remembering  and  describing — profoundly  serene, 
sunny  as  the  top  of  Olympus,  heavenly  pure,  holy, 
and  more  invigorating  and  intoxicating  than  luxu 
rious  or  balmy ;  the  sort  of  air  that  the  visiting 
angels  might  have  brought  with  them  to  the 
tent  of  Abraham — it  is  on  such  days,  I  would  re 
cord,  that  my  own  memory  steps  back  over  the 
dim  threshold  of  life,  (so  it  seems  to  me,)  and  on 
such  days  only.  It  is  worth  the  translation  of  our 
youth  and  our  household  gods  to  a  sunnier  land, 
if  it  were  alone  for  those  immortal  revelations. 

In  a  few  minutes  from  this  time  were  assembled 
in  Mrs.  Ilfrington's  drawing-room  the  six  or  seven 
young  ladies  of  my  more  particular  acquaintance 
among  her  pupils,  of  whom  one  was  a  newcomer, 
and  the  object  ef  my  mingled  curiosity  and  admi 
ration.  It  was  the  one  day  of  the  week  when 
morning  visiters  were  admitted,  and  I  was  there, 
in  compliance  with  an  unexpected  request  from 
my  friend,  to  present  him  to  the  agreeable  circle  of 
Mrs.  Ilfrington.  As  an  habitue  in  her  family,  this 
excellent  lady  had  taken  occasion  to  introduce  to 
me,  a  week  or  two  before,  the  newcomer  of  whom 
I  have  spoken  above — a  departure  from  the  ordi 
nary  rule  of  the  establishment,  which  I  felt  to  be 
a  compliment,  and  which  gave  me,  I  presumed,  a 
tacit  claim  to  mix  myself  up  in  that  young  lady's 
destiny  as  deeply  as  I  should  find  agreeable.  The 
newcomer  was  the  daughter  of  an  Indian  chief, 
and  her  name  was  Nunu. 

The  wrongs  of  civilization  to  the  noble  abori 
gines  of  America  are  a  subject  of  much  poetical 


feeling  in  the  United  States,  and  will  ultimately 
become  the  poetry  of  the  nation.  At  present  the 
sentiment  takes  occasionally  a  tangible  shape,  and 
the  transmission  of  the  daughter  of  a  Cherokee 
chief  to  New  Haven,  to  be  educated  at  the  expense 
of  the  government,  and  of  several  young  men  of 
the  same  high  birth  to  different  colleges,  will  be 
recorded  among  the  evidences  in  his  history  that 
we  did  not  plough  the  bones  of  their  fathers  into 
our  fields  without  some  feelings  of  compunction. 
Nunu  had  come  to  the  seaboard  under  the  charge 
of  a  female  missionary,  whose  pupil  she  had  been 
in  one  of  the  native  schools  of  the  west,  and  was 
destined,  though  a  chief's  daughter,  to  return  as  a 
teacher  to  her  tribe  when  she  should  have  mastered 
some  of  the  higher  accomplishments  of  her  sex. 
She  was  an  apt  scholar,  but  her  settled  melancholy, 
when  away  from  her  books,  had  determined  Mrs. 
Ilfrington  to  try  the  effect  of  a  little  society  upon 
her,  and  hence  my  privilege  to  ask  for  her  appear 
ance  in  the  drawing-room. 

As  we  strolled  down  in  the  alternate  shade  and 
sunshine  of  the  road,  I  had  been  a  little  piqued  at 
the  want  of  interest,  and  the  manner  of  course, 
with  which  St.  John  had  received  my  animated 
descriptions  of  the  personal  beauty  of  the  Cherokee. 

"  I  have  hunted  with  the  tribe,"  was  his  only 
answer,  "  and  know  their  features." 

"But  she  is  not  like  them,"  I  replied,  with  a 
tone  of  some  impatience ;  "  she  is  the  beau  ideal 
of  a  red  skin,  but  it  is  with  the  softened  features 
of  an  Arab  or  an  Egyptian.  She  is  more  willowy 
than  erect,  and  has  no  higher  cheek-bones  than  the 
plaster  Venus  in  your  chambers.  If  it  were  not  for 
the  lambent  fire  in  her  eye,  you  might  take  her,  in 
the  sculptured  pose  of  her  attitudes,  for  an  immortal 
bronze  of  Cleopatra.  I  tell  you  she  is  divine." 

St.  John  called  to  his  dog,  and  we  turned  along 
the  green  bank  above  the  beach,  with  Mrs.  Ilfring 
ton's  house  in  view,  and  so  opens  a  new  chapter 
in  my  story. 

In  the  united  pictures  of  Paul  Veronese  and  Ra 
phael,  steeped  as  their  colours  seem  to  have  been 
in  the  divinest  age  of  Venetian  and  Roman  female 
beauty,  I  have  scarcely  found  so  many  lovely  wo 
men,  of  so  different  models  and  so  perfect,  as  were 
assembled  during  my  sophomore  year  under  the 
roof  of  Mrs.  Ilfrington.  They  went  about  in  their 
evening  walks,  graceful  and  angelic,  but,Jike  the 
virgin  pearls  of  the  sea,  they  poured  the  light  of 
their  loveliness  on  the  vegetating  oysters  about 
them,  and  no  diver  of  fashion  had  yet  taught  them 
their  value.  Ignorant  myself  in  those  days  of  the 
scale  of  beauty,  their  features  are  enamelled  in  my 
memory,  and  I  have  tried  insensibly  by  that  stand 
ard  (and  found  wanting)  of  erery  court  in  Europe 
the  dames  most  worshipped  and  highest  born. 
Queen  of  the  Sicilies,  loveliest  in  your  own  realm 
of  sunshine  and  passion !  Pale  and  transparent 
princess — pearl  of  the  court  of  Florence — -than 
whom  the  creations  on  the  immortal  walls  of  the 
Pitti  less  discipline  our  eye  for  the  shapes  of  hea 
ven  !  Gipsy  of  the  Pactolus!  Jewess  of  the 
Thracian  Gallipolis !  Bright  and  gifted  cynosure 
2s2 


486 


N.  P.  WILLIS. 


of  the  aristocracy  of  England  ! — ye  are  five  women 
I  have  seen  in  as  many  years'  wandering  over  the 
world,  lived  to  gaze  upon,  and  live  to  remember 
and  admire — a  constellation,  I  almost  believe,  that 
has  absorbed  all  the  intensest  light  of  the  beauty 
of  a  hemisphere — yet,  with  your  pictures  coloured 
to  life  in  my  memory,  and  the  pride  of  rank  and 
state  thrown  over  most  of  you  like  an  elevating 
charm,  I  go  back  to  the  school  of  Mrs.  Ilfrington, 
and  (smile  if  you  will !)  they  were  as  lovely,  and 
stately,  and  as  worthy  of  the  worship  of  the  world. 

I  introduced  St.  John  to  the  young  ladies  as  they 
came  in.  Having  never  seen  him,  except  in  the 
presence  of  men,  I  was  little  curious  to  know  whe 
ther  his  singular  aplomb  would  serve  him  as  well 
with  the  other  sex,  of  which  I  was  aware  he  had 
had  a  very  slender  experience.  My  attention  was 
distracted  for  the  moment  of  Mentioning  his  name 
to  a  lovely  little  Georgian,  (with  eyes  full  of  the 
liquid  sunshine  of  the  south,)  by  a  sudden  bark  of 
joy  from  the  dog,  who  had  been  left  in  the  hall ; 
and  as  the  door  opened,  and  the  slight  and  grace 
ful  Indian  girl  entered  the  room,  the  usually  un 
social  animal  sprang  bounding  in,  lavishing  ca 
resses  on  her,  and  seemingly  wild  with  the  delight 
of  a  recognition. 

In  the  confusion  of  taking  the  dog  from  the 
room,  I  had  again  lost  the  moment  of  remarking 
St.  John's  manner,  and  on  the  entrance  of  Mrs. 
Ilfrington,  Nunu  was  sitting  calmly  by  the  piano, 
and  my  friend  was  talking  in  a  quiet  undertone 
with  the  passionate  Georgian. 

"  I  must  apologize  for  my  dog,"  said  St.  John, 
bowing  gracefully  to  the  mistress  of  the  house ; 
"  he  was  bred  by  Indians,  and  the  sight  of  a  Che 
rokee  reminded  him  of  happier  days — as  it  did  his 
master." 

Nunu  turned  her  eyes  quickly  upon  him,  but 
immediately  resumed  her  apparent  deep  study  of 
the  abstruse  figures  in  the  Kidderminster  carpet. 

"  You  are  well  arrived,  young  gentlemen,"  said 
Mrs.  Ilfrington ;  "  we  press  you  into  our  service 
for  a  botanical  ramble.  Mr.  Slingsby  is  at  leisure, 
and  will  be  delighted,  I  am  sure.  Shall  I  say  as 
much  for  you,  Mr.  St.  John?" 

St.  John  bowed,  and  the  ladies  left  the  room  for 
their  bonnets — Mrs.  Ilfrington  last.  The  door  was 
scarcely  closed  when  Nunu  reappeared  and  check 
ing  herself  with  a  sudden  feeling  at  the  first  step 
over  the  threshold,  stood  gazing  at  St.  John,  evi 
dently  under  very  powerful  emotion. 

"Nunu!"  he  said,  smiling  slowly  and  unwill 
ingly,  and  holding  out  his  hand  with  the  air  of  one 
who  forgives  an  offence. 

She  sprang  upon  his  bosom  with  the  bound  of 
a  leveret,  and  between  her  fast  kisses  broke  the 
endearing  epithets  of  her  native  tongue,  in  words 
that  I  only  understood  by  their  passionate  and 
thrilling  accent.  The  language  of  the  heart  is 
universal. 

The  fair  scholars  came  in  one  after  another,  and 
we  were  soon  on  our  way  through  the  green  fields 
to  tne  flowery  mountain-side  of  East  Rock;  Mrs. 
Ilfrington's  arm  and  conversation  having  fallen  to 
my  share,  and  St.  John  rambling  at  large  with  the 


rest  of  the  party,  but  more  particularly  beset  by 
Miss  Temple,  whose  Christian  name  was  Isabella, 
and  whose  Christian  charity  had  no  bowels  for 
broken  hearts. 

The  most  sociable  individuals  of  the  party  for  a 
while  were  Nunu  and  Lash;  the  dog's  recollection 
of  the  past  seeming,  like  those  of  wiser  animals, 
more  agreeable  than  the  present.  The  Cherokee 
astonished  Mrs.  Ilfrington  by  an  abandonment  to 
joy  and  frolic  which  she  had  never  displayed  be 
fore — sometimes  fairly  outrunning  the  dog  at  full 
speed,  and  sometimes  sitting  down  breathless  upon 
a  green  bank,  while  the  rude  creature  overpowered 
her  with  his  caresses.  The  scene  gave  origin  to 
a  grave  discussion  between  that  well-instructed 
lady  and  myself,  upon  the  singular  force  of  childish 
association — the  extraordinary  intimacy  between 
the  Indian  and  the  trapper's  dog  being  explained 
satisfactorily  (to  her,  at  least)  on  that  attractive 
principle.  Had  she  but  seen  Nunu  spring  into 
the  bosom  of  my  friend  half  an  hour  before,  she 
might  have  added  a  material  corollary  to  her  pro 
position.  If  the  dog  and  the  chief's  daughter 
were  not  old  friends,  the-  chief's  daughter  and  St. 
John  certainly  were. 

As  well  as  I  could  judge  by  the  motions  of  two 
people  walking  before  me,  St.  John  was  advancing 
fast  in  the  favour  and  acquaintance  of  the  graceful 
Georgian.  Her  southern  indolence  was  probably 
an  apology  in  Mrs.  Ilfrington's  eyes  for  leaning 
heavily  on  her  companion's  arm;  but  in  a  mo 
mentary  halt,  the  capricious  beauty  disembarrassed 
herself  of  the  bright  scarf  that  had  floated  over  her 
shoulders,  and  bound  it  playfully  around  his  waist. 
This  was  rather  strong  on  a  first  acquaintance,  and 
Mrs.  Ilfrington  was  of  that  opinion. 

"  Miss  Temple  !"  said  she,  advancing  to  whisper 
a  reproof  to  the  beauty's  ear. 

Before  she  had  taken  a  second  step,  Nunu 
bounded  over  the  low  hedge,  followed  by  the  dog, 
with  whom  she  had  been  chasing  a^butterfly,  and 
springing  upon  St.  John  with  eyes  that  flashed  fire, 
she  tore  the  scarf  into  shreds,  and  stood  trembling 
and  pale,  with  her  feet  on  the  silken  fragments. 

"  Madam !"  said  St.  John,  advancing  to  Mrs. 
Ilfrington,  after  casting  on  the  Cherokee  a  look  o! 
surprise  and  displeasure,  "  I  should  have  told  you 
before  that  your  pupil  and  myself  are  not  new  ac 
quaintances.  Her  father  is  my  friend.  I  have 
hunted  with  the  tribe,  and  have  hitherto  looked 
upon  Nunu  as  a  child.  You  will  believe  me,  I 
trust,  when  I  say  her  conduct  surprises  me,  and  I 
beg  to  assure  you  that  any  influence  I  may  have 
over  her  will  be  in  accordance  with  your  own 
wishes  exclusively." 

His  tone  was  cold,  and  Nunu  listened  with  fixed 
lips  and  frowning  eyes. 

«  Have  you  seen  her  before  since  her  arrival  ]" 
asked  Mrs.  Ilfrington. 

«  My  dog  brought  me  yesterday  the  first  intelli 
gence  that  she  was  here:  he  returned  from  his 
morning  ramble  with  a  string  of  wampum  about 
his  neck  which  had  the  mark  of  the  tribe.  He 
was  her  gift,"  he  added,  patting  the  head  of  the 
dog,  and  looking  with  a  softened  expression  at 


N.  P.  WILLIS. 


487 


Nunu,  who  dropped  her  head  upon  her  bosom, 
and  walked  on  in  tears. 

The  chain  of  the  Green  mountains,  after  a  gal 
lop  of  some  five  hundred  miles,  from  Canada  to 
Connecticut,  suddenly  pulls  up  on  the  shore  of  Long 
Island  sound,  and  stands  rearing  with  a  bristling 
mane  of  pine-trees,  three  hundred  feet  in  air,  as  if 
checked  in  mid  career  by  the  sea.  Standing  on 
the  brink  of  this  bold  precipice,  you  have  the  bald 
face  of  the  rock  in  a  sheer  perpendicular  below  you ; 
and,  spreading  away  from  the  broken  masses  at  its 
feet  lies  an  emerald  meadow,  inlaid- with  a  crystal 
and  rambling  river,  across  which,  at  a  distance  of  a 
mile  or  two,  rise  the  spires  of  the  university,  from 
what  else  were  a  thick-serried  wilderness  of  elms. 
Back  from  the  edge  of  the  precipice  extends  a  wild 
forest  of  hemlock  and  fir,  ploughed  on  its  northern 
side  by  a  mountain-torrent,  whose  bed  of  marl,  dry 
and  overhung  with  trees  in  the  summer,  serves  as 
a  path  and  a  guide  from  the  plain  to  the  summit. 
It  were  a  toilsome  ascent  but  for  that  smooth  and 
hard  pavement,  and  the  impervious  and  green 
thatch  of  pine  tassels  overhung. 

Antiquity  in  America  extends  no  further  back 
than  the  days  of  Cromwell,  and  East  Rock  is  tra 
ditionary  ground  with  us — for  there  harboured  the 
regicides  Whalley  and  GofFe,  and  many  a  breath- 
hushing  tale  is  to-ld  of  them  over  the  smouldering 
log-fires  of  Connecticut.  Not  to  rob  the  historian, 
I  pass  on  to  say  that  this  cavernous  path  to  the 
mountain-top  was  the  resort  in  the  holyday  sum 
mer  afternoons  of  most  of  the  poetical  and  other 
wise  well-disposed  gentlemen  sophomores,  and,  on 
the  day  of  which  I  speak,  of  Mrs.  Ilfrington  and 
her  seven-and-twenty  lovely  scholars.  The  kind 
mistress  ascended  with  the  assistance  of  my  arm, 
and  St.  John  drew  stoutly  between  Miss  Temple 
and  a  fat  young  lady  with  an  incipient  asthma. 
Nunu  had  not  been  seen  since  the  first  cluster  of 
hanging  flowers  had  hidden  her  from  our  sight, 
as  she  bounded  upward. 

The  hour  or  two  of  slanting  sunshine,  poured 
in  upon  the  summit  of  the  precipice  from  the  west, 
had  been  sufficient  to  induce  a  fine  and  silken  moss 
to  show  its  fibres  and  small  blossoms  above  the  car 
pet  of  pine-tassels ;  and  emerging  from  the  brown 
shadow  of  the  wood,  you  stood  on  a  verdant  plat 
form,  the  foliage  of  sighing  trees  overhead,  a  fai 
ries'  velvet  beneath  you,  and  a  view  below  that  you 
may  as  well  (if  you  would  not  die  in  your  igno 
rance)  make  a  voyage  over  the  water  to  see. 

We  found  Nunu  lying  thoughtfully  near  the 
brink  of  the  precipice,  and  gazing  off  over  the  waters 
of  the  sound,  as  if  she  watched  the  coming^  or  go 
ing  of  a  friend  under  the  white  sails  that  spotted 
its  bosom.  We  recovered  our  breath  in  silence,  I 
alone,  perhaps,  of  that  considerable  company  gaz 
ing  with  admiration  at  the  lithe  and  unconscious 
figure  of  grace  lying  in  the  attitude  of  the  Grecian 
Hermaphrodite  on  the  brow  of  the  rock  before  us. 
Her  eyes  were  moist  and  motionless  with  abstrac 
tion,  her  lips  just  perceptibly  curved  in  an  expres 
sion  of  mingled  pride  and  sorrow,  her  small  hand 
buried  and  clinched  in  the  moss,  and  her  left  foot 


and  ankle,  models  of  spirited  symmetry,  escaped 
carelessly  from  her  dress,  the  high  instep  strained 
back  as  if  recovering  from  a  leap,  with  the  tense 
control  of  emotion. 

The  game  of  the  coquettish  Georgian  was  well 
played.  With  a  true  woman's  pique,  she  had  re 
doubled  her  attentions  to  my  friend  from  the  mo 
ment  that  she  found  it  gave  pain  to  another  of  her 
sex ;  and  St.  John,  like  most  men,  seemed  not  un 
willing  to  see  a  new  altar  kindled  to  his  vanity, 
though  a-  heart  he  had  already  won  was  stifling 
with  the  incense.  Miss  Temple  was  very  lovely. 
Her  skin,  of  that  taint  of  opaque  and  patrician 
white  which  is  found  oftenest  in  Asian  latitudes, 
was  just  perceptibly  warmed  toward  the  centre  of 
the  cheek  with  a  glow  like  sunshine  through  the 
thick  white  petal  of  a  magnolia ;  her  eyes  were 
hazel,  with  those  inky  lashes  which  enhance  the 
expression  a  thousand-fold,  either  of  passion  or 
melancholy;  her  teeth  were  like  strips  from  the 
lily's  heart;  and  she  was  clever,  captivating, grace 
ful,  and  a  thorough  coquette.  St.  John  was  mys 
terious,  romantic-looking,  superior,  and,  just  now, 
the  only  victim  in  the  way.  He  admired,  as  all 
men  do,  those  qualities  which,  to  her  own  sex,  ren 
dered  the  fair  Isabella  unamiable ;  and  yielded  him 
self,  as  all  men  will,  a  satisfied  prey  to  enchant 
ments  of  which  he  knew  the  springs  were  the 
pique  and  vanity  of  the  enchantress.  How  sin 
gular  it  is  that  the  highest  and  best  qualities  ol 
the  female  heart  are  those  with  which  men  are 
the  least  captivated  ! 

A  rib  of  the  mountain  formed  a  natural  seat  a 
little  back  from  the  pitch  of  the  precipice,  and  here 
sat  Miss  Temple,  triumphant  in  drawing  all  eyes 
upon  herself  and  her  tamed  lion;  her  lap  full  of 
flowers,  which  he  had  found  time  to  gather  on  the 
way,  and  her  white  hands  employed  in  arranging 
a  bouquet  of  which  the  destiny  was  yet  p.  secret. 
Next  to  their  own  loves,  ladies  like  nothing  on 
earth  like  mending  or  marring  the  loves  of  others; 
and  while  the  violets  and  alre&dv-dropping  wild 
flowers  were  coquettishly  chosen  or  rejected  by 
those  slender  fingers,  the  sun  might  have  swung 
back  to  the  east  like  a  pendulum,  and  those  seven- 
and-twenty  misses  would  have  watched  their  lovely 
schoolfellow  the  same.  Nunu  turned  her  head 
slowly  around  at  last,  and  silently  looked  on.  St. 
John  lay  at  the  feet  of  the  Georgian,  glancing  from 
the  flowers  to  her  face,  and  from  her  face  to  the 
flowers,  with  an  admiration  not  at  all  equivocal. 
Mrs.  Ilfrington  sat  apart,  absorbed  in  finishing  a 
sketch  of  New  Haven ;  and  I,  interested  painfully 
in  watching  the  emotions  of  the  Cherokee,  sat 
with  my  back  to  the  trunk  of  a  hemlock — the  only 
spectator  who  comprehended  the  whole  extent  of 
the  drama. 

A  wild  rose  was  set  in  the  heart  of  the  bouquel 
at  last,  a  spear  of  riband-grass  adde'd  to  give  it 
grace  and  point,  and  nothing  was  wanting  but  a 
string.  Reticules  were  searched,  pockets  turned 
inside  out,  and  never  a  bit  of  riband  to  be  found. 
The  beauty  was  in  despair. 

"  Stay,"  said  St.  John,  springing  to  his  feet. 
"  Lash !  Lash !" 


488 


N.  P.  WILLIS. 


The  dog  came  coursing  in  from  the  wood,  and 
crouched  to  his  master's  hand. 

"  Will  a  string  of  wampum  do  1"  he  asked,  feel 
ing  under  the  long  hair  on  the  dog's  neck,  and 
untying  a  fine  and  variegated  thread  of  many- 
coloured  beads,  worked  exquisitely. 

The  dog  growled,  and  Nunu  sprang  into  the 
middle  of  the  circle  with  the  fling  of  an  adder,  and 
seizing  the  wampum  as  he  handed  it  to  her  rival, 
called  the  dog,  and  fastened  it  once  more  around 
his  neck. 

The  ladies  rose  in  alarm ;  the  belle  turned  pale, 
and  clung  to  St.  John's  arm ;  the  dog,  with  his 
hair  bristling  upon  his  back,  stood  close  to  her  feet 
in  an  attitude  of  defiance  ;  and  the  superb  Indian, 
the  peculiar  genius  of  her  beauty  developed  by  her 
indignation,  her  nostrils  expanded,  and  her  eyes 
almost  showering  fire  in  their  flashes,  stood  before 
them  like  a  young  Pythoness,  ready  to  strike  them 
dead  with  regard. 

St.  John  recovered  from  his  astonishment  after 
a  moment,  and  leaving  the  arm  of  Miss  Temple, 
advanced  a  step,  and  called  to  his  dog. 

The  Cherokee  patted  the  animal  on  his  back, 
and  spoke  to  him  in  her  own  language;  and,  as 
St.  John  still  advanced,  Nunu  drew  herself  to  her 
fullest  height,  placed  herself  before  the  dog,  who 
slunk  growling  from  his  master,  and  said  to  him, 
as  she  folded  her  arms.  "  The  wampum  is  mine." 

St.  John  coloured  to  the  temples  with  shame. 

"Lash!''  he  cried,  stamping  with  his  feet,  and 
endeavouring  to  fright  him  from  his  protectress. 

The  dog  howled  and  crept  away,  half-crouching 
with  fear,  toward  the  precipice ;  and  St.  John 
shooting  suddenly  past  Nunu,  seized  him  on  the 
brink,  and  held  him  down  by  the  throat. 

The  next  instant,  a  scream  of  horror  from  Mrs. 
Ilfrington,  followed  by  a  terrific  echo  from  every 
female  present,  started  the  rude  Kentuckian  to  his 
feet. 

Clear  over  the  abyss,  hanging  with  one  hand  by 
an  ashen  sapling,  the  point  of  her  tiny  foot  just  pois 
ing  on  a  projecting  ledge  of  rock,  swung  the  des 
perate  Cherokee,  sustaining  herself  with  perfect 
ease,  but  with  all  the  determination  of  her  iron 
race  collected  in  calm  concentration  on  her  lips. 

"  Restore  the  wampum  to  his  neck,"  she  cried, 
with  a  voice  that,  thrilled  the  very  marrow  with 
its  subdued  fierceness,  "  or  my  blood  rest  on  your 
soul!" 

St.  John  flung  it  toward  the  dog,  and  clasped 
his  hands  in  silent  horror. 

The  Cherokee  bore  down  the  sapling  till  its 
slender  stem  cracked  with  the  tension,  and  rising 
lightly  with  the  rebound,  alit  like  a  feather  upon 
the  rock.  The  subdued  student  sprang  to  her  side ; 
but  with  scorn  on  her  lip,  and  the  flush  of  exertion 
already  vanished  from  her  cheek,  she  called  to  the 
dog,  and  with  rapid  strides  took  her  way  alone 
down  the  mountain. 

Five  years  had  elapsed.  I  had  put  to  sea  from  the 
sheltered  river  of  boyhood — had  encountered  the 
storms  of  a  first  entrance  into  life — had  trimmed 
my  boat,  shortened  sail,  and,  with  a  sharp  eye  to 


windward,  was  lying  fairly  on  my  course.  Among 
officrs  from  whom  I  had  parted  company  was  Paul 
St.  John,  who  had  shaken  hands  with  me  at  the 
university  gate,  leaving  me,  after  four  years'  inti 
macy,  as  much  in  doubt  as  to  his  real  character 
and  history  as  the  first  day  we  met.  I  had  never 
heard  him  speak  of  either  father  or  mother,  nor 
had  he,  to  my  knowledge,  received  a  letter  from 
the  day  of  his  matriculation.  He  passed  his  vaca 
tions  at  the  university ;  he  had  studied  well,  yet 
refused  one  of  the  highest  college  honours  offered 
him  with  his  degree  ;  he  had  shown  many  good 
qualities,  yet  some  unaccountable  faults ;  and,  all 
in  all,  was  an  enigma  to  myself  and  the  class.  I 
knew  him,  clever,  accomplished,  and  conscious  of 
superiority ;  and  my  knowledge  went  no  farther. 
The  coach  was  at  the  gate,  and  I  was  there  to  see 
him  off;  and,  after  four  years'  constant  association, 
I  had  not  an  idea  where  he  was  going,  or  to  what 
he  was  destined.  The  driver  blew  his  horn. 

<*  God  bless  you,  Slingsby  !" 

«  God  bless  you,  St.  John !" 

And  so  we  parted. 

It  was  five  years  from  this  time,  I  say,  and,  in 
the  bitter  struggles  of  first  manhood,  I  had  almost 
forgotten  there  was  such  a  being  in  the  world. 
Late  in  the  month  of  October,  in  1829,  I  was  on 
my  way  westward,  giving  myself  a  vacation  from 
the  law.  I  embarked,  on  a  clear  and  delicbus  day, 
in  the  small  steamer  which  plies  up  and  down  the 
Cayuga  lake,  looking  forward  to  a  calm  feast  of 
scenery,  and  caring  little  who  were  to  be  my  fel 
low-passengers.  As  we  got  out  of  the  little  har 
bour  of  Cayuga,  I  walked  astern  for  the  first  time, 
and  saw  the  not  very  unusual  sight  of  a  group  of 
Indians  standing  motionless  by  the  wheel.  They 
were  chiefs  returning  from  a  diplomatic  visit  to 
Washington. 

I  sat  down  by  the  companion-ladder,  and  opened 
soul  and  eye  to  the  glorious  scenery  we  were  glid 
ing  through.  The  first  severe  frost  had  come,  and 
the  miraculous  change  had  passed  upon  the  leaves 
which  is  known  only  in  America.  The  blood-red 
sugar  maple,  with  a  leaf  brighter  and  more  deli 
cate  than  a  Circassian  lip,  stood  here  and  there  in 
the  forest  like  the  Sultan's  standard  in  a  host — the 
solitary  and  far-seen  aristocrat  of  the  wilderness ; 
the  birch,  with  its  spiritlike  and  amber  leaves, 
ghosts  of  the  departed  summer,  turned  out  along 
the  edges  of  the  woods  like  a  lining  of  the  palest 
gold ;  the  broad  sycamore  and  the  fan-like  catalpa 
flaunted  their  saffron  foliage  in  the  sun,  spotted 
with  gold  like  the  wings  of  a  lady-bird  ;  the  kingly 
oak,  with  its  summit  shaken  bare,  still  hid  its  ma 
jestic  trunk  in  a  drapery  of  sumptuous  dyes,  like  a 
stricken  monarch,  gathering  his  robes  of  state  about 
him  to  die  royally  in  his  purple ;  the  tall  poplar, 
with  its  minaret  of  silver  leaves,  stood  blanched 
like  a  coward  in  the  dying  forest,  burdening  every 
breeze  with  its  complainings ;  the  hickory  paled 
through  its  enduring  green;  the  bright  berries  of 
the  mountain-ash  flushed  with  a  more  sanguine 
glory  in  the  unobstructed  sun  ;  the  gaudy  tulip-tree, 
I  the  Sybarite  of  vegetation,  stripped  of  its  golden 
i  cups,  still  drank  the  intoxicating  light  of  noonday 


N.  P.  WILLIS. 


489 


in  leaves  than  which  the  lip  of  an  Indian  shell  was 
never  more  delicately  teinted  ;  the  still  deeper-dyed 
vines  of  the  lavish  wilderness,  perishing  with  the 
noble  things  whose  summer  they  had  shared,  out 
shone  them  in  their  decline,  as  woman  in  her  death 
is  heavenlier  than  the  being  on  whom  in  life  she 
leaned ;  and  alone  and  unsympathizing  in  this 
universal  decay,  outlaws  from  Nature,  stood  the 
fir  and  the  hemlock,  their  frowning  and  sombre 
heads  darker  and  less  lovely  than  ever,  in  contrast 
with  the  death-struck  glory  of  their  companions. 

The- dull  colours  of  English  autumnal  foliage 
give  you  no  conception  of  this  marvellous  pheno 
menon.  The  change  here  is  gradual;  in  America 
it  is  the  work  of  a  night — of  a  single  frost! 

Oh,  to  have  seen  the  sun  set  on  hills  bright  in 
the  still  green  and  lingering  summer,  and  to  wake 
in  the  morning  to  a  spectacle  like  this ! 

It  is  as  if  a  myriad  of  rainbows  were  laced  through 
the  tree-tops — as  if  the  sunsets  of  a  summer — gold,   j 
purple,  and  crimson — had  been  fused  in  the  alem-  | 
bic  of  the  west,  and  poured  back  in  a-  new  deluge  j 
of  light  and  colour  over  the  wilderness.     It  is  as  if  j 
every  leaf  in  those  countless  trees  had  been  painted 
to  outflush  the  tulip — 'as  if,  by  some  electric  mira 
cle,  the  dyes  of  the  earth's  heart  had  struck  upward, 
and  her  crystals  and  ores,  her  sapphires,  hyacinths, 
rubies,  had  let  forth   their   imprisoned  colours  to 
mount   through  the  roots  of  the  forest,  and,  like 
the  angels  that  in  olden  time  entered  the  body  of 
the  dying,   reanimate   the   perishing  leaves,  and 
revel  an  hour  in  their  bravery. 

I  was  sitting  by  the  companion-ladder,  thinking 
to  what  on  earth  these  masses  of  foliage  could  be 
resembled,  when  a  dog  sprang  upon  my  knees,  and, 
the  moment  after,  a  hand  was  laid  on  my  shoulder. 

"  St.  John  ]     Impossible  !" 

«  Bodily  !"  answered  my  quondam  classmate. 

I  looked  at  him  with  astonishment.  The  sci^nl 
man  of  fashion  I  had  once  known  was  enveloped 
in  a  kind  of  hunter's  frock,  loose  and  large,  and 
girded  to  his  waist  by  a  belt ;  his  hat  was  exchanged 
for  a  cap  of  rich  otter  skin ;  his  pantaloons  spread 
with  a  slovenly  carelessness  over  his  feet;  and, 
altogether,  there  was  that  in  his  air  which  told  me 
at  a  glance  that  he  had  renounced  the  world.  Lash 
had  recovered  his  leanness,  and,  after  wagging  out 
his  joy,  he  crouched  between  my  feet,  and  lay  look 
ing  into  my  face,  as  if  he  was  brooding  over  the 
more  idle  days  in  which  we  had  been  acquainted. 

"  And  where  are  you  bound  V  I  asked,  having 
answered  the  same  question  for  myself. 

«  Westward  with  the  chiefs  !" 

"  For  how  long]" 

"  The  remainder  of  my  life." 

I  could  not  forbear  an  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"  You  would  wonder  less,"  said  he,  with  an  im 
patient  gesture,  "  if  you  knew  more  of  me.  And, 
by-the-way,"  he  added  with  a  smile,  « I  think  I 
never  told  you  the  first  half  of  the  story — my  life 
up  to  the  time  I  met  you." 

"  It  was  not  for  want  of  a  catechist,"  I  answered, 
settling  myself  in  an  attitude  of  attention. 

•<  No ;  arid  I  was  often  tempted  to  gratify  your 
curiosity :  but  from  the  little  intercourse  I  had  had 
62 


with  the  world,  I  had  adopted  some  precocious 
principles ;  and  one  was,  that  a  man's  influence 
over  others  was  vulgarized  and  diminished  by  tl 
knowledge  of  his  history/' 

I  smiled,  and  as  the  boat  sped  on  her  way  over 
the  calm  waters  of  the  Cayuga,  St.  John  went  on 
leisurely  with  a  story  which  is  scarce  remarkable 
enough  for  a  repetition.  He  believed  himself  the 
natural  son  of  a  western  hunter,  but  only  knew 
that  he  had  passed  his  early  youth  on  the  borders 
of  civilization,  between  whites  and  Indians,  and 
that  he  had  been  more  particularly  indebted  for 
protection  to  the  father  of  Nunu.  Mingled  ambi 
tion  and  curiosity  had  led  him  eastward  while  still 
a  lad,  and  a  year  or  two  of  a  most  vagabond  life  in 
the  different  cities  had  taught  him  the  caution  and 
bitterness  for  which  he  was  so  remarkable.  A  for 
tunate  experiment  in  lotteries  supplied  him  with 
the  means  of  education,  and,  with  singular  appli 
cation  in  a  youth  of  such  wandering  habits,  he  had 
applied  himself  to  study  under  a  private  master, 
fitted  himself  for  the  university  in  half  the  usual 
time,  and  cultivated,  in  addition,  the  literary  taste 
which  I  have  remarked  upon. 

"  This,"  he  sa"id,  smiling  at  my  look  of  astonish 
ment,  "  brings  me  up  to  the  time  when  we  met. 
I  came  to  college  at  the  age  of  eighteen  with  a  few 
hundred  dollars  in  my  pocket,  some  pregnant  ex 
perience  of  the  rough  side  of  the  world,  great  con 
fidence  in  myself,  and  distrust  of  others,  and,  I 
believe,  a  kind  of  instinct  of  good  manners,  which 
made  me  ambitious  of  shining  in  society.  You 
were  a  witness  to  my  debut.  Miss  Temple  was 
the  first  highly  educated  woman  I  had  ever  known, 
and  you  saw  her  effect  on  me." 

"  And  since  we  parted  ]" 

"  Oh,  since  we  parted  my  life  has  been  vulgar 
enough.  I  have  ransacked  civilized  life  to  the  bot 
tom,  and  found  it  a  heap  of  unredeemed  falsehoods. 
I  do  not  say  it  from  common  disappointment,  for  I 
may  say  I  succeeded  in  every  thing  I  undertook " 

"  Except  Miss  Temple,"  I  said,  interrupting,  at 
the  hazard  of  wounding  him. 

"  No  ;  she  was  a  coquette,  and  I  pursued  her  till 
I  had  my  turn.  You  see  me  in  my  new  character 
now.  But  a  month  ago  I  was  the  Apollo  of  Sara 
toga,  playing  my  own  game  with  Miss  Temple. 
I  left  her  for  a  woman  worth  ten  thousand  of  her 
— and  here  she  is." 

As  Nunu  came  up  the  companion-way  from  the 
cabin,  I  thought  I  had  never  seen  breathing  creature 
so  exquisitely  lovely.  With  the  exception  of  a  pair 
of  brilliant  moccasins  on  her  feet,  she  was  dressed  in 
the  usual  manner,  but  with  the  most  absolute  sim 
plicity.  She  had  changed  in  those  five  years  from 
the  child  to  the  wqman,  and,  with  a  round  and  well- 
developed  figure,  additional  height,  and  manners  at 
once  gracious  and  dignified,  she  walked  and  looked 
the  chieftain's  daughter.  St.  John  took  her  hand, 
and  gazed  on  her  with  moisture  in  his  eyes. 

"That  I  could  ever  have  put  a  creature  like  this,"  he 
said,  "into  comparison  with  the  dolls  of  civilization !" 

We  parted  at  Buffalo  ;  St.  John  with  his  wife  and 
the  chiefs  to  pursue  their  way  westward  by  Lake 
Erie,  and  I  to  go  moralizing  on  my  way  to  Niagara. 


490 


N.  P.  WILLIS. 


NAHANT. 

FROM     THE     SAME. 


IF  you  can  imagine  a  buried  Titan  lying  along 
the  length  of  a  continent  with  one  arm  stretched 
out  into  the  midst  of  the  sea,  the  place  to  which  I 
would  transport  you,  reader  mine !  would  lie  as  it 
were  in  the  palm  of  the  giant's  hand.  The  small 
promontory  to  which  I  refer,  which  becomes  an 
island  in  certain  states  of  the  tide,  is  at  the  end  of 
one  of  the  long  capes  of  Massachusetts,  and  is  still 
called  by  its  Indian  name,  Nahant.  Not  to  make 
you  uncomfortable,  I  beg  to  introduce  you  at  once 
to  a  pretentious  hotel,  "  squat  like  a  toad"  upon 
the  unsheltered  and  highest  point  of  this  citadel  in 
mid  sea,  and  a  very  great  resort  for  the  metropoli 
tan  New  Englanders.  Nahant  is  perhaps,  libe 
rally  measured,  a  square  half-mile;  and  it  is  distant 
from  what  may  fairly  be  called  mainland,  perhaps 
a  league. 

Road  to  Nahant  there  is  none.  The  oi  polloi  go 
there  by  steam ;  but  when  the  tide  is  down,  you 
may  drive  there  with  a  thousand  chariots  over  the 
bottom  of  the  sea.  As  I  suppose  there  is  not  such 
another  place  in  the  known  world,  my  tale  will 
wait  while  I  describe  it  more  fully.  If  the  Bible 
had  been  a  fiction,  (not  to  speak  profanely,)  I 
should  have  thought  the  idea  of  the  destruction  of 
Pharaoh  and  his  host  had  its  origin  in  some  such 
wonder  of  nature. 

Nahant  is  so  far  out  in  the  ocean,  that  what  is 
called  the  "ground  swell,"  the  majestic  heave  of 
its  great  bosom  going  on  for  ever  like  respiration, 
(though  its  face  may  be  like  a  mirror  beneath  the 
sun,  and  wind  may  not  have  crisped  its  surface  for 
days  and  weeks,)  is  as  broad  and  powerful  within 
a  rood  of  the  shore  as  is  a  thousand  miles  at  sea. 

The  promontory  itself  is  never  wholly  left  by 
the  ebb ;  but,  from  its  western  extremity,  there  runs 
a  narrow  ridge,  scarce  broad  enough  for  a  horse 
path,  impassable  for  the  rocks  and  sea-weed  of 
which  it  is  matted,  and  extending  at  just  high- 
water  mark  from  Nahant  to  the  mainland.  Sea 
ward  from  this  ridge,  which  is  the  only  connection 
of  the  promontory  with  the  continent,  descends  an 
expanse  of  sand,  left  bare  six  hours  out  of  the 
twelve  by  the  retreating  sea,  as  smooth  and  hard 
as  marble,  and  as  broad  and  apparently  as  level  as 
the  plain  of  the  Hermus.  For  three  miles  it 
stretches  away  without  shell  or  stone,  a  surface  of 
white,  fine-grained  sand,  beaten  so  hard  by  the 
eternal  hammer  of  the  surf,  that  the  hoof  of  a  horse 
scarce  marks  it,  and  the  heaviest  wheel  leaves  it  as 
printless  as  a  floor  of  granite.  This  will  be  easily 
understood  when  you  remember  the  tremendous 
rise  and  fall  of  the  ocean  swell,  from  the  very  bo 
som  of  which,  in  all  its  breadth  and  strength,  roll 
in  the  waves  of  the  flowing  tide,  breaking  down 
on  the  beach,  every  one,  with  the  thunder  of  a  host 
precipitated  from  the  battlements  of  a  castle.  No 
thing  could  be  more  solemn  and  anthem-like  than 
the  succession  of  these  plunging  surges.  And 
when  the  "  tenth  wave"  gathers,  far  out  at  sea, 
and  rolls  onward  to  the  shore,  first  with  a  glassy 
and  heaving  swell  as  if  some  mighty  monster  were 


lurching  inland  beneath  the  water,  and  then,  burst 
ing  up  into  foam,  with  a  front  like  an  endless  and 
sparry  crystal  wall,  advances  and  overwhelms  every 
thing  in  its  progress,  till  it  breaks  with  a  centupled 
thunder  on  the  beach — it  has  seemed  to  me,  stand 
ing  there,  as  if  thus  might  have  beaten  the  first 
surge  on  the  shore  after  the  fiat  which  "  divided 
sea  and  land."  I  am  no  Cameronian,  but  the  sea 
(myself  on  shore)  always  drives  me  to  Scripture 
for  an  illustration  of  my  feelings. 

The  promontory  of  Nahant  must  be  based  on  the 
earth's  axle,  else  I  cannot  imagine  how  it  should 
have  lasted  so  long.  In  the  mildest  weather,  the 
ground-swell  of  the  sea  gives  it  a  fillip  at  every 
heave  that  would  lay  the  "  castled  crag  of  Drach- 
enfels"  as  low  as  Memphis.  The  wine  trembles 
in  your  beaker  of  claret  as  you  sit  after  dinner  at 
the  hotel ;  and  if  you  look  out  at  the  eastern  bal 
cony,  (for  it  is  a  wooden  pagoda,  with  balconies, 
verandahs,  and  colonnades  ad  libitum,)  you  will 
see  the  grass  breathless  in  the  sunshine  upon  the 
lawn,  and  the  ocean  as  polished  and  calm  as  Mi- 
ladi's  brow  beyond,  and  yet  the  spray  and  foam 
dashing  fifty  feet  into  the  air  between,  and  enve 
loping  the  «  Devil's  Pulpit"  (a  tall  rock  split  off 
from  the  promontory's  front)  in  a  perpetual  kaleido 
scope  of  mists  and  rainbows.  Take  the  trouble 
to  transport  yourself  there  !  I  will  do  the  remain^ 
ing  honours  on  the  spot.  A  cavern  as  cool  (not 
as  silent)  as  those  of  Trophonius  lies  just  under 
the  brow  of  yonder  precipice,  and  the  waiter  shall 
come  after  us  with  our  wine.  You  have  dined 
with  the  Borromeo  in  the  grotto  of  Isola  Bella,  I 
doubt  not,  and  know  the  perfection  of  art — I  will 
show  you  that  of  nature.  (I  should  like  to  trans 
port  you  for  a  similar  contrast  from  Terni  to  Nia 
gara,  or  from  San  Giovanni  Laterano  to  an  aisle 
in  a  forest  of  Michigan ;  but  the  Daedalian  mys 
tery,  alas !  is  unsolved.  We  "  fly  not  yet.") 

Here  we  are,  then,  in  the  "  Swallow's  Cave." 
The  floor  descends  by  a  gentle  declivity  to  the  sea, 
and  from  the  long  dark  cleft  stretching  outward 
you  look  forth  upon  the  broad  Atlantic — the  shores 
of  Ireland  the  first  terra  firma  in  the  path  of  your 
eye.  Here  is  a  dark  pool  left  by  the  retreating 
tide  for  a  refrigerator,  and  with  the  champagne  in 
the  midst,  we  will  recline  about  it  like  the  soft 
Asiatic?  of  whom  we  learned  pleasure  in  the  east, 
and  drink  to  the  small-featured  and  purple-lipped 
"  Mignons"  of  Syria — those  fine-limbed  and  fiery 
slaves,  adorable  as  Peris,  and  by  turns  languishing 
and  stormy,  whom  you  buy  for  a  pinch  of  piastres 
(say  5/.  5s.)  in  sunny  Damascus.  Your  drowsy 
Circassian,  faint  and  dreamy,  or  your  crockery 
Georgian — fit  dolls  for  the  sensual  Turk — is,  to  him 
who  would  buy  soul,  dear  at  a.  para  the  hecatomb. 

We  recline,  as  it  were,  in  an  ebon  pyramid,  with 
a  hundred  feet  of  floor  and  sixty  of  wall,  and  the 
fourth  side  open  to  the  sky.  The  light  comes  in 
mellow  and  dim,  and  the  sharp  edges  of  the  rocky 
portal  seem  let  into  the  pearly  arch  of  heaven.  The 
tide  is  at  half-ebb,  and  the  advancing  and  retreat 
ing  waves,  which  at  first  just  lifted  the  fringe  ot 
crimson  dulse  at  the  lip  of  the  cavern,  now  dash 
their  spray-pearls  on  the  rock  below,  the  '/  tenth" 


N.  P.  WILLIS. 


491 


surge  alone  rallying  as  if  in  scorn  of  its  retreating 
fellows,  and,  like  the  chieftain  of  Culloden  Moor, 
rushing  back  singly  to  the  contest.  And  now  that 
the  waters  reach  the  entrance  no  more,  come  for 
ward  and  look  on  the  sea !  The  swell  lifts ! — 
would  you  not  think  the  bases  of  the  earth  rising 
beneath  it?  It  falls! — would  you  not  think  the 
foundation  of  the  deep  had  given  way  ]  A  plain, 
broad  enough  for  the  navies  of  the  world  to  ride  at 
large,  heaves  up  evenly  and  steadily  as  if  it  would 
lie  against  the  sky,  rests  a  moment  spell-bound  in 
its  place,  and  falls  again  as  far — the  respiration  of 
a  sleeping  child  not  more  regular  and  full  of  slum 
ber.  It  is  only  on  the  shore  that  it  chafes.  Blessed 
emblem!  it  is  at  peace  with  itself!  The  rocks 
war  with  a  nature  so  unlike  their  own,  and  the 
hoarse  din  of  their  border  onsets  resounds  through 
the  caverns  they  have  rent  open ;  but  beyond,  in  the 
calm  bosom  of  the  ocean,  what  heavenly  dignity! 
what  godlike  unconsciousness  of  alarm  !  I  did  not 
think  we  should  stumble  on  such  a  moral  in  the  cave ! 

By  the  deeper  base  of  its  hoarse  organ,  the  sea 
is  now  playing  upon  its  lowest  stops,  and  the  tide 
is  down.  Hear !  how  it  rushes  in  beneath  the 
rocks,  broken  and  stilled  in  its  tortuous  way,  till  it 
ends  with  a  washing  and  dull  hiss  among  the  sea 
weed,  and,  like  a  myriad  of  small  tinkling  bells, 
the  dripping  from  the  crags  is  audible.  There  is 
fine  music  in  the  sea ! 

And  now  the  beach  is  bare.  The  cave  begins 
to  cool  and  darken,  and  the  first  gold  teint  of  sun 
set  is  stealing  into  the  sky,  and  the  sea  looks  of  a 
changing  opal,  green,  purple,  and  white,  as  if  its 
floor  were  paved  with  pearl,  and  the  changing  light 
struck  up  through  the  waters.  And  there  heaves 
a  ship  into  the  horizon,  like  a  white-winged  bird 
lying  with  dark  breast  on  the  waves,  abandoned  of 
the  sea-breeze  within  sight  of  port,  and  repelled 
even  by  the  spicy  breath  that  comes  with  a  wel 
come  off  the  shore.  She  comes  from  "  merry  Eng 
land."  She  is  freighted  with  more  than  merchan 
dise.  The  home-sick  exile  will  gaze  on  her  snowy 
sail  as  she  sets  in  with  the  morning  breeze,  and 
bless  it ;  for  the  wind  that  first  filled  it  on  its  way 
swept  through  the  green  valley  of  his  home  !  What 
links  of  human  affection  brings  she  over  the  sea  1 
How  much  comes  in  her  that  is  not  in  her  "  bill  of 
lading,"  yet  worth,  to  the  heart  that  is  waiting  for  it,  a 
thousand  times  the  purchase  of  her  whole  venture ! 

Mais  montons  nous  !  I  hear  the  small  hoofs  of 
Thalaba;  my  stanhope  waits;  we  will  leave  this 
half  bottle  of  champagne,  that "  remainder  biscuit," 
and  the  echoes  of  our  philosophy,  to  the  Naiads 
who  have  lent  us  their  drawing-room.  Undine, 
or  Egeria!  Lurly,  or  Arethusa!  whatever  thou 
art  called,  nyrnph  of  this  shadowy  cave  !  adieu  ! 

Slowly,  Thalaba !  Tread  gingerly  down  this 
rocky  descent !  So !  Here  we  are  on  the  floor  of 
the  vasty  deep !  What  a  glorious  race-course ! 
The  polished  and  printless  sand  spreads  away  be 
fore  you  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see,  the  surf  comes 
in  below,  breast-high  ere  it  breaks,  and  the  white 
fringe  of  the  sliding  wave  shoots  up  the  beach,  but 
leaves  room  for  tin;  marching  of  a  Persian  phalanx 
on  the  sands  it  has  deserted.  Oh,  how  noiselessly 


runs  the  wheel,  and  how  dreamily  we  glide  along, 
feeling  our  motion  but  in  the  resistance  of  the 
wind,  and  by  the  trout-like  pull  of  the  ribands  by 
the  excited  animal  before  us.  Mark  the  colour  of 
the  sand  !  White  at  high-water  mark,  and  thence 
deepening  to  a  silvery  gray  as  the  water  has  eva 
porated  less — a  slab  of  Egyptian  granite  in  the 
obelisk  of  St.  Peter's  not  more  polished  and  unim- 
pressible.  Shell  or  rock,  weed  or  quicksand,  there 
is  none ;  and  mar  or  deface  its  bright  surface  as  you 
will,  it  is  ever  beaten  down  anew,  and  washed  even 
of  the  dust  of  the  foot  of  man,  by  the  returning  sea. 
You  may  write  upon  its  fine-grained  face  with  a 
crowquill — you  may  course  over  its  dazzling  ex 
panse  with  a  troop  of  chariots. 

Most  wondrous  and  beautiful  of  all,  within  twenty 
yards  of  the  surf,  or  for  an  hour  after  the  tide  has 
left  the  sand,  it  holds  the  water  without  losing  its 
firmness,  and  is  like  a  gray  mirror,  bright  as  the 
bosom  of  the  sea.  (By  your  leave,  Thalaba ! ) 
And  now  lean  over  the  dasher,  and  see  those  small 
fetlocks  striking  up  from  beneath — the  flying  mane, 
the  thoroughbred  action,  the  small  and  expressive 
head,  as  perfect  in  the  reflection  as  in  the  reality ; 
like  Wordsworth's  swan,  he 

"  Trots  double,  horse  and  shadow." 

You  would  swear  you  were  skimming  the  surface 
of  the  sea;  and  the  delusion  is  more  complete  as  the 
white  foam  of  the  "  tenth  wave"  skims  in  beneath 
wheel  and  hoof,  and  you  urge  on  with  the  treache 
rous  element  gliding  away  visibly  beneath  you. 

We  seem  not  to  have  driven  fast,  yet  three  miles, 
fairly  measured,  are  left  behind,  and  Thalaba's  blood 
is  up.     Fine  creature  !     I  would  not  give  him 
;i  For  the  best  horse  the  Sun  has  in  his  stable." 

We  have  won  champagne  ere  now,  Thalaba 
and  I,  trotting  on  this  silvery  beach ;  and  if  ever 
old  age  comes  on  me,  and  I  intend  it  never  shall 
on  aught  save  my  mortal  coil,  (my  spirit  vowed  to 
perpetual  youth,)  I  think  these  vital  breezes,  and  a 
trot  on  these  exhilarating  sands,  would  sooner  re 
new  my  prime  than  a  rock  in  St.  Hilary's  cradle, 
or  a  dip  in  the1  well  of  Kanathos.  May  we  try 
the  experiment  together,  gentle  reader1? 

I  am  not  settled  in  my  own  mind  whether  this 
description  of  one  of  my  favourite  haunts  in  Ame 
rica  was  written  most  to  introduce  the  story  that 
is  to  follow,  or  the  story  to  introduce  the  descrip 
tion.  Possibly  the  latter,  for  having  consumed  my 
callow  youth  in  wandering  « to  and  fro  in  the 
earth,"  like  Sathanas  of  old,  and  looking  on  my 
country  now  with  an  eye  from  which  all  the  minor 
and  temporary  features  have  gradually  faded,  I  find 
my  pride  in  it  (after  its  glory  as  a  republic)  set 
tling  principally  on  the  superior  handiwork  of  na 
ture  in  its  land  and  water.  When  I  talk  of  it  now, 
it  is  looking  through  another's  eyes — his  who  lis 
tens.  I  do  not  describe  it  after  my  own  memory 
of  what  it  tvas  once  to  me,  but  according  to  my  idea 
of  what  it  will  seem  now  to  a  stranger.  Hence  I 
speak  not  of  the  friends  I  made,  rambling  by  lake 
or  river.  The  lake  and  the  river  are  there,  but 
the  friends  are  changed — to  themselves  and  me. 
I  speak  not  of  the  lovely  and  loving  ones  that  stood 


492 


N.  P.  WILLIS. 


by  me,  looking  on  glen  or  waterfall.  The  glen 
and  the  waterfall  are  romantic  still,  but  the  form 
and  the  heart  that  breathed  through  it  are  no  longer 
lovely  or  loving.  I  should  renew  my  joys  by  the 
old  mountain  and  river,  for,  all  they  ever  were  I 
should  find  them  still,  and  never  seem  to  myself 
grown  old,  or  cankered  of  the  world,  or  changed  in 
form  or  spirit,  while  they  reminded  me  but  of  my 
youth,  with  their  familiar  sunshine  and  beauty. 
But  the  friends  that  I  knew — as  I  knew  them — 
are  dead.  They  look  no  longer  the  same ;  they 
have  another  heart  in  them ;  the  kindness  of  the 
eye,  the  smilingness  of  the  lip,  are  no  more  there. 
Philosophy  tells  me  the  material  and  living  body 
changes  and  renews,  particle  by  particle,  with  time; 
and  experience — cold-blooded  and  stony  monitor — 
tells  me,  in  his  frozen  monotone,  that  heart  and 
spirit  change  with  it  and  renew  !  But  the  name 
remains,  mockery  that  it  is !  and  the  memory  some 
times  ;  and  so  these  apparitions  of  the  past — that 
we  almost  fear  to  question  when  they  encounter 
us,  lest  the  change  they  have  undergone  should 
freeze  our  blood — stare  coldly  on  us,  yet  call  us  by 
name,  and  answer,  though  coldly  to  their  own,  and 
have  that  terrible  similitude  to  what  they  were, 
mingled  with  their  unsympathizing  and  hollow 
mummery,  that  we  wish  the  grave  of  the  past,  with 
all  that  it  contained  of  kind  or  lovely,  had  been 
sealed  for  ever.  The  heart  we  have  lain  near  be 
fore  our  birth  (so  read  I  the  book  of  human  life)  is 
the  only  one  that  cannot  forget  that  it  has  loved 
us.  Saith  well  and  affectionately  an  American 
poet,  in  some  birthday  verses  to  his  mother — 

"Mother!  dear  mother!  the  feelings  nurst 
As  I  hung  at  thy  bosom,  clung  round  thee first — 
'Tvva.s  the  earliest  link  in  love's  warm  chain, 
'Tis  the  only  one  that  will  long  remain 
And  as,  year  by  year,  and  day  by  day, 
Some  friend,  still  trusted,  drops  away, 
Mother !  dear  mother  !  oh.  dost  thou  nee 
How  the  shortened  chain  brings  me  nearer  thee!" 


UNWRITTEN  MUSIC. 

FROM   THE   SAMS. 


MKFHTSTOPHELES  could  hardly  have  found  a 
more  striking  amusement  for  Faust  than  the  pas 
sage  of  three  hundred  miles  in  the  canal  from  Lake 
Erie  to  the  Hudson.  As  I  walked  up  and  down 
the  deck  of  the  packet-boat,  I  thought  to  myself, 
that 'if  it  were  not  for  thoughts  of  things  that  come 
more  home  to  one's  "  business  and  bosom,"  (par 
ticularly  "  bosom,")  I  could  be  content  to  retake 
my  berth  at  Schenectady,  and  return  to  Buffalo 
for  amusement.  The  Erie  (^anal-boat  is  a  long 
•and  very  pretty  drawing-room  afloat.  It  has  a 
library,  sofas,  a  tolerable  cook,  curtains  or  Vene 
tian  blinds,  a  civil  captain,  and  no  smell  of  steam 
or  perceptible  motion.  It  is  drawn  generally  by 
three  horses  at  a  fair  trot,  and  gets  you  through 
about  a  hundred  miles  a  day,  as  softly  as  if  you 
were  witched  over  the  ground  by  Puck  and  Mus 
tard-seed.  The  company  (say  fifty  people)  is  such 
as  pleases  Heaven;  though  I  must  say  (with  my 
eye  all  along  the  shore,  collecting  the  various  dear 
friends  I  have  made  and  left  on  that  long  canal) 


there  are  few  highways  on  which  you  will  meet 
so  many  lovely  and  loving  fellow-passengers.  On 
this  occasion  my  star  was  bankrupt — Job  Smith 
being  my  only  civilized  companion — and  I  was  left 
to  the  unsatisfactory  society  of  my  own  thoughts 
and  the  scenery. 

Discontented  as  I  may  seem  to  have  been,  I  re 
member,  through  eight  or  ten  years  of  stirring  and 
thickly-sown  manhood,  every  moment  of  that  lonely 
evening.  I  remember  the  progression  of  the  sun 
set,  from  the  lengthening  shadows  and  the  first 
gold  upon  the  clouds,  to  the  deepening  twilight 
and  the  new-sprung  star  hung  over  the  wilderness. 
And  I  remember  what  I  am  going  to  describe — a 
twilight  anthem  in  the  forest — as  you  remember  an 
air  of  Rossini's,  or  a  transition  in  the  half-fiendish, 
half-heavenly  creations  of  Meyerbeer.  I  thought 
time  dragged  heavily  then,  but  I  wish  I  had  as 
light  a  heart  and  could  feel  as  vividly  now  ! 

The  Erie  canal  is  cut  a  hundred  or  two  milos 
through  the  heart  of  the  primeval  wilderness  of 
America,  and  the  boat  was  gliding  on  silently  and 
swiftly,  and  never  sailed  a  lost  cloud  through  the 
abyss  of  space  on  a  course  more  apparently  new 
and  untrodden.  The  luxuriant  soil  had  sent  up  a 
rank  grass  that  covered  the  horse-path  like  velvet; 
the  Erie  water  was  clear  as  a  brook  in  the  winding 
canal ;  the  old  shafts  of  the  gigantic  forest  spurred 
into  the  sky  by  thousands,  and  the  yet  unscared 
eagle  swung  off  from  the  dead  branch  of  the  pine, 
and  skimmed  the  tree-tops  for  another  perch,  as  if 
he  had  grown  to  believe  that  gliding  spectre  a 
harmless  phenomenon  of  nature.  The  horses  drew 
steadily  and  unheard  at  the  end  of  the  long  line; 
the  steersman  stood  motionless  at  the  tiller,  and  I 
lay  on  a  heap  of  baggage  in  the  prow,  attentive  to 
the  slightest  breathing  of  nature,  but  thinking,  with 
an  ache  at  my  heart,  of  Edith  Linsey,  to  whose 
feet  (did  I  mention  if!)  I  was  hastening  with  a 
lover's  proper  impatience.  I  might  as  well  have 
taken  another  turn  in  my  "  fool's  paradise." 

The  gold  of  the  sunset  had  glided  up  the  dark 
pine  tops  and  disappeared,  like  a  ring  taken  slowly 
from  an  Ethiop's  finger ;  the  whip-poor-will  had 
chanted  the  first  stave  of  his  lament ;  the  bat  was 
abroad,  and  the  screech-owl,  like  all  bad  singers, 
commenced  without  waiting  to  be  importuned, 
though  we  were  listening  for  the  nightingale.  The 
air,  as  I  said  before,  had  been  all  day  breathless ; 
but  as  the  first  chill  of  evening  displaced  the  warm 
atmosphere  of  the  departed  sun,  a  slight  breeze 
crisped  the  mirrored  bosom  of  the  canal,  and  then 
commenced  the  night  anthem  of  the  forest,  audible, 
I  would  fain  believe,  in  its  soothing  changes,  by  the 
dead  tribes  whose  bones  whiten  amid  the  perishing 
leaves.  First,  whisperingly  yet  articulately,  the 
suspended  and  wavering  foliage  of  the  birch  was 
touched  by  the  many-fingered  wind,  and,  like  a 
faint  prelude,  the  silver-lined  leaves  rustled  in  the 
low  branches ;  and,  with  a  moment's  pause,  when 
you  could  hear  the  moving  of  the  vulture's  claws 
upon  the  bark,  as  he  turned  to  get  his  breast  to  the 
wind,  the  increasing  breeze  swept  into  the  pine- 
tops,  and  drew  forth  from  theft  fringe-like  and 
myriad  tassels  a  low  monotone  like  the  refrain  of 


N.  P.  WILLIS. 


493 


a  far-off  dirge ;  and  still  as  it  murmured,  (seeming 
to  you  sometimes  like  the  confused  and  heart 
broken  responses  of  the  penitents  on  a  cathedral 
floor,)  the  blast  strengthened  and  filled,  and  the 
rigid  leaves  of  the  oak,  and  the  swaying  fans  and 
chalices  of  the  magnolia,  and  the  rich  cups  of  the 
tulip-trees,  stirred  and  answered  with  their  differ 
ent  voices  like  many-toned  harps ;  and  when  the 
wind  was  fully  abroad,  and  every  moving  thing  on 
the  breast  of  the  earth  was  roused  from  its  daylight 
repose,  the  irregular  and  capricious  blast,  like  a 
player  on  an  organ  of  a  thousand  stops,  lulled  and 
strengthened  by  turns,  and  from  the  hiss  in  the 
rank  grass,  low  as  the  whisper  of  fairies,  to  the 
thunder  of  the  impinging  and  groaning  branches  of 
the  larch  and  the  iir,  the  anthem  went  ceaselessly 
through  its  changes,  and  the  harmony  (though 
the  owl  broke  in  with  his  scream,  and  though  the 
overblown  monarch  of  the  wood  came  crashing  to 
the  earth)  was  still  perfect  and  without  a  jar.  It 
is  strange  that  there  is  no  sound  of  nature  out  of 
tune.  The  roar  of  the  waterfall  comes  into  this 
anthem  of  the  forest  like  an  accompaniment  of 
bassoons,  and  the  occasional  bark  of  the  wolf,  or  the 
scream  of  a  night-bird,  or  even  the  deep-throated 
croak  of  the  frog,  is  no  more  discordant  than  the 
outburst  of  an  octave  flute  above  the  even  melody 
of  an  orchestra ;  and  it  is  surprising  how  the  large 
raindrops,  pattering  on  the  leaves,  and  the  small  voice 
of  the  nightingale  (singing,  like  nothing  but  himself, 
sweetest  in  the  darkness)  seems  an  intensitive  and 
a  low  burden  to  the  general  anthem  of  the  earth — 
as  it  were,  a  single  voice  among  instruments. 

I  had  what  Wordsworth  calls  a  ''  couchant  ear"' 
in  my  youth,  and  my  story  will  wait,  dear  reader, 
while  I  tell  you  of  another  harmony  that  I  learned 
to  love  in  the  wilderness. 

There  will  come  sometimes  in  the  spring — say 
in  May,  or  whenever  the  snow-drops  and  sulphur 
butterflies  are  tempted  out  by  the  first  timorous 
sunshine — there  will  come,  I  say,  in  that  yearning 
and  youth-renewing  season,  a  warm  shower  at 
noon.  Our  tent  shall  be  pitched  on  the  skirts  of 
a  forest  of  young  pines,  and  the  evergreen  foliage, 
if  foliage  it  may  be  called,  shall  be  a  daily  refresh 
ment  to  our  eye  while  watching,  with  the  west 
wind  upon  our  cheeks,  the  unclothed  branches  of 
the  elm.  The  rain  descends  softly  and  warm; 
but  with  the  sunset  the  clouds  break  away,  and  it 
grows  suddenly  cold  enough  to  freeze.  The  next 
morning  you  shall  come  out  with  me  to  a  hillside 
looking  upon  the  south,  and  lie  down  with  your 
ear  to  the  earth.  The  pine  tassels  hold  in  every 
four  of  their  fine  fingers  a  drop  of  rain  frozen  like 
a  pearl  in  a  long  ear-ring,  sustained  in  their  loose 
grasp  by  the  rigidity  of  the  cold.  The  sun  grows 
warm  at  ten,  and  the  slight  green  fingers  begin  to 
relax  and  yield,  and  by  eleven  they  are  all  droop 
ing  their  icy  pearls  upon  the  dead  leaves  with  a 
murmur  through  the  forest  like  the  swarming  of 
the  bees  of  Hybla.  There  is  not  much  variety  in 
its  music,  but  it  is  a  pleasant  monotone  for  thought, 
and  if  you  have  a  restless  fever  in  your  bosom,  (as 
I  had,  when  I  learned  to  love  it,  for  the  travel 
which  has  corrupted  the  heart  and  the  ear  that  it 


soothed  and  satisfied  then,)  yon  may  lie  down  with 
a  crooked  root  under  your  head  in  the  skirts  of  the 
forest,  and  thank  Heaven  for  an  anodyne  to  care. 
And  it  is  better  than  the  voice  of  your  friend,  or 
the  song  of  your  lady-love,  for  it  exacts  no  grati 
tude,  and  will  not  desert  you  ere  the  echo  dies 
upon  the  wind. 

Oh,  how  many  of  these  harmonies  there  are  ! — 
how  many  that  we  hear,  and  how  many  that  are 
"  too  constant  to  be  heard  !"  I  could  go  back  to 
my  youth,  now,  with  this  thread  of  recollection, 
and  unsepulture  a  hoard  of  simple  and  long-buried 
joys  that  would  bring  the  blush  upon  my  cheek  to 
think  how  my  senses  are  dulled  since  such  things 
could  give  me  pleasure !  Is  there  no  "  well  of 
Kanathos"  for  renewing  the  youth  of  the  soul  1 — 
no  St.  Hilary's  cradle  1  no  elixir  to  cast  the  slough 
of  heart-sickening  and  heart-tarnishing  custom  ? 
Find  me  an  alchymy  for  that,  with  your  alembic 
and  crucible,  and  you  may  resolve  to  dross  again 
your  philosopher's  stone ! 


TRENTON  FALLS. 

FROM   THE  SAME. 

TRENTON  Falls  is  rather  a  misnomer.  I  scarcely 
know  what  you  would  call  it,  but  the  wonder  of 
nature  which  bears  the  name  is  a  tremendous  tor 
rent,  whose  bed,  for  several  miles,  is  sunk  fathoms 
deep  into  the  earth — a  roaring  and  dashing  stream, 
so  far  below  the  surface  of  the  forest  in  which  it  is 
lost,  that  you  would  think,  as  you  come  suddenly 
upon  the  edge  of  its  long  precipice,  that  it  was  a 
river  in  some  inner  world,  (coiled  within  ours,  as 
we  in  the  outer  circle  of  the  firmament,)  and  laid 
open  by  some  Titanic  throe  that  had  cracked  clear 
asunder  the  crust  of  this  «  shallow  earth."  The 
idea  is  rather  assisted  if  you  happen  to  see  below 
you,  on  its  abysmal  shore,  a  party  of  adventurous 
travellers ;  for,  at  that  vast  depth,  and  in  contrast 
with  the  gigantic  trees  and  rocks,  the  same  number 
of  well-shaped  pismires,  dressed  in  the  last  fashions, 
and  philandering  upon  your  parlour  floor,  would 
be  about  of  their  apparent  size  and  distinctness. 

They  showed  me  at  Elcusis  the  well  by  which 
Proserpine  ascends  to  the  regions  of  day  on  her 
annual  visit  to  the  plains  of  Thessaly — but  with 
the  genius  loci  at  my  elbow  in  the  shape  of  a  Greek 
girl  as  lovely  as  Phryne,  my  memory  reverted  to 
the  bared  axle  of  the  earth  in  the  bed  of  this  Ame 
rican  river,  and  I  was  persuaded  (looking  the  while 
at  the  feroniere  of  gold  sequins  on  ths  Phidian 
forehead  of  my  Katinka)  that  supposing  Hades  in 
the  centre  of  the  earth,  you  are  nearer  to  it  by 
some  fathoms  at  Trenton.  I  confess  I  have  had, 
since  my  first  descent  into  those  depths,  an  un 
comfortable  doubt  of  the  solidity  of  the  globe — how 
the  deuse  it  can  hold  together  with  such  a  crack 
in  its  bottom ! 

It  was  a  night  to  play  Endymion,  or  do  any  Tom 
foolery  that  could  be  laid  to  the  charge  of  the  moon, 
for  a  more  omnipresent  and  radiant  atmosphere  of 
moonlight  never  sprinkled  the  wilderness  with  sil 
ver.  It  was  a  night  in  which  to  wish  it  might 
2T 


494 


N.   P.  WILLIS. 


never  be  day  again — a  night  to  be  enamoured  of 
the  stars,  and  bid  God  bless  them  like  human  crea 
tures  on  their  bright  journey — a  night  to  love  in, 
to  dissolve  in — to  do  every  thing  but  what  night 
is  made  for — sleep  !  Oh  heaven !  when  I  think 
how  precious  is  life  in  such  moments ;  how  the 
aroma — the  celestial  bloom  and  flower  of  the  soul 
— -the  yearning  and  fast-perishing  enthusiasm  of 
youth — waste  themselves  in  the  solitude  of  such 
nights  on  the  senseless  and  unanswering  air;  when 
I  wander  alone,  unloving  and  unloved,  beneath 
influences  that  could  inspire  me  with  the  elevation 
of  a  seraph,  were  I  at  the  ear  of  a  human  creature 
that  could  summon  forth  and  measure  my  limitless 
capacity  of  "devotion — when  I  think  this,  and  feel 
this,  and  so  waste  my  existence  in  vain  yearnings, 
I  could  extinguish  the  divine  spark  within  me  like 
a  lamp  on  an  unvisited  shrine,  and  thank  Heaven 
for  an  assimilation  to  the  animals  I  walk  among ! 
And  that  is  the  substance  of  a  speech  I  made  to 
Job  as  a  sequitur  of  a  well-meant  remark  of  his 
own,  that  "  it  was  a  pity  Edith  Linsey  was  not 
there."  He  took  the  clause  about  the  "  animals" 
to  himself,  and  made  an  apology  for  the  same  a 
year  after.  We  sometimes  give  our  friends,  quite 
innocently,  such  terrible  knocks  in  our  rhapsodies ! 
Most  people  talk  of  the  sublimity  of  Trenton,  but 
I  have  haunted  it  by  the  week  together  for  its  mere 
loveliness.  The  river,  in  the  heart  of  that  fearful 
chasm,  is  the  most  varied  and  beautiful  assemblage 
of  the  thousand  forms  and  shapes  of  running  water 
that  I  know  in  the  world.  The  soil  and  the  deep- 
striking  roots  of  the  forest  terminate  far  above  you, 
looking  like  a  black  rim  on  the  enclosing  preci 
pices  ;  the  bed  of  the  river  and  its  sky-sustaining 
walls  are  of  solid  rock,  and,  with  the  tremendous 
descent  of  the  stream — forming  for  miles  one  con 
tinuous  succession  of  falls  and  rapids — the  channel 
is  worn  into  curves  and  cavities  which  throw  the 
clear  waters  into  forms  of  inconceivable  brilliancy 
and  variety.  It  is  a  sort  of  half-twilight  below, 
with  here  and  there  a  long  beam  of  sunshine  reach 
ing  down  to  kiss  the  lip  of  an  eddy  or  form  a  rain 
bow  over  a  fall,  and  the  reverberating  and  changing 
echoes, 

"  Like  a  ring  of  bells  whose  sound  the  wind  still  alters," 
maintain  a  constant  and  most  soothing  music,  va 
rying  at  every  step  with  the  varying  phase  of  the 
current.  Cascades  of  from  twenty  to  thirty  feet, 
over  which  the  river  flies  with  a  single  and  hurry 
ing  leap,  (not  a  drop  missing  from  the  glassy  and 
bending  sheet,)  occur  frequently  as  you  ascend ; 
and  it  is  from  these  that  the  place  takes  its  name. 
But  the  falls,  though  beautiful,  are  only  peculiar 
from  the  dazzling  and  unequalled  rapidity  with 
which  the  waters  come  to  the  leap.  If  it  were 
not  for  the  leaf  which  drops  wavering  down  into 
the  abysm  from  trees  apparently  painted  on  the 
.sky,  and  which  is  caught  away  by  the  flashing 
current  as  if  the  lightning  had  suddenly  crossed  it, 
you  would  think  the  vault  of  the  steadfast  heavens 
a  flying  element  as  soon.  The  spot  in  that  long 
gulf  of  beauty  that  I  best  remember  is  a  smooth 
descent  of  some  hundred  yards,  where  the  river  in 
full  and  undivided  volume  skims  over  a  plane  as 


polished  as  a  table  of  scagliola,  looking,  in  its  in 
visible  speed,  like  one  mirror  of  gleaming  but  mo 
tionless  crystal.  Just  above,  there  is  a  sudden 
turn  in  the  glen  which  sends  the  water  like  a  cata 
pult  against  the  opposite  angle  of  the  rock,  and, 
in  the  action  of  years,  it  has  worn  out  a  cavern  of 
unknown  depth,  into  which  the  whole  mass  of  the 
river  plunges  with  the  abandonment  of  a  flying  fiend 
into  hell,  and,  reappearing  like  the  angel  that  has 
pursued  him,  glides  swiftly  but  with  divine  sere 
nity  on  its  way.  (I  am  indebted  for  that  last 
figure  to  Job,  who  travelled  with  a  Milton  in  his 
pocket,  and  had  a  natural  redolence  of  "  Paradise 
Lost"  in  his  conversation.) 

Much  as  I  detest  water  in  small  quantities,  (to 
drink,)  I  have  a  hydromania  in  the  way  of  lakes, 
rivers,  and  waterfalls.  It  is,  by  much,  the  belle  in 
the  family  of  the  elements.  Earth  is  never  tole 
rable  unless  disguised  in  green.  Air  is  so  thin  as 
only  to  be  visible  when  she  borrows  drapery  of 
water ;  and  Fire  is  so  staringly  bright  as  to  be  un 
pleasant  to  the  eyesight;  but  water,  soft,  pure, 
graceful  water !  there  is  no  shape  into  which  you 
can  throw  her  that  she  does  not  seem  lovelier  than 
before.  She  can  borrow  nothing  of  her  sisters. 
Earth  has  no  jewels  in  her  lap  so  brilliant  as  her 
own  spray  pearls  or  emeralds ;  Fire  has  no  rubies 
like  that  what  she  steals  from  the  sunset ;  Air  has 
no  robes  like  the  grace  of  her  fine-woven  and  ever- 
changing  drapery  of  silver.  A  health  (in  wine  !) 
to  WATER  ! 

Who  is  there  that  did  not  love  some  stream  in 
his  youth  ]  Who  is  there  in  whose  vision  of  the 
past  there  does  not  sparkle  up,  from  every  picture 
of  childhood,  a  spring  or  a  rivulet  woven  through 
the  darkened  and  torn  woof  of  first  affections  like 
a  thread  of  unchanged  silver?  How  do  you  in 
terpret  the  instinctive  yearning  with  which  you 
search  for  the  river-side  or  the  fountain  in  every 
scene  of  nature — the  clinging  unaware  to  the 
river's  course  when  a  truant  in  the  fields  in  June 
— the  dull  void  you  find  in  every  landscape  of 
which  it  is  not  the  ornament  and  the  centre  1  For 
myself,  I  hold  with  the  Greek :  "  Water  is  the  first 
principle  of  all  things:  we  were  made  from  it  and 
we  shall  be  resolved  into  it." 


CAUTERSKILL  FALLS. 

FROM   THE  SAME. 


A  MILE  or  two  back  from  the  mountain-house,  on 
nearly  the  same  level,  the  gigantic  forest  suddenly 
sinks  two  or  three  hundred  feet  into  the  earth,  form 
ing  a  tremendous  chasm,  over  which  a  bold  stag  might 
almost  leap,  and  above  which  the  rocks  hang  on 
either  side  with  the  most  threatening  and  frowning 
grandeur.  A  mountain-stream  creeps  through  the 
fflrest  to  the  precipice,  and  leaps  as  suddenly  over,  as 
if,  Arethusa-like,  it  fled  into  the  earth  from  the  pur 
suing  steps  of  a  satyr.  Thirty  paces  from  its  brink . 
you  would  never  suspect,  but  for  the  hollow  rever 
beration  of  the  plunging  stream,  that  any  thing  but 
a  dim  and  mazy  wood  was  within  a  day's  journey. 
It  is  visited  as  a  great  curiosity  in  scenery,  under 
the  name  of  Cauterskill  Falls. 


•^•?s»-?">^ 


*™* 


HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


[Born  1807.] 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW,  a  son 
of  the  Honourable  Stephen  Longfellow,  of 
Portland,  was  born  in  that  city  on  the  twenty- 
seventh  of  February,  1807.  At  the  early  age 
of  fourteen  he  entered  Bowdoin  College,  and 
at  the  close  of  the  usual  period  of  four  years, 
he  was  graduated,  with  high  honours,  and  an 
unusual  reputation  for  moral  as  well  as  intel 
lectual  elevation.  For  a  few  months,  in  1825, 
he  was  a  law  student,  in  the  office  of  his  father, 
but  being  offered  a  professorship  of  modern 
languages,  which  it  was  proposed  to  found  in 
Bowdoin  College,  he  was  relieved  from  this 
uncongenial  pursuit  to  prepare  himself  for  its 
duties  by  a  visit  to  Europe,  and  accordingly 
left  home  and  passed  three  years  and  a  half, 
travelling  or  residing  in  France,  Italy,  Spain, 
Germany,  Holland  and  England.  He  returned 
home  in  1829,  eminently  fitted' for  his  office, 
upon  which  he  'immediately  entered.  The 
youthful  professor  was  a  great  favourite  with 
the  collegians ;  when  not  engaged  in  the  la 
bours  of  instruction  he  was  himself  a  student, 
or,  as  sometimes  happened,  a  weaver  of  those 
beautiful  verses,  in  which  he  has  exhibited 
so  much  both  of  genius  and  cultivation  ;  and 
in  a  few  years  he  became  known  through  all 
the  country  as  one  of  the  most  graceful  poets 
and  most  elegant  and  accomplished  scholars 
of  whom  we  could  boast,  so  that  when  Mr. 
George  Ticknor,  in  1835,  resigned  the  pro 
fessorship  of  modern  languages  and  belles- 
lettres,  in  the  oldest  and  most  distinguished 
of  our  universities,  there  was  no  hesitation  in 
calling  to  the  vacant  post  Mr.  Longfellow,  who 
had  already  something  of  the  fame  of  a  vete 
ran  in  teaching,  though  yet  scarcely  twenty- 
eight  years  of  age.  He  now  therefore  re 
signed  his  professorship  at  Brunswick,  and 
again  went  abroad,  with  a  view  of  becoming 
more  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  Ian-  ! 
guages  and  literatures  of  the  north  of  Europe. 
He  passed  more  than  a  year  in  Denmark, 
Sweden,  Germany  and  Switzerland,  and  re 
turning  to  America,  in  the  autumn  of  1836, 
entered  immediately  upon  his  duties  at  Cam 
bridge,  where  he  has  ever  since  resided,  except 


during  a  short  visit  to  Europe,  for  the  restora 
tion  of  his  health,  in  1842. 

As  has  been  intimated  above,  Professor 
Longfellow  commenced  his  literary  life,  and 
acquired  an  enviable  reputation,  at  an  early 
age.  Indeed  while  .he  was  an  undergraduate 
he  wrote  many  tasteful  and  carefully  finished 
poems,  for  the  United  States  Literary  Gazette, 
and  in  aesthetic  criticism,  he  soon  after  exhi 
bited  abilities  of  a  very  high  order,  in  various 
articles  which  he  contributed  to  the  North 
American  Review.  In  1833  he  published  his 
translation  from  the  Spanish  of  the  celebrated 
poem  of  Don  Jorge  Manrique  on  the  death  of 
his  father,  with  a  beautiful  introductory  essay 
on  the  moral  and  religious  poetry  of  Spain ; 
in  1835  his  Outre-Mer,  or  a  Pilgrimage  be 
yond  the  Sea;  in  1839  Hyperion,  a  romance; 
in  1840  Voices  of  the  Night,  his  first  collection 
of  poems;  in  1831  Ballads  and  other  Poems, 
(embracing  The  Children  of  the  Lord's  Sup 
per,  from  the  Swedish  of  Tegner)  ;  in  1842 
The  Spanish  Student,  a  play ;  in  1843  Poems 
on  Slavery ;  in  1845  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of 
Europe,  with  introductions  and  biographical 
notices;  and  in  1846  two  complete  editions  of 
his  Poetical  Works,  one  of  which  is  beautiful 
ly  illustrated  by  the  best  artists  of  the  country. 

As  a  poet  Mr.  Longfellow's  merits  are  of  a 
very  high  though  not  of  the  highest  order. 
Nothing  can  be  more  graceful  and  tender  than 
some  of  his  Voices  of  the  Night;  or  more 
picturesque  and  dramatical  than  some  of  his 
Ballads ;  or  more  simple,  chaste,  and  beauti 
fully  wise  than  the  greater  part  of  his  short 
poems,  which  seem  to  be  painted  experiences 
of  both  the  mind  and  heart.  They  have  that 
stamp  of  nature  which  commends  them  alike 
to  the  rudest  and  the  most  cultivated.  Every 
one  can  understand  them,  and  in  every  one 
they  are  sure  to  awaken  some  responsive  feel 
ing.  Yet  he  seems  to  want  a  certain  freshness 
and  creative  energy,  perhaps  on  account  of  that 
absence  of  self-reliance,  which  is  commonly 
observable  in  men,  in  the  formation  of  whose 
characters  the  study  of  books  has  had  more 
than  a  due  influence. 


496 


HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 


The  first  prose  work  of  Professor  Longfel 
low  was  a  collection  of  tales  and  sketches  illus 
trating  the  impressions  of  a  youthful  scholar 
as  he  wanders  leisurely  through  southern  Eu 
rope.  Hyperion  is  in  a  similar  spirit,  but  has 
a  unity  of  purpose,  and  is  bolder  and  more  sus 
tained.  The  scholar,  here,  with  his  delicate 
fancy  and  extreme  susceptibility,  is  exposed 
to  trials.  But  his  life  is  in  obedience  to  the 
impressive  motto  of  the  romance,  "  Look  not 
mournfully  into  the  Past :  It  comes  not  back 


again.  Wisely  improve  the  Present:  It  is 
thine.  Go  forth  to  meet  the  shadowy  Future, 
without  fear,  and  with  a  manly  heart."  Here 
is  the  moral,  which  is  wrought  out  ingenious 
ly  and  with  exquisite  taste,  though  with  little 
constructive  talent,  for  the  plot  is  very  simple, 
and  the  incidents  are  barely  sufficient  to  give 
life  to  the  sentiments.  It  is  a  poem,  full  of 
beautiful  thoughts  and  illustrations ;  a  painting 
of  conceptions  that  float  in  the  solitary  mind 
of  a  man  of  genius,  refinement  and  feeling. 


THE  VILLAGE  OF  AUTEUIL. 

FROM  OUTRE-MER. 

THE  sultry  heat  of  summer  always  brings  with 
it,  to  the  idler  and  the  man  of  leisure,  a  longing 
for  the  leafy  shade  and  the  green  luxuriance  of  the 
country.  It  is  pleasant  to  interchange  the  din  of  the 
city,  the  movement  of  the  crowd,  and  the  gossip  of 
society,  with  the  silence  of  the  hamlet,  the  quiet 
seclusion  of  the  grove,  and  the  gossip  of  a  wood 
land  brook.  As  is  sung  in  the  old  ballad  of  Robin 
Hood,— 

"In  somer,  when  the  shawes  be  sheyn, 

And  leves  be  large  and  long, 
Hit  is  full  mery  in  feyre  foreste, 

To  hear  the  foulys  song ; 
To  se  the  dere  draw  to  the  dale 

And  leve  the  hilles  hee. 
And  shadow  hem  in  the  leves  grene, 
Vnder  the  grene  wode  tre." 

It  was  a  feeling  of  this  kind  that  prompted  me, 
during  my  residence  in  the  north  of  France,  to  pass 
one  of  the  summer  months  at  Auteuil,  the  pleasant- 
est  of  the  many  little  villages  that  lie  in  the  imme 
diate  vicinity  of  the  metropolis.  It  is  situated  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  a  wood  of 
some  extent,  in  whose  green  alleys  the  dusty  cit 
enjoys  the  luxury  of  an  evening  drive,  and  gentle 
men  meet  in  the  morning  to  give  each  other  satis 
faction  in  the  usual  way.  A  cross-road,  skirted 
with  green  hedgerows,  and  overshadowed  by  tall 
poplars,  leads  you  from  the  noisy  highway  of  St. 
Cloud  and  Versailles  to  the  still  retirement  of  this 
suburban  hamlet.  On  either  side  the  eye  discovers 
old  chateaux  amid  the  trees,  and  green  parks,  whose 
pleasant  shades  recall  a  thousand  images  of  La 
Fontaine,  Racine,  and  Moliere ;  and  on  an  emi 
nence,  overlooking  the  windings  of  the  Seine,  and 
giving  a  beautiful  though  distant  view  of  the  domes 
and  gardens  of  Paris,  rises  the  village  of  Passy, 
long  the  residence  of  our  countrymen  Franklin  and 
Count  Rumford. 

I  took  up  my  abode  at  a  maison  de  santd;  not 
that  I  was  a  valetudinarian,  but  because  I  there 
found  some  one  to  whom  I  could  whisper,  «  How 
sweet  is  solitude !"  Behind  the  house  was  a  gar 
den  filled  with  fruit  trees  of  various  kinds,  and 
adorned  with  gravel-walks  and  green  arbours,  fur 
nished  with  tables  and  rustic  seats,  for  the  repose 
of  the  invalid  and  the  sleep  of  the  indolent  Here 


the  inmates  of  the  rural  hospital  met  on  common 
ground,  to  breathe  the  invigorating  air  of  morning, 
and  while  away  the  lazy  noon  or  vacant  evening 
with  tales  of  the  sick  chamber. 

The  establishment  was  kept  by  Dr.  Dentdelion, 
a  dried-up  little  fellow,  with  red  hair,  a  sandy  com 
plexion,  and  the  physiognomy  and  gestures  of  a 
monkey.  His  character  corresponded  to  his  out 
ward  lineaments;  for  he  had  all  a  monkey's  busy 
and  curious  impertinence.  Nevertheless,  such  as 
he  was,  the  village  ^Esculapius  strutted  forth  the 
little  great  man  of  Auteuil.  The  peasants  looked 
up  to  him  as  to  an  oracle ;  he  contrived  to  be  at 
the  head  of  every  thing,  and  laid  claim  to  the  cre 
dit  of  all  public  improvements  in  the  village;  in 
fine,  he  was  a  great  man  on  a  small  scale. 

It  was  within  the  dingy  walls  of  this  little  poten 
tate's  imperial  palace  that  I  chose  my  country  re 
sidence.  I  had  a  chamber  in  the  second  story, 
with  a  solitary  window,  which  looked  upon  the 
street,  and  gave  me  a  peep  into  a  neighbours  gar 
den.  This  I  esteemed  a  great  privilege ;  for,  as  a 
stranger,  I  desired  to  see  all  that  was  passing  out 
of  doors ;  and  the  sight  of  green  trees,  though  grow 
ing  on  another's  ground,  is  always  a  blessing. 
Within  doors — had  I  been  disposed  to  quarrel  with 
my  household  gods — I  might  have  taken  some  ob 
jection  to  my  neighbourhood  ;  for,  on  one  side  of 
me  was  a  consumptive  patient,  whose  graveyard 
cough  drove  me  from  my  chamber  by  day  ;  and  on 
the  other,  an  English  colonel,  whose  incoherent 
ravings,  in  the  delirium  of  a  high  and  obstinate 
fever,  often  broke  my  slumbers  by  night ;  but  I 
found  ample  amends  for  these  inconveniences  in 
the  society  of  those  who  were  so  little  indisposed 
as  hardly  to  know  what  ailed  them,  and  those  who, 
in  health  themselves,  had  accompanied  a  friend  or 
relative  to  the  shades  of  the  country  in  pursuit  of 
it.  To  these  I  am  indebted  for  much  courtesy ; 
and  particularly  to  one  who,  if  these  pages  should 
ever  meet  her  eye,  will  not,  I  hope,  be  unwilling 
to  accept  this  slight  memorial  of  a  former  friend 
ship. 

It  was,  however,  to  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  that  I 
looked  for  my  principal  recreation.  There  I  took 
my  solitary  walk,  morning  and  evening;  or,  mount 
ed  on  a  little  mouse-coloured  donkey,  paced  de 
murely  along  the  woodland  pathway.  I  had  a 


HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 


497 


favourite  seat  beneath  the  shadow  of  a  venerable 
oak,  one  of  the  few  hoary  patriarchs  of  the  wood 
which  had  survived  the  bivouacs  of  the  allied  armies. 
It  stood  upon  the  brink  of  a  little  glassy  pool,  whose 
tranquil  bosom  was  the  image  of  a  quiet  and  se 
cluded  life,  and  stretched  its  parental  arms  over  a 
rustic  bench,  that  had  been  constructed  beneath  it 
for  the  accommodation  of  the  foot  traveller,  or,  per 
chance,  some  idle  dreamer  like  myself.  It  seemed 
to  look  round  with  a  lordly  air  upon  its  old  heredi 
tary  domain,  whose  stillness  was  no  longer  broken 
by  the  tap  of  the  martial  drum,  nor  the  discordant 
clang  of  arms ;  and,  as  the  breeze  whispered  among 
its  branches,  it  seemed  to  be  hoUing  friendly  collo 
quies  with  a  few  of  its  venerable  contemporaries,  ] 
who  stooped  from  the  opposite  bank  of  the  pool, 
nodding  gravely  now  and  then,  and  gazing  at  them 
selves  with  a  sigh  in  the  mirror  below. 

In  this  quiet  haunt  of  rural  repose  I  used  to  sit 
at  noon,  hear  the  birds  sing,  and  "  possess  myself 
in  much  quietness."  Just  at  my  feet  lay  the  little 
silver  pool,  with  the  sky  and  the  woods  painted  in 
its  mimic  vault,  and  occasionally  the  image  of  a 
bird,  or  the  soft,  watery  outline  of  a  cloud,  floating 
silently  through  its  sunny  hollows.  The  water-lily 
spread  its  broad,  green  leaves  on  the  surface,  and 
rocked  to  sleep  a  little  world  of  insect  life  in  its 
golden  cradle.  Sometimes  a  wandering  leaf  came 
floating  and  wavering  downward,  and  settled  on 
the  water;  then  a  vagabond  insect  would  break 
the  smooth  surface  into  a  thousand  ripples,  or  a 
green-coated  frog  slide  from  the  bank,  and,  plump! 
dive  headlong  to  the  bottom. 

I  entered,  too,  with  some  enthusiasm,  into  all  the 
rural  sports  and  merrimakes  of  the  village.  The 
holydays  were  so  many  little  eras  of  mirth  and  good 
feeling ;  for  the  French  have  that  happy  and  sun 
shine  temperament, — that  merry-go-mad  character, 
• — which  renders  all  their  social  meetings  scenes  of 
enjoyment  and  hilarity.  I  made  it  a  point  never 
to  miss  any  of  the  fetes  champelres,  or  rural  dances, 
at  the  wood  of  Boulogne ;  though  I  confess  it  some 
times  gave  me  a  momentary  uneasiness  to  see  my 
rustic  throne  beneath  the  oak  usurped  by  a  noisy 
group  of  girls,  the  silence  and  decorum  of  my  ima 
ginary  realm  broken  by  music  and  laughter,  and, 
in  a  word,  my  whole  kingdom  turned  topsy-turvy 
with  romping,  fiddling,  and  dancing.  But  I  am 
naturally,  and  from  principle,  too,  a  lover  of  all 
those  innocent  amusements  which  cheer  the  la 
bourer's  toil,  and,  as  it  were,  put  their  shoulders  to 
the  wheel  of  life,  and  help  the  poor  man  along  with 
his  load  of  cares.  Hence  I  saw  with  no  small  de 
light  the  rustic  swain  astride  the  wooden  horse  of 
the  carrousel,  and  the  village  maiden  whirling  round 
and  round  in  its  dizzy  car ;  or  took  my  stand  on 
a  rising  ground  that  overlooked  the  dance,  an  idle 
spectator  in  a  busy  throng.  It  was  just  where  the 
village  touched  the  outward  border  of  the  wood. 
There  a  little  area  had  been  levelled  beneath  the 
trees,  surrounded  by  a  painted  rail,  with  a  row  of 
benches  inside.  The  music  was  placed  in  a  slight 
balcony,  built  around  the  trunk  of  a  large  tree  in 
the  centre;  and  the  lamps,  hanging  from  the 
branches  above,  gave  a  gay,  fantastic,  and  fairy 
63 


look  to  the  scene.  How  often  in  such  moments 
did  I  recall  the  lines  of  Goldsmith,  describing  those 
"  kinder  skies"  beneath  which  "  France  displays 
her  bright  domain,"  and  feel  how  true  and  master 
ly  the  sketch, — 

"  Alike  all  ages ;  dames  of  ancient  days 
Have  led  their  children  through  the  mirthful  maze, 
And  the  gray  grnndsire,  skilled  in  gestic  lore, 
Has  frisked  beneath  the  burden  of  threescore." 

Nor  must  I  forget  to  mention  the  fete  patronale, 
— a  kind  of  annual  fair,  which  is  held  at  mid-sum 
mer,  in  honour  of  the  patron  saint  of  Auteuil.  Then 
the  principal  street  of  the  village  is  filled  with  booths 
of  every  description ;  strolling  players,  and  rope- 
dancers,  and  jugglers,  and  giants,  and  dwarfs,  and 
wild  beasts,  and  all  kinds  of  wonderful  shows,  ex 
cite  the  gaping  curiosity  of  the  throng;  and  in 
dust,  crowds,  and  confusion,  the  village  rivals  the 
capital  itself.  Then  the  goodly  dames  of  Passy  de 
scend  into  the  village  of  Auteuil ;  then  the  brewers 
of  Billancourt  and  the  tanners  of  Severs  dance 
lustily  under  the  green-wood  tree ;  and  then,  too, 
the  sturdy  fishmongers  of  Bretigny  and  Saint- 
Yon  regale  their  fat  wives  with  an  airing  in  a  swing, 
and  their  customers  with  eels  and  crawfish  ;  or,  as 
is  more  poetically  set  forth  in  an  old  Christmas 
carol, — 

"  Vous  eussiez  vu  venir  tous  ceux  de  Saint- Yon, 
Et  ceux  de  Bretigny  apportant  du  poisson, 
Les  barbeaux  et  gardens,  anguilles  et  carpettes 
Etoient  a  bon  march6 

Croyez, 
A  cette  journee-la, 

La,  la, 
Et  aussi  les  perchettes." 

I  found  another  source  of  amusement  in  observ 
ing  the  various  personages  that  daily  passed  and  re- 
passed  beneath  my  window.  The  character  which 
most  of  all  arrested  my  attention  was  a  poor  blind 
fiddler,  whom  I  first  saw  chanting  a  doleful  ballad 
at  the  door  of  a  small  tavern  near  the  gate  of  the 
village.  He  wore  a  brown  coat,  out  at  elbows,  the 
fragment  of  a  velvet  waistcoat,  and  a  pair  of  tight 
nankeens,  so  short  as  hardly  to  reach  below  his 
calves.  A  little  foraging  cap,  that  had  long  since  seen 
its  best  days,  set  ofFan  open,  good-humoured  counte 
nance,  bronzed  by  sun  and  wind.  «,  He  was  led 
about  by  a  brisk,  middle-aged  woman,  in  straw  hat 
and  wooden  shoes;  and  a  little  bare-footed  boy, 
with  clear,  blue  eyes  and  flaxen  hair,  held  a  tat 
tered  hat  in  his  hand,  in  which  he  collected  ele 
emosynary  sous.  The  old  fellow  had  a  favourite 
song,  which  he  used  to  sing  with  great  glee  to  a 
merry,  joyous  air,  the  burden  of  which  ran  "  Chan- 
tons  I' amour  et  le  plaisir!"  I  often  thought  it 
would  have  been  a  good  lesson  for  the  crabbed  and 
discontented  rich  man  to  have  heard  this  remnant 
of  humanity, — poor,  blind,  and  in  rags,  and  de 
pendent  upon  casual  charity  for  his  daily  bread, 
singing  in  so  cheerful  a  voice  the  charms  of  ex 
istence,  and,  as  it  were,  fiddling  life  away  to  a  mer 
ry  tune. 

I  was  one  morning  called  to  my  window  by  the 
sound  of  rustic  music.  I  looked  out  and  beheld 
a  procession  of  villagers  advancing  along  the  road, 
attired  in  gay  dresses,  and  marching  merrily  on  in 
the  direction  of  the  church.  I  soon  perceived  that 
2T2 


498 


HENRY    W.    LONQTFELLOW. 


it  was  a  marriage-festival.  The  procession  was 
led  by  a  long  orang-outang  of  a  man,  in  a  straw 
hat  and  white  dimity  bobcoat,  playing  on  an  asth 
matic  clarionet,  from  which  he  contrived  to  blow 
unearthly  sounds,  ever  and  anon  squeaking  oft"  at 
right  angles  from  his  tune,  and  winding  up  with 
a  grand  flourish  on  the  guttural  notes.  Behind 
him,  led  by  his  little  boy,  came  the  blind  fiddler, 
his  honest  features  glowing  with  all  the  hilarity  of 
a  rustic  bridal,  and,  as  he  stumbled  along,  sawing 
away  upon  his  fiddle  till  he  made  all  crack  again. 
Then  came  the  happy  bridegroom,  dressed  in  his 
Sunday  suit  of  blue,  with  a  large  nosegay  in  his 
button-hole  ;  and  close  beside  him  his  blushing 
bride,  with  downcast  eyes,  clad  in  a  white  robe  and 
slippers,  and  wearing  a  wreath  of  white  roses  in 
her  hair.  The  friends  and  relatives  brought  up  the 
procession  ;  and  a  troop  of  village  urchins  came 
shouting  along  in  the  rear,  scrambling  among  them 
selves  for  the  largess  of  sous  and  sugar-plums  that 
now  and  then  issued  in  large  handfuls  from  the 
pockets  of  a  lean  man  in  black,  who  seemed  to  of 
ficiate  as  master  of  ceremonies  on  the  occasion.  I 
gazed  on  the  procession  till  it  was  out  of  sight ; 
and  when  the  last  wheeze  of  the  clarionet  died  upon 
my  ear,  I  could  not  help  thinking  how  happy  were 
they  who  were  thus  to  dwell  together  in  the  peace 
ful  bosom  of  their  native  village,  far  from  the  gilded 
misery  and  the  pestilential  vices  of  the  town. 

On  the  evening  of  the  same  day,  I  was  sitting 
by  the  window,  enjoying  the  freshness  of  the  air 
and  the  beauty  and  stillness  of  the  hour,  when  I 
heard  the  distant  and  solemn  hymn  of  the  Catholic 
burial-service,  at  first  so  faint  and  indistinct  that  it 
seemed  an  illusion.  It  rose  mournfully  on  the  hush 
of  evening, — died  gradually  away, — then  ceased. 
Then  it  rose  again,  nearer  and  more  distinct,  and 
soon  after  a  funeral  procession  appeared,  and  passed 
directly  beneath  my  window.  It  was  led  by  a 
priest,  bearing  the  banner  of  the  church,  and  fol 
lowed  by  two  boys,  holding  long  flambeaux  in  their 
hands.  Next  came  a  double  file  of  priests  in  their 
surplices,  with  a  missal  in  one  hand  and  a  lighted 
wax  taper  in  the  other,  chanting  the  funeral  dirge 
at  intervals, — now  pausing,  and  then  again  taking 
up  the  mournful  burden  of  their  lamentation,  ac 
companied  by  others,  who  played  upon  a  rude  kind 
of  bassoon,  with  a  dismal  and  wailing  sound.  Then 
followed  various  symbols  of  the  church,  and  the 
bier  borne  on  the  shoulders  of  four  men.  The 
coffin  was  covered  with  a  velvet  pall,  and  a  chaplet 
of  white  flowers  lay  upon  it,  indicating  that  the 
deceased  was  unmarried.  A  few  of  the  villagers 
came  behind,  clad  in  mourning  robes,  and  bearing 
lighted  tapers.  The  procession  passed  slowly  along 
the  same  street  that  in  the  morning  had  been 
thronged  by  the  gay  bridal  company.  A  melan 
choly  train  of  thought  forced  itself  home  upon  my 
mind.  The  joys  and  sorrows  of  this  world  are 
so  strikingly  mingled !  Our  mirth  and  grief  are 
brought  so  mournfully  in  contact!  We  laugh 
while  others  weep, — and  others  rejoice  when  we 
are  sad  !  The  light  heart  and  the  heavy  wa?k  side 
by  side  and  go  about  together  !  Beneath  the  same 
roof  are  spread  the  wedding-feast  and  the  funeral- 


pall  !  The  bridal-song  mingles  with  the  burial- 
hymn!  One  goes  to  the  marriage-bed,  another  to 
the  grave ;  and  all  is  mutable,  uncertain,  and  tran 
sitory. 

It  is  with  sensations  of  pure  delight  that  I  recur 
to  the  brief  period  of  my  existence  which  was  passed 
in  the  peaceful  shades  of  Auteuil.  There  is  one 
kind  of  wisdom  which  we  learn  from  the  world,  and 
another  kind  which  can  be  acquired  in  solitude 
only.  In  cities  we  study  those  around  us ;  but  in 
the  retirement  of  the  country  we  learn  to  know 
ourselves.  The  voice  within  us  is  more  distinctly 
audible  in  the  stillness  of  the  place ;  and  the  gentler 
affections  of  our  nature  spring  up  more  freshly  in 
its  tranquillity  and  sunshine, — nurtured  by  the 
healthy  principle  which  we  inhale  with  the  pure 
air,  and  invigorated  by  the  genial  influences  which 
descend  into  the  heart  from  the  quiet  of  the  sylvan 
solitude  around,  and  the  soft  serenity  of  the  sky 
above. 


SPRING. 

FROM   HYPERION. 


IT  was  a  sweet  carol,  which  the  Rhodian  chil 
dren  sang  of  old  in  spring,  bearing  in  their  hands, 
from  door  to  door,  a  swallow,  as  herald  of  the 
season ; 

"The  swallow  is  come  ! 
The  swallow  is  come  ! 
O  fair  are  the  seasons,  and  light 
Are  the  days  that  she  brings, 
With  her  dusky  wings, 
And  her  bosom  snowy  white." 

A  pretty  carol,  too,  is  that,  which  the  Hunga 
rian  boys,  on  the  islands  of  the  Danube,  sing  to  the 
returning  stork  in  spring; 

"  Stork !  stork  !  poor  stork ! 
Why  is  thy  foot  so  bloody? 
A  Turkish  boy  hath  torn  it; 
Hungarian  boy  will  heal  it, 
With  fiddle,  fife,  and  drum." 

But  what  child  has  a  heart  to  sing  in  this  capri 
cious  clime  of  ours,  where  spring  comes  sailing  in 
I  from  the  sea,  with  wet  and  heavy  cloud-sails,  and 
i  the  misty  pennon  of  the  eastwind  nailed  to  the 
mast !  \Tet  even  here,  and  in  the  stormy  month 
of  March  even,  there  are  bright  warm  mornings, 
when  we  open  our  windows  to  inhale  the  balmy 
air.  The  pigeons  fly  to  and  fro,  and  we  hear  the 
whirring  sound  of  wings.  Old  flies  crawl  out  of 
the  cracks,  to  sun  themselves;  and  think  it  is  sum 
mer.  They  die  in  their  conceit;  and  so  do  our 
hearts  within  us,  when  the  cold  sea-breath  comes 
from  the  eastern  sea ;  and  again, 

"The  driving  hail 
Upon  the  window  beats  with  icy  flail." 

The  red-flowering  maple  is  first  in  blossom,  its 
beautiful  purple  flowers  unfolding  a  fortnight  be 
fore  the  leaves.  The  moose-wood  follows,  with 
rose-coloured  buds  and  leaves ;  and  the  dogwood, 
robed  in  the  white  of  its  own  pure  blossoms.  Then 
comes  the  sudden  rain  storm  ;  and  the  birds  fly  to 
and  fro,  and  shriek.  Where  do  they  hide  them 
selves  in  such  storms  ?  at  what  firesides  dry  their 
feathery  cloaks  ?  At  tho  fireside  of  the  great, 


HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 


499 


hospitable  sun,  to-morrow,  not  before, — they  must 
sit  in  wet  garments  until  then. 

In  all  climates  spring  is  beautiful.  In  the  south 
it  is  intoxicating,  and  sets  a  poet  beside  himself. 
The  birds  begin  to  sing ; — they  utter  a  few  raptur 
ous  notes,  and  then  wait  for  an  answer  in  the  silent 
woods.  Those  green-coated  musicians,  the  frogs, 
make  holiday  in  the  neighbouring  marshes.  They, 
too,  belong  to  the  orchestra  of  nature;  whose  vast 
theatre  is  again  opened,  though  the  doors  have  been 
so  long  bolted  with  icicles,  and  the  scenery  hung 
with  snow  and  frost,  like  cobwebs.  This  is  the 
prelude,  which  announces  the  rising  of  the  broad 
green  curtain.  Already  the  grass  shoots  forth. 
The  waters  leap  with  thrilling  pulse  through  the 
veins  of  the  earth ;  the  sap  through  the  veins  of  the 
plants  and  trees ;  and  the  blood  through  the  veins 
of  man.  What  a  thrill  of  delight  in  spring-time  ! 
What  a  joy  in  being  and  moving !  Men  are  at 
work  in  gardens ;  and  in  the  air  there  is  an  odour 
of  the  fresh  earth.  The  leaf-buds  begin  to  swell 
and  blush.  The  white  blossoms  of  the  cherry  hang 
upon  the  boughs  like  snow-flakes,  and  ere  long  our 
next-door  neighbours  will  be  completely  hidden 
from  us  by  the  dense  green  foliage.  The  May 
flowers  open  their  soft  blue  eyes.  Children  are 
let  loose  in  the  fields  and  gardens.  They  hold  but 
ter-cups  under  each  others'  chins,  to  see  if  they 
love  butter.  And  the  little  girls  adorn  themselves 
with  chains  and  curls  of  dandelions  ;  pull  out  the 
yellow  leaves  to  see  if  the  schoolboy  loves  them, 
and  blow  the  down  from  the  leafless  stalk,  to  find 
out  if  their  mothers  want  them  at  home. 

And  at  night  so  cloudless  and  so  still !  Not  a 
voice  of  living  thing, — not  a  whisper  of  leaf  or 
waving  bough, — not  a  breath  of  wind, — not  a  sound 
upon  the  earth  nor  in  the  air!  And  overhead 
bends  the  blue  sky,  dewy  and  soft,  and  radiant 
with  innumerable  stars,  like  the  inverted  bell  of 
some  blue  flower,  sprinkled  with  golden  dust,  and 
breathing  fragrance.  Or  if  the  heavens  are  over 
cast,  it  is  no  wild  storm  of  wind  and  rain ;  but 
clouds  that  melt  and  fall  in  showers.  One  does 
not  wish  to  sleep;  but  lies  awake  to  hear  the 
pleasant  sound  of  the  dropping  rain. 


SUMMER-TIME. 

FROM   THE  SAME. 

THEY  were  right, — those  old  Geiman  minnesin 
gers, — to  sing  the  pleasant  summer-time!  What 
a  time  it  is!  How  June  stands  illuminated  in  the 
calendar  !  The  windows  are  all  wide  open ;  only 
the  Venetian  blinds  closed.  Here  and  there  a  long 
streak  of  sunshine  streams  in  through  a  crevice. 
We  hear  the  low  sound  of  the  wind  among  the 
trees ;  and,  as  it  swells  and  freshens,  the  distant 
doors  clap  to,  with  a  sudden  sound.  The  trees 
are  heavy  with  leaves;  and  the  gardens  full  of 
blossoms,  red  and  white.  The  whole  atmosphere 
is  laden  with  perfume  and  sunshine.  The  birds 
sing.  The  cock  struts  about,  and  crows  loftily. 
Insects  chirp  in  the  grass.  Yellow  butter-cups 
stud  the  green  carpet  like  golden  buttons,  and 


the  red  blossoms  of  the  clover  like  rubies.  The 
elm-trees  reach  their  long,  pendulous  branches  al 
most  to  the  ground.  White  clouds  sail  aloft; 
and  vapours  fret  the  blue  sky  with  silver  threads. 
The  white  village  gleams  afar  against  the  dark 
hills.  Through  the  meadow  winds  the  river, — 
careless,  indolent.  It  seems  to  love  the  country, 
and  is  in  no  haste  to  reach  the  sea.  The  bee 
only  is  at  work, — the  hot  and  angry  bee.  All 
things  else  are  at  play ;  he  never  plays,  and  is 
vexed  that  any  one  should. 

People  drive  out  from  town  to  breathe,  and  to 
be  happy.  Most  of  them  have  flowers  in  their 
hands ;  bunches  of  apple-blossoms,  and  still  oftener 
lilacs.  Ye  denizens  of  the  crowded  city,  how  plea 
sant  to  you  is  the  change  from  the  sultry  streets 
to  the  open  fields,  fragrant  with  clover-blossoms ! 
how  pleasant  the  fresh  breezy  country  air,  dashed 
with  brine  from  the  meadows !  how  pleasant,  above 
all,  the  flowers,  the  manifold  beautiful  flowers ! 

It  is  no  longer  day.  Through  the  trees  rises 
the  red  moon,  and  the  stars  are  scarcely  seen.  In 
the  vast  shadow  of  night,  the  coolness  and  the 
dews  descend.  I  sit  at  the  open  window  to  enjoy 
them ;  and  hear  only  the  voice  of  the  summer 
wind.  Like  black  hulks,  the  shadows  of  the  great 
trees  ride  at  anchor  on  the  billowy  sea  of  grass.  I 
cannot  see  the  red  and  blue  flowers,  but  I  know 
that  they  are  there.  Far  away  in  the  meadow 
gleams  the  silver  Charles.  The  tramp  of  horses' 
hoofs  sounds  from  the  wooden  bridge.  Then  all 
is  still,  save  the  continuous  wind  of  the  summer 
night.  Sometimes  I  know  not  if  it  be  the  wind 
or  the  sound  of  the  neighbouring  sea.  The  village 
clock  strikes ;  and  I  feel  that  I  am  not  alone. 

How  different  is  it  in  the  city  !  It  is  late,  and 
the  crowd  is  gone.  You  step  out  upon  the  balco 
ny,  and  lie  in  the  very  bosom  of  the  cool,  dewy 
night,  as  if  you  folded  her  garments  about  you. 
The  whole  starry  heaven  is  spread  out  overhead. 
Beneath  lies  the  public  walk  with  trees,  like  a 
fathomless,  black  gulf,  into  whose  silent  darkness 
the  spirit  plunges  and  floats  away,  with  some  be 
loved  spirit  clasped  in  its  embrace.  The  lamps 
are  still  burning  up  and  down  the  long  street. 
People  go  by,  with  grotesque  shadows,  now  fore 
shortened  and  now  lengthening  away  into  the  dark 
ness  and  vanishing,  while  a  new  one  springs  up 
behind  the  walker,  and  seems  to  pass  him  on  the 
sidewalk.  The  iron  gates  of  the  park  shut  with  a 
jangling  clang.  There  are  footsteps,  and  loud 
voices, — tumult, — a  drunken  brawl, — an  alarm  of 
fire  ; — then  silence  again.  And  now  at  length  the 
city  is  asleep,  and  we  can  see  the  night.  The  be 
lated  moon  looks  over  the  roofs,  and  finds  no  one 
to  welcome  her.  The  moonlight  is  broken.  It 
lies  here  and  there  in  the  squares,  and  the  opening 
of  streets, — angular,  like  blocks  of  white  marble. 


TELL  me,  my  soul,  why  art  thou  restless  1  Why 
dost  thou  look  forward  to  the  future  with  such 
strong  desire?  The  present  is  thine,— and  the 
past ; — and  the  future  shall  be ! 


500 


HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 


LIVES   OF  SCHOLARS. 

FROM   THE  SAME. 

WHAT  a  strange  picture  a  university  presents  to 
the  imagination.  The  lives  of  scholars  in  their 
cloistered  stillness; — literary  men  of  retired  habits, 
and  professors  who  study  sixteen  hours  a  day,  and 
never  see  the  world  but  on  a  Sunday.  Nature 
has,  no  doubt,  for  some  wise  purpose,  placed  in 
their  hearts  this  love  of  literary  labour  and  seclu 
sion.  Otherwise,  who  would  feed  the  undying 
lamp  of  thought]  But  for  such  men  as  these,  a 
blast  of  wind  through  the  chinks  and  crannies  of 
this  old  world,  or  the  flapping  of  a  conqueror's 
banner,  would  blow  it  out  for  ever.  The  light  of 
the  soul  is  easily  extinguished.  And  whenever  I 
reflect  upon  these  things  I  become  aware  of  the 
great  importance,  in  a  nation's  history,  of  the  indi 
vidual  fame  of  scholars  and  literary  men.  I  fear, 
that  it  is  far  greater  than  the  world  is  willing  to 
acknowledge;  or, -perhaps,  I  should  say,  than  the 
world  has  thought  of  acknowledging.  Blot  out 
from  England's  history  the  names  of  Chaucer, 
Shakspeare,  Spenser,  and  Milton  only,  and  how 
much  of  her  glory  would  you  blot  out  with  them ! 
Take  from  Italy  such  names  as  Dante,  Petrarch, 
Boccaccio,  Michel  Angelo,  and  Raphael,  and  how 
much  would  still  be  wanting  to  the  completeness 
of  her  glory !  How  would  the  history  of  Spain 
look  if  the  leaves  were  torn  out,  on  which  are  written 
the  names  of  Cervantes,  Lope  de  Vega,  and  Cal- 
deron!  What  would  be  the  fame  of  Portugal, 
without  her  Camoens;  of  France,  without  her 
Racine,  and  Rabelais,  and  Voltaire ;  or  Germany, 
without  her  Martin  Luther,  her  Goethe,  and  Schil 
ler  ! — Nay,  what  were  the  nations  of  old,  without 
their  philosophers,  poets,  and  historians !  Tell 
me,  do  not  these  men  in  all  ages  and  in  all  places, 
mblazon  with  bright  colours  the  armorial  bearings 
of  their  country  ]  Yes,  and  far  more  than  this ; 
for  in  all  ages  and  all  places  they  give  humanity 
assurance  of  its  greatness ;  and  say,  Call  not  this 
time  or  people  wholly  barbarous ;  for  thus  much, 
even  then  and  there,  could  the  human  rnind 
achieve !  But  the  boisterous  world  has  hardly 
thought  of  acknowledging  all  this.  Therein  it  has 
shown  itself  somewhat  ungrateful.  Else,  whence 
the  great  reproach,  the  general  scorn,  the  loud  de 
rision,  with  which,  to  take  a  familiar  example,  the 
monks  of  the  middle  ages  are  regarded.  That 
they  slept  their  lives  away  is  most  untrue.  For  in 
an  age  when  books  were  few, — so  few,  so  precious, 
that  they  were  often  chained  to  their  oaken  shelves 
with  iron  chains,  like  galley-slaves  to  their  benches, 
these  men,  with  their  laborious  hands,  copied  upon 
parchment  all  the  lore  and  wisdom  of  the  past,  and 
transmitted  it  to  us.  Perhaps  it  is  not  too  much 
to  say,  that,  but  for  these  monks,  not  one  line  of 
the  classics  would  have  reached  our  day.  Surely, 
then,  we  can  pardon  something  to  those  supersti 
tious  ages,  perhaps  even  the  mysticism  of  the  scho 
lastic  philosophy,  since,  after  all,  we  can  find  no 
harm  in  it,  only  the  mistaking  of  the  possible  for 
the  real,  and  the  high  aspirings  of  the  human  mind 


after  a  long-sought  and  unknown  somewhat.  I 
think  the  name  of  Martin  Luther,  the  monk  of 
Wittemberg,  alone  sufficient  to  redeem  all  monk 
hood  from  the  reproach  of  laziness !  If  this  will 
not,  perhaps  the  vast  folios  of  Thomas  Aquinas 
will ; — or  the  countless  manuscripts,  still  treasured 
in  old  libraries,  whose  yellow  and  wrinkled  pages 
remind  one  of  the  hands  that  wrote  them,  and  the 
faces  that  once  bent  over  them. 


WHERE  SHOULD  THE  SCHOLAR  LIVE? 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

WHERE  should  the  scholar  live  ?  In  solitude 
or  in  society  1  In  the  green  stillness  of  the  coun 
try,  where  he  can  hear  the  heart  of  nature  beat, 
or  in  the  dark,  gray  city,  where  he  can  hear  and 
feel  the  throbbing  heart  of  man  1  I  will  make  an 
swer  for  him,  and  say,  in  the  dark  gray  city.  Oh, 
they  do  greatly  err,  who  think,  that  the  stars  are 
all  the  poetry  which  cities  have  ;  and  therefore  that 
the  poet's  only  dwelling  should  be  in  sylvan  soli 
tudes,  under  the  green  roof  of  trees.  Beautiful, 
no  doubt,  are  all  the  forms  of  nature,  when  trans 
figured  by  the  miraculous  power  of  poetry ;  ham 
lets  and  harvest  fields,  and  nut-brown  waters,  flow 
ing  ever  under  the  forest,  vast  and  shadowy,  with 
all  the  sights  and  sounds  of  rural  life.  But  after 
all,  what  are  these  but  the  decorations  and  painted 
scenery  in  the  great  theatre  of  human  life  1  What 
are  they  but  the  coarse  materials  of  the  poet's  song? 
Glorious  indeed,  is  the  world  of  God  around  us,  but 
more  glorious  the  world  of  God  within  us.  There 
lies  the  land  of  song ;  there  lies  the  poet's  native 
land.  The  river  of  life,  that  flows  through  streets 
tumultuous,  bearing  along  so  many  gallant  hearts, 
so  many  wrecks  of  humanity ; — the  many  homes 
and  households,  each  a  little  world  in  itself,  revolv 
ing  round  its  fireside,  as  a  central  sun ;  all  forms 
of  human  joy  and  suffering,  brought  into  that  nar 
row  compass ; — and  to  be  in  this  and  be  a  part  of 
this;  acting,  thinking,  rejoicing,  sorrowing,  with 
his  fellow-men ; — -such,  such  should  be  the  poet's 
life.  If  he  would  describe  the  world,  he  should 
live  in  the  world.  The  mind  of  the  scholar,  also, 
if  you  would  have  it  large  and  liberal,  should  come 
in  contact  with  other  minds.  It  is  better  that  his 
armour  should  be  somewhat  bruised  even  by  rude 
encounters,  than  hang  for  ever  rusting  on  the  wall. 
Nor  will  his  themes  be  few  or  trivial,  because  ap 
parently  shut  in  between  the  walls  of  houses,  and 
having  merely  the  decorations  of  street  scenery. 
A  ruined  character  is  as  picturesque  as  a  ruined 
castle.  There  are  dark  abysses  and  yawning  gulfs 
in  the  human  heart,  which  can  be  rendered  passa 
ble  only  by  bridging  them  over  with  iron  nerves 
and  sinews,  as  Challey  bridged  the  Savine  in  Swit 
zerland,  and  Telford  the  sea  between  Anglesea  and 
England,  with  chain  bridges.  These  are  the  great 
themes  of  human  thought;  not  green  grass,  and 
flowers,  and  moonshine.  Besides,  the  mere  ex 
ternal  forms  of  nature  we  make  our  own,  and  car 
ry  with  us  into  the  city,  by  the  power  of  memory. 


HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 


501 


MEN  OF  GENIUS. 

FROM  THE   SAME. 


IT  has  become  a  common  saying,  that  men  of 
genius  are  always  in  advance  of  their  age  ;  which 
is  true.  There  is  something  equally  true,  yet  not 
so  common;  namely,  that,  of  these  men  of  genius, 
fhe  best  and  bravest  are  in  advance  not  only  of 
their  own  age,  but  of  every  age.  As  the  German 
prose  poet  says,  every  possible  future  is  behind 
them.  We  cannot  suppose,  that  a  period  of  time 
will  ever  come,  when  the  world,  or  any  consider 
able  portion  of  it,  shall  have  come  up  abreast  with 
these  great  minds,  so  as  fully  to  comprehend  them. 
And  oh  !  how  majestically  they  walk  in  history  ; 
some  like  the  sun,  with  all  his  travelling  glories 
round  him;  others  wrapped  in  gloom,  yet  glorious 
as  a  night  with,  stars.  Through  the  else  silent 
darkness  of  the  past,  the  spirit  hears  their  slow  and 
solemn  footsteps.  Onward  they  pass,  like  those 
hoary  elders  seen  in  the  sublime  vision  of  an  earth 
ly  paradise,  attendant  angels  bearing  golden  lights 
before  them,  and,  above  and  behind,  the  whole  air 
painted  with  seven  listed  colours,  as  from  the  trail 
of  pencils  ! 

And  yet,  on  earth,  these  men  were  not  happy, 
—  not  all  happy,  in  the  outward  circumstance  of 
their  lives.  They  were  in  want,  and  in  pain,  and 
familiar  with  prison  bars,  and  the  damp,  weeping 
walls  of  dungeons  !  Oh,  I  have  looked  with  won 
der  upon  those,  who,  in  sorrow  and  privation,  and 
bodily  discomfort,  and  sickness,  which  is  the  sha 
dow  of  death,  have  worked  right  on  to  the  accom 
plishment  of  their  great  purposes  ;  toiling  much, 
enduring  much,  fulfilling  much  ;  —  and  then,  with 
shattered  nerves,  and  sinews  all  unstrung,  have 
laid  themselves  down  in  the  grave,  and  slept  the 
sleep  of  death,  —  and  the  world  talks  of  them,  while 
they  sleep. 

It  would  seem,  indeed,  as  if  all  their  sufferings 
had  but  sanctified  them  !  As  if  the  death-angel, 
in  passing,  had  touched  them  with  the  hem  of  his 
garment,  and  made  them  holy  !  As  if  the  hand 
of  disease  had  been  stretched  out  over  them  only 
to  make  the  sign  of  the  cross  upon  their  souls. 
And  as  in  the  sun's  eclipse  we  can  behold  the  great 
stars  shining  in  the  heavens,  so  in  this  life  eclipse 
have  these  men  beheld  the  lights  of  the  great  eter 
nity,  burning  solemnly  and  for  ever  ! 


LIFE. 

FROM  THE   SAME. 

LIFE  is  one,  and  universal  ;  its  forms  many  and 
individual.  Throughout  this  beautiful  arid  won 
derful  creation  there  is  never-ceasing  motion,  with 
out  rest  by  night  or  day,  ever  weaving  to  and  fro. 
Swifter  than  a  weaver's  shuttle  it  flies  from  birth 
to  death,  from  death  to  birth  ;  from  the  beginning 
seeks  the  end,  and  finds  it  not,  for  the  seeming 
end  is  only  a  dim  beginning  of  a  new  out-going 
and  endeavour  after  the  end.  As  the  ice  upon  the 
mountain,  when  the  warm  breath  of  the  summer's 
sun  breathes  upon  it,  melts,  and  divides  into  drops, 


each  of  which  reflects  an  image  of  the  sun ;  so 
life,  in  the  smile  of  God's  love,  divides  itself  into 
separate  forms,  each  bearing  in  it  and  reflecting  an 
image  of  God's  love.     Of  all  these  forms  the  high 
est  and  most  perfect  in  its  god-likeness  is  the  hu 
man  soul.     The  vast  cathedral  of  nature  is  full  of 
holy  scriptures,  and  shapes  of  deep,  mysterious 
meaning ;  but  all  is  solitary  and  silent  there ;  no 
bending  knee,  no  uplifted  eye,  no  lip  adoring,  pray 
ing.     Into  this  vast  cathedral  comes  the  human 
soul,  seeking  its  Creator;  and  the  universal  silence 
is  changed  to  sound,  and  the  sound  is  harmonious, 
and  has  a  meaning,  and  is  comprehended  and  felt. 
It  was  an  ancient  saying  of  the  Persians,  that  the 
waters  rush  from  the  mountains  and  hurry  forth 
into  all  the  lands  to  find  the  lord  of  the  earth ;  and 
the  flame  of  the  fire,  when  it  awakes,  gazes  no 
more  upon  the  ground,  but  mounts  heavenward  to 
seek  the  lord  of  heaven ;  and  here  and  there  the 
earth  has  built  the  great  watch-towers  of  the  moun 
tains,  and  they  lift  their  heads  far  up  into  the  sky, 
and  gaze  ever  upward  and  around,  to  see  if  the 
Judge  of  the  World  comes  not !     Thus  in  nature 
herself,  without  man,  there  lies  a  waiting,  and 
hoping,  a  looking  and  yearning,  after  an  unknown 
somewhat.     Yes;  when,  above  there,  where  the 
mountain  lifts  its  head  over  all  others,  that  it  may 
be  alone  with  the  clouds  and  storms  of  heaven, 
the  lonely  eagle  looks  forth  into  the  gray  dawn,  to 
see  if  the  day  comes  not !  when,  by  the  mountain 
torrent,  the  brooding  raven  listens  to  hear  if  the 
chamois  is  returning  from  his  nightly  pasture  in 
the  valley ;  and  when  the  soon  uprising  sun  call 
out  the  spicy  odours  of  the  thousand  flowers,  th 
Alpine  flowers,  with  heaven's  deep,  blue  and  th 
blush  of  sunset  on  their  leaves; — then  there  awake 
in  nature,  and  the  soul  of  man  can  see  and  com 
prehend  it,  an  expectation  and  a  longing  for  a  fu 
ture  revelation  of  God's  majesty.    It  awakens,  also, 
when  in  the  fulness  of  life,  field  and  forest  rest  at 
noon,  and  through  the  stillness  is  heard  only  the 
song  of  the  grasshopper  and  the  hum  of  the  bee ; 
and  when  at  evening  the  singing  lark,  up  from  the 
sweet-swelling  vineyards  rises,  or  in  the  later  hours 
of  night  Orion  puts  on  his  shining  armour,  to  walk 
forth  in  the  fields  of  heaven.     But  in  the  soul  of 
man  alone  is  this  longing  changed  to  certainty  and 
fulfilled.     For  lo !  the  light  of  the  sun  and  the 
stars  shines  through  the  air,  and  is  nowhere  visible 
and  seen ;  the  planets  hasten  with  more  than  the 
speed  of  the  storm  through  infinite  space,  and  their 
footsteps  are  not   heard,  but  where  the  sunlight 
strikes  the  firm  surface  of  the  planets,  where  the 
stormwind  smites  the  wall  of  the  mountain  cliff, 
there  is  the  one  seen  and  the  other  heard.     Thus 
is  the  glory  of  God  made  visible,  and  may  be  seen, 
where  in  the  soul  of  men  it  meets  its  likeness 
changeless  and  firm-standing.     Thus,  then,  stands 
man ; — a  mountain  on  the  boundary  between  two 
worlds; — its  foot  in  one,  its  summit  far-rising  into 
!  the  other.     From  this  summit  the  manifold  land- 
i  scape  of  life  is  visible,  the  way  of  the  past  and  pe- 
;  rishable,  which  we  have  left  behind  us ;  and,  as 
;  we  evermore  ascend,  bright  glimpses  of  the  day- 
i  break  of  eternity  beyond  us  ' 


502 


HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 


PAUL  FLEMMING  RESOLVES. 

FROM  THE   SAME. 

AND  now  the  sun  was  growing  high  and  warm. 
A  little  chapel,  whose  door  stood  open,  seemed  to 
invite  Flemming  to  enter  and  enjoy  the  grateful 
coolness.  He  went  in.  There  was  no  one  there. 
The  walls  were  covered  with  paintings  and  sculp 
ture  of  the  rudest  kind,  and  with  a  few  funeral  tab 
lets.  There  was  nothing  there  to  move  the  heart 
to  devotion ;  but  in  that  hour  the  heart  of  Flem 
ming  was  weak, — weak  as  a  child's.  He  bowed 
his  stubborn  knees  and  wept.  And  oh  !  how  many 
disappointed  hopes,  how  many  bitter  recollections, 
how  much  of  wounded  pride,  and  unrequited  love, 
were  in  those  tears,  through  which  he  read  on  a 
marble  tablet  in  the  chapel  wall  opposite,  this  sin 
gular  inscription  : — 

"  Look  not  mournfully  into  the  past :  It  comes 
not  back  again.  Wisely  improve  the  present :  It 
is  thine.  Go  forth  to  meet  the  shadowy  future, 
without  fear,  and  with  a  manly  heart." 

It  seemed  to  him,  as  if  the  unknown  tenant  of 
that  grave  had  opened  his  lips  of  dust,  and  spoken 
to  him  the  words  of  consolation,  which  his  soul 
needed,  and  which  no  friend  had  yet  spoken.  In 
a  moment  the  anguish  of  his  thoughts  was  still. 
The  stone  was  rolled  away  from  the  door  of  his 
heart;  death  was  no  longer  there,  but  an  angel 
clothed  in  white.  He  stood  up,  and  his  eyes  were 
no  more  bleared  with  tears ;  and,  looking  into  the 
bright,  morning  heaven,  he  said : — 

"  I  will  be  strong  !" 

Men  sometimes  go  down  into  tombs,  with  pain 
ful  longings  to  behold  once  more  the  faces  of  their 
departed  friends;  and  as  they  gaze  upon  them, 
lying  there  so  peacefully  with  the  semblance  that 
they  wore  on  earth,  the  sweet  breath  of  heaven 
touches  them,  and  the  features  crumble  and  fall 
together,  and  are  but  dust.  So  did  his  soul  then 
descend  for  the  last  time  into  the  great  tomb  of 
the  past,  with  painful  longings  to  behold  once  more 
the  dear  faces  of  those  he  had  loved ;  and  the  sweet 
breath  of  heaven  touched  them,  and  they  would  not 
stay,  but  crumbled  away  and  perished  as  he  gazed. 
They,  too,  were  dust.  And  thus,  far-sounding, 
he  heard  the  great  gate  of  the  past  shut  behind 
him  as  the  divine  poet  did  the  gate  of  paradise; 
when  the  angel  pointed  him  the  way  up  the  holy 
mountain ;  and  to  him  likewise  was  it  forbidden 
to  look  back. 

In  the  life  of  every  man,  there  are  sudden  tran 
sitions  of  feeling,  which  seem  almost  miraculous. 
At  once,  as  if  some  magician  had  touched  the  hea 
vens  and  the  earth,  the  dark  clouds  melt  into  the 
air,  the  wind  falls,  and  serenity  succeeds  the  storm. 
The  causes  which  produce  these  sudden  changes 
may  have  been  long  at  work  within  us,  but  the 
changes  themselves  are  instantaneous,  and  appa 
rently  without  sufficient  cause.  It  was  so  with 
Flemming  and  from  that  hour  forth  he  resolved, 


that  he  would  no  longer  veer  with  every  shifting 
wind  of  circumstance;  no  longer  be  a  child's  play 
thing  in  the  hands  of  fate,  which  we  ourselves  do 
make  or  mar.  He  resolved  henceforward  not  to 
lean  on  others ;  but  to  walk  self-confident  and  self- 
possessed  ;  no  longer  to  waste  his  years  in  vain 
regrets,  nor  wait  the  fulfilment  of  boundless  hopes 
and  indiscreet  desires ;  but  to  live  in  the  present 
wisely,  alike  forgetful  of  the  past,  and  careless  of 
what  the  mysterious  future  might  bring.  And 
from  that  moment  he  was  calm,  and  strong ;  he 
was  reconciled  with  himself!  His  thoughts  turned 
to  his  distant  home  beyond  the  sea.  An  inde 
scribable,  sweet  feeling  rose  within  him. 

«  Thither  will  I  turn  my  wandering  footsteps," 
said  he;  "and  be  a  man  among  men,  and  no 
longer  a  dreamer  among  shadows.  Henceforth  be 
mine  a  life  of  action  and  reality  !  I  will  work  in 
my  own  sphere,  nor  wish  it  other  than  it  is.  This 
alone  is  health  and  happiness.  This  alone  is  life. 

'  Life  that  shall  send 
A  challenge  to  its  end, 
And  when  it  comes,  say,  Welcome,  friend !' 

Why  have  I  not  made  these  sage  reflections,  this 
wise  resolve,  sooner  1  Can  such  a  simple  result 
spring  only  from  the  long  and  intricate  process  of 
experience  ]  Alas !  it  is  not  till  time,  with  reck 
less  hand,  has  torn  out  half  the  leaves  from  the 
book  of  human  life,  to  light  the  fires  of  passion 
with,  from  day  to  day,  that  man  begins  to  see,  that 
the  leaves  which  remain  are  few  in  number,  and 
to  remember,  faintly  at  first,  and  then  more  clearly, 
that,  upon  the  earlier  pages  of  that  book,  was 
written  a  story  of  happy  innocence,  which  he  would 
fain  read  over  again.  Then  come  listless  irreso 
lution,  and  the  inevitable  inaction  of  despair;  or 
else  the  firm  resolve  to  record  upon  the  leaves  that 
still  remain,  a  more  noble  history  than  the  child's 
story,  with  which  the  book  began." 


THE  GLACIER  OF  THE  RHONE. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 


ERE  long  he  reached  the  magnificent  glacier  ot 
the  Rhone ;  a  frozen  cataract,  more  than  two  thou 
sand  feet  in  height,  and  many  miles  broad  at  its 
base.  It  fills  the  whole  valley  between  two  moun 
tains,  running  back  to  their  summits.  At  the  base 
it  is  arched,  like  a  dome;  and  above,  jagged  and 
rough,  and  resembles  a  mass  of  gigantic  crystals, 
of  a  pale  emerald  tint,  mingled  with  white.  A 
snowy  crust  covers  its  surface ;  but  at  every  rent 
and  crevice  the  pale  green  ice  shines  clear  in  the 
sun.  Its  shape  is  that  of  a  glove,  lying  with  the 
palm  downwards,  and  the  fingers  crooked  and  close 
together.  It  is  a  gauntlet  of  ice,  which,  centuries 
ago,  winter,  the  king  of  these  mountains,  threw 
down  in  defiance  to  the  sun  ;  and  year  by  year  the 
sun  strives  in  vain  to  lift  it  from  the  ground  on  the 
point  of  his  glittering  spear. 


WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS. 


fBorn  1806.  Died  1870.J 


THIS  industrious  and  prolific  author  is  a  na 
tive  of  Charleston.  His  mother  died  while 
he  was  an  infant,  and  his  father,  failing  soon 
after  as  a  merchant,  emigrated  to  the  western 
country,  leaving  him  to  the  care  of  an  aged 
grandmother,  with  a  small  maternal  property, 
which  she  hoarded  so  carefully  as  to  withhold 
the  appropriations  necessary  for  his  education. 
He  received  therefore  no  other  instruction 
than  such  as  are  given  in  one  of  the  grammar 
schools  of  the  city,  which  constitutional  fee 
bleness  and  frequent  confinement  by  sickness 
prevented  him  from  attending  with  much  regu 
larity.  Ill  health  however  had  its  advantages. 
Incapable  of  joining  in  the  more  hardy  sports 
of  his  age,  he  was  driven  to  books  for  amuse 
ment,  and  read  with  never-failing  zest  whatever 
came  in  his  way,  of  poetry,  romance,  biography, 
or  history,  and  with  particular  avidity  gleaned 
from  travels  and  tradition  all  that  related  to 
the  colonial  and  revolutionary  periods  in  the 
Carolinas.  He  grew  apace,  in  physical  and 
intellectual  strength,  wrote  for  the  press  on 
all  varieties  of  subjects,  and  on  his  twenty- 
first  birthday,  was  admitted  to  practise  in  the 
courts  of  Charleston  as  an  attorney  and  coun 
sellor  at  law. 

Mr.  Simms  published  his  first  book,  Lyri 
cal  and  Other  Poems,  in  1825,  when  he  was 
about  eighteen  years  of  age.  It  was  followed 
in  1827  by  Early  Lays,  in  1829  by  The  Vision 
of  Cortez  and  other  Poems,  and  in  1830  by  The 
Tri-Color,  or  Three  Days  of  Blood  in  Paris. 
There  are  gleams  of  sunshine  in  all  these 
youthful  essays,  and  some  of  the  songs  and 
other  short  pieces  have  a  dash  and  spirit,  and 
genuine  feeling  in  them  which  promised  much 
from  a  judicious  culture  ;  but  he  had  not  even 
then  patience  for  revision,  and  perhaps  his  best 
performances  should  be  regarded  as  below  the 
level  of  his  powers. 

As  soon  as  Mr.  Simms  came  into  posses 
sion  of  his  inherited  property  he  purchased 
The  Charleston  City  Gazette,  and  with  am 
bition,  energy,  and  confidence,  entered  upon 
the  difficult  profession  of  an  editor.  It  was 
an  unfortunate  period  for  the  experiment,  and 


doubly  so  for  one  of  his  principles,  and  unhe 
sitating  independence  of  character.  He  was 
a  Unionist,  and  for  a  considerable  period  his 
paper  was  the  only  one  in  the  state  to  breast 
the  storm  of  Nullification.  His  failure,  un 
der  the  circumstances,  was  a  matter  of  course. 
At  the  end  of  a  few  years  he  found  that  he 
had  exhausted  his  pecuniary  resources  and  in 
volved  himself  in  debt.  He  disposed  of  his 
establishment,  therefore,  and  nothing  daunted 
by  the  past,  decided  suddenly  and  finally  upon 
his  future  pursuits.  It  was  a  bold  undertak 
ing,  but  he  determined  to  retrieve  his  fortune 
by  literature,  and  immediately  entered  upon 
measures  of  preparation. 

By  this  time  he  had  lost  his  father,  and  his 
wife,  whom  he  had  married  before  he  was  of 
age.  He  had  made  two  long  journeys  through 
the  south  and  west,  impressing  on  his  mind 
views  of  their  wildest  and  most  beautiful 
scenery,  to  be  transferred  to  the  pages  of 
dreamed-of  poems  and  romances,  and  in  the 
spring  of  1832  he  visited  for  the  first  time  the 
north.  After  travelling  through  the  most  in 
teresting  portions  of  the  country  he  paused  at 
the  rural  village  of  Hingham,  in  Massachu 
setts,  and  there  prepared  for  the  press  the 
longest  and  best  of  his  poems,  Atalantis,  a 
Story  of  the  Sea,  which  was  published  in  the 
following  winter  in  New  York.  This  was 
succeeded  in  1833  by  Martin  Faber,  the  Story 
of  a  Criminal,*  and  the  Book  of  my  Lady ;  in 

1834  by  Guy  Rivers,  a  Tale  of  Georgia;  in 

1835  by  The  Yemasee,  a  Romance  of  Caro 
lina,  and  The  Partisan,  a  Tale  of  the  Revolu 
tion  ;  in  1836  by  Mellichampe,  a  Legend  of 
the  Santee;  in  1837  by  a  collection  of  Tales 

*  Martin  Faber,  a  gloomy  and  passionate  tale,  ap 
peared  soon  alter  the  English  novel  entitled  Misserimus, 
and  was  instantly  declared  by  reviewers  here  and 
abroad  to  be  an  imitation  of  that  work.  But  they  were 
at  fault  in  this,  as  they  are  in  nine-tenths  of  this  sort  of 
charges.  Martin  Faber  was  expanded  from  a  tale,  which 
Mr.  Simms  published  ten  years  before,  in  a  magazine  in 
Charleston,  containing  all  the  distinguishing  traits  and 
scenes  of  the  subsequent  romance.  It  belongs  to  the  fa 
mily  of  which  Godwin's  Caleb  Williams  is  the  best  known 
model ;  but  those  who  read  the  two  works  will  fail  to  find 
any  imitation  on  the  part  of  the  American  author. 

503 


504 


WILLIAM    GILMORE    SIMMS. 


published  with  a  new  edition  of  Martin  Faber; 
in  1838  by  Pelayo  a  Story  of  the  Goth,  Ri 
chard  Hurdis  or  the  Avenger  of  Blood,  a  Tale 
of  Alabama,  and  Carl  Werner,  with  other  Tales 
•  of  the  Imagination  ;  in  1839  by  The  Damsel  of 
Darien,  and  Southern  Passages  and  Pictures,  a 
collection  of  poems  ;  in  1840  by  Border  Bea 
gles,  a  Tale  of  Mississippi,  and  The  History 
of  South  Carolina;  in  1841  by  The  Kinsmen 
or  the  Black  Riders  of  the  Congaree,  and 
Confession  or  the  Blind  Heart,  a  Domestic 
Story ;  in  1842  by  Beauchampe  or  the  Ken 
tucky  Tragedy,  a  Tale  of  Passion;  in  1843 
by  Donna  Florida,  a  Tale,  (in  four  cantos ;) 
in  1844  by  the  Life  and  Times  of  Francis 
Marion ;  in  1845  by  Grouped  Thoughts  and 
Scattered  Fancies,  a  collection  of  sonnets, 
Helen  Halsey  or  the  Swamp  State  of  Cone- 
lachita,  a  Tale  of  the  Borders,  Castle  Dismal 
or  the  Bachelor's  Christmas,  a  Domestic  Le 
gend,  The  Wigwam  and  the  Cabin,  a  collec 
tion  of  tales,  and  Views  and  Reviews  of  Ame 
rican  Literature,  History,  and  Fiction;  in  1846 
by  Count  Julian,  the  Last  Days  of  the  Goth, 
Ayretos,  or  Songs  of  the  South,  second  series 
of  The  Wigwam  and  the  Cabin,  second  series 
of  Views  and  Reviews  of  American  Literature, 
History  and  Fiction,  and  the  Life  of  John 
Smith,  the  founder  of  Virginia.  We  have  here 
of  poetry :  Lyrical  and  other  Poems,  Early 
Lays,  The  Vision  of  Cortez,  The  Tri-Color, 
Atalantis,  Southern  Passages  and  Pictures, 
Donna  Florida,  Grouped  Thoughts  and  Scat 
tered  Fancies,  and  Ayretos,  &c.  14  volumes  ; 
of  the  more  purely  imaginative  fiction  :  The 
Book  of  My  Lady,  Martin  Faber,  Carl  Wer 
ner,  Castle  Dismal,  The  Wigwam  and  the 
Cabin, — eight  volumes;  of  domestic  border 
novels:  Guy  Rivers,  Richard  Hurdis,  Border 
Beagles,  Beauchampe,  Helen  Halsey, — nine 
volumes;  of  historical  romance:  The  Yema- 
see,  Damsel  of  Darien,  Pelayo,  Count  Julian, 
—eight  volumes;  of  revolutionary  stories: 

of  some  of  his  works,  a  number  of  editions 
have  appeared,  others  he  has  suppressed,  some 
have  been  republished  in  England,  and  several 
have  been  translated  into  German  and  French. 
The  standard  edition  of  his  select  works  illus 
trated  by  Darley,  was  completed  in  1859,  in 
20  vols.  A  new  edition  in  cheaper  form  is  being 
published.  During  the  war  his  house  was  burnt, 
and  a  number  of  manuscripts  were  destroyed, 
which  may  account  for  his  having  published 
only  a  few  magazine  articles  since.— Ed. 


The  Partisan,  Mellichampe,  The  Kinsmen, — 
six  volumes  ;  of  history  and  biography  :  The 
History  of  South  Carolina,  The  Life  of  Ma 
rion,  The  Life  of  John  Smith, — four  volumes ; 
of  essays  and  criticism  :  Views  arid  Reviews, 
— two  volumes :  In  all  sixty-three  volumes, 
in  about  forty  years, — besides  which,  in  the 
same  period,  Mr.  Simms  has  written  much  for 
quarterly  reviews,  monthly  magazines,  and 
other  periodicals,  was  for  several  years  editor  of 
The  Magnolia,  and  its  successor,  The  South 
ern  and  Western  Monthly  Magazine,  and  has 
published  various  orations  and  addresses. 

Mr.  Simms  writes  at  times  with  great  power. 
His  descriptions  of  persons  and  places  are  of 
ten  graphic.  His  characters  have  marked  and 
generally  well-sustained  individuality,  and 
some  of  them,  particularly  of  the  Indian  and 
negro  races,  are  eminently  original.  His  no 
vels  are  interesting,  but  the  interest  arises 
more  from  situation  than  from  character.  Our 
attention  is  engrossed  by  actions,  but  we  feel 
little  sympathy  with  the  actors.  He  gives 
us  too  much  of  ruffianism.  The  coarseness 
and  villany  of  many  of  his  characters  has  no 
attraction  in  works  of  the  imagination.  If 
true  to  nature,  which  may  be  doubted,  it  is 
not  true  to  nature  as  we  love  to  contemplate 
it,  and  it  serves  no  good  purpose  in  literature. 
It  may  be  regarded  as  the  chief  fault  of  Mr. 
Simms,  that  he  does  not  discriminate  between 
what  is  irredeemably  base  and  revolting,  and 
what  by  the  hand  of  art  may  be  made  subser 
vient  to  the  exhibition  of  beauty,  which  should 
be  the  prime  aim  of  the  writer  of  poetical  and 
romantic  fiction.  Crime  is  a  cheap  element 
of  interest,  but  like  powder  or  steam  it  is  one 
of  danger  as  well  as  of  power,  to  be  used 
carefully,  by  those  familiar  with  its  possible 
effects,  and  very  rarely  by  any  except  for  the 
purposes  of  contrast  and  shadow. 

Mr.  Simms's  paintings  of  southern  border 
scenery  are  vivid  and  natural ;  but  he  has  lit 
tle  repose.  He  delights  in  action,  whether  of 
men  or  of  the  elements,  and  is  most  success 
ful  in  strife,  storm,  and  tumult.  It  is  worth 
mentioning,  that  the  German  author  Seatsfield 
has  borrowed  very  largely  from  his  works, 
and  that  whole  pages  which  he  has  translated 
almost  literally  from  Guy  Rivers,  have  been 
praised  abroad  as  superior  to  any  thing  done 
by  Americans  in  describing  their  own  country. 
The  action  of  his  novels  is  generally  rapid, 
and  the  style,  especially  of  those  in  which 


WILLIAM    GILMORE    SIMMS. 


505 


the  narrative  is  in  the  first  person,  is  vehe 
ment  and  passionate.  His  later  style  is  much 
better  than  that  with  which  he  commenced, 
but  in  all  his  prose  compositions  it  has  marks 
of  haste. 

The  shorter  stories  of  Mr.  Simms  are  his 
best  works.  They  have  unity,  completeness, 
and  strength,  and  though  not  written  with  ele 
gance,  are  comparatively  free  from  redundan 
cies  and  weighty  offences  against  taste.  The 
collection  entitled  The  Wigwam  and  the  Ca 
bin,*  is  deeply  interesting,  and  on  many  ac 
counts  must  be  regarded  as  a  valuable  contri 
bution  to  our  literature.-  Of  his  reviews  I 
think  less  favourably,  not  agreeing  with  what 
is  peculiar  in  his  principles  as  a  critic ;  but 
they  are  elaborate  and  have  uniformly  an  air 
of  independence  and  integrity. 


By  his  skill  in  analysis,  his  knowledge  of 
the  movements  of  character  and  the  secret 
springs  of  action,  his  sympathy  with  what  is 
true  and  honourable,  his  acquaintance  with 
history  and  letters,  and  his  broad  field  of  ob 
servation,  with  a  certain  philosophical  tone  of 
judging  of  men  and  measures  by  other  than 
local  and  temporary  standards,  and  the  un 
wearied  industry  by  which  in  various  depart 
ments  he  is  constantly  exhibiting  these  re- 
j  sources,  Mr.  Simms  is  entitled  to  a  large  share 
of  public  attention. 

He  had  been  several  years  a  prominent 
member  of  the  legislature,  and  in  December, 
1846,  was  defeated  by  but  one  vote  as  a  can 
didate  for  the  office  of  lieutenant-governor  of 
the  State.  He  died  at  Savannah,  June  llth, 
1870. 


GRAYLING: 
OR.    "MURDER   WILL    OUT." 

FROM  THE  WIGWAM  AND  THE  CABIN. 
CHAPTER  J. 

THK  world  has  become  monstrous  matter-of-fact 
in  latter  days.  We  can  no  longer  get  a  ghost 
story,  either  for  love  or  money.  The  materialists 
have  it  all  their  own  way ;  and  even  the  little  urchin, 
eight  years  old,  instead  of  deferring  with  decent 
reverence  to  the  opinions  of  his  grandmamma, 
now  stands  up  stoutly  for  his  own.  He  believes 
in  every  "  ology"  but  pneumatology.  "  Faust" 
and  the  "  Old  Woman  of  Berkeley"  move  his 
derision  only,  and  he  would  laugh  incredulously, 
if  he  dared,  at  the  Witch  of  Endor.  The  whole 
armoury  of  modern  reasoning' is  on  his  side;  and, 
however  he  may  admit  at  seasons  that  belief  can 
scarcely  be  counted  a  matter  of  will,  he  yet  puts 
his  veto  on  all  sorts  of  credulity.  That  cold 
blooded  demon  called  Science  has  taken  the  place 
of  all  the  other  demons.  He  has  certainly  cast 
out  innumerable  devils,  however  he  may  still  spare 
the  principal.  Whether  we  are  the  better  for  his 
intervention  is  another  question.  There  is  reason 
to  apprehend  that  in  disturbing  our  human  faith 
in  shadows,  we  have  lost  some  of  those  wholesome 
moral  restraints  which  might  have  kept  many  of 
us  virtuous,  where  the  laws  could  not. 

The  effect,  however,  is  much  the  more  seriously 
evil  in  all  that  concerns  the  romantic.  Our  story 
tellers  are  so  resolute  to  deal  in  the  real,  the  actual 
only,  that  they  venture  on  no  subjects  the  details 
of  which  are  not  equally  vulgar  and  susceptible 
of  proof.  With  this  end  in  view,  indeed,  they  too 
commonly  choose  their  subjects  among  convicted 
felons,  in  order  that  they  may  avail  themselves  of 
the  evidence  which  led  to  their  conviction ;  and,  to 

*Nos.  IV.  and  XII.  of  Wiley  &  Putnam's  Library  of 
American  Books. 

64 


prove  more  conclusively  their  devoted  adherence 
to  nature  and  the  truth,  they  depict  the  former  not 
only  in  her  condition  of  nakedness,  but  long  before 
she  has  found  out  the  springs  of  running  water. 
It  is  to  be  feared  that  some  of  the  coarseness  of 
modern  taste  arises  from  the  too  great  lack  of  that 
veneration  which  belonged  to,  and  elevated  to  dig 
nity,  even  the  errors  of  preceding  ages.  A  love 
of  the  marvellous  belongs,  it  appears  to  me,  to  all 
those  who  love  and  cultivate  either  of  the  fine 
arts.  I  very  much  doubt  whether  the  poet,  the 
painter,  the  sculptor,  or  the  romancer,  over  yet 
lived,  who  had  not  some  strong  bias — a  leaning,  at 
least, — 'to  a  belief  in  the  wonders  of  the  invisible 
world.  Certainly,  the  higher  orders  of  poets  and 
painters,  those  who  create  and  invent,  must  have 
a  strong  taint  of  the  superstitious  in  their  compo 
sition.  But  this  is  digressive,  and  leads  us  from 
our  purpose. 

It  is  so  long  since  we  have  been  suffered  to  see 
or  hear  of  a  ghost,  that  a  visitation  at  this  time 
may  have  the  effect  of  novelty,  and  I  propose  to 
narrate  a  story  which  I  heard  more  than  once  in 
my  boyhood,  from  the  lips  of  an  aged  relative, 
who  succeeded,  at  the  time,  in  making  me  believe 
every  word  of  it ;  perhaps,  for  the  simple  reason 
that  she  convinced  me  she  believed  every  word  of 
it  herself.  My  grandmother  was  an  old  lady  who 
had  been  a  resident  of  the  seat  of  most  frequent 
war  in  Carolina  during  the  Revolution.  She  had 
fortunately  survived  the  numberless  atrocities 
which  she  was  yet  compelled  to  witness;  and,  a 
keen  observer,  with  a  strong  memory,  she  had  in 
store  a  thousand  legends  of  that  stirring  period, 
which  served  to  beguile  me  from  sleep  many  and 
many  a  long  winter  night.  The  story  which  I 
propose  to  tell  was  one  of  these ;  and  when  I  say 
that  she  not  only  devoutly  believed  it  herself,  but 
that  it  was  believed  by  sundry  of  her  contempora 
ries,  who  were  themselves  privy  to  such  of  the 
2U 


506 


WILLIAM    GILMORE    SIMMS. 


circumstances  as  could  be  known  to  third  parties, 
the  gravity  with  which  I  repeat  the  legend  will  not 
be  considered  very  astonishing. 

The  revolutionary  war  had  but  a  little  while 
been  concluded.  The  British  had  left  the  coun 
try  ;  but  peace  did  not  imply  repose.  The  com 
munity  was  still  in  that  state  of  ferment  which 
was  natural  enough  to  passions,  not  yet  at  rest, 
which  had  been  brought  into  exercise  and  action 
during  the  protracted  seven  years'  struggle  through 
which  the  nation  had  just  passed.  The  state  was 
overrun  by  idlers,  adventurers,  profligates,  and 
criminals.  Disbanded  soldiers,  half-starved  and 
reckless,  occupied  the  highways, — outlaws,  emerg 
ing  from  their  hiding-places,  skulked  about  the 
settlements  with  an  equal  sentiment  of  hate  and 
fear  in  their  hearts; — patriots  were  clamouring 
for  justice  upon  the  tories,  and  sometimes  antici 
pating  its  course  by  judgments  of  their  own; 
while  the  tories,  those  against  whom  the  proofs 
were  too  strong  for  denial  or  evasion,  buckled  on 
their  armour  for  a  renewal  of  the  struggle.  Such 
being  the  condition  of  the  country,  it  may  easily 
be  supposed  that  life  and  property  lacked  many  of 
their  necessary  securities.  Men  generally  tra 
velled  with  weapons,  which  were  displayed  on  the 
smallest  provocation :  and  few  who  could  provide 
themselves  with  an  escort  ventured  to  travel  any 
distance  without  one. 

There  was,  about  this  time,  said  my  grand 
mother,  and  while  such  was  the  condition  of  the 
country,  a  family  of  the  name  of  Grayling,  that 
lived  somewhere  upon  the  skirts  of  "  Ninety-six" 
district.  Old  Grayling,  the  head  of  the  family, 
was  dead.  He  was  killed  in  Buford's  massacre. 
His  wife  was  a  fine  woman,  not  so  very  old,  who 
had  an  only  son  named  James,  and  a  little  girl, 
only  five  years  of  age,  named  Lucy.  James  was 
but  fourteen  when  his  father  was  killed,  and  that 
event  made  a  man  of  him.  He  went  out  with  his 
rifle  in  company  with  Joel  Sparkman,  who  was 
his  mother's  brother,  and  joined  himself  to  Pick- 
ens's  Brigade.  Here  he  made  as  good  a  soldier 
as  the  best.  He  had  no  sort  of  fear.  He  was 
always  the  first  to  go  forward ;  arid  his  rifle  was 
always  good  for  his  enemy's  button  at  a  long 
hundred  yards.  He  was  in  several  fights  both 
with  the  British  and  tories ;  and  just  before  the 
war  was  ended  he  had  a  famous  brush  with  the 
Cherokees,  when  Pickens  took  their  country  from 
them.  But  though  he  had  no  fear,  and  never 
knew  when  to  stop  killing  while  the  fight  was 
going  on,  he  was  the  most  bashful  of  boys  that  I 
ever  knew ;  and  so  kind-hearted  that  it  was  almost 
impossible  to  believe  all  we  heard  of  his  fierce 
doings  when  he  was  in  battle.  But  they  were 
nevertheless  quite  true  for  all  his  basbfulness. 

Well,  when  the  war  was  over,  Joel  Sparkman, 
who  lived  with  his  sister,  Grayling,  persuaded  her 
that  it  would  he  better  to  move  down  into  the  low 
country.  I  don't  know  what  reason  he  had  for  it, 
or  what  they  proposed  to  do  there.  They  had 
very  little  property,  but  Sparkman  was  a  knowing 
man,  who  could  turn  his  hand  to  a  hundred  things; 
and  as  he  was  a  bachelor,  and  loved  his  sister  and 


her  children  just  as  if  they  had  been  his  own,  it 
was  natural  that  she  should  go  with  him  wherever 
he  wished.     James,  too,  who  was  restless  by  na 
ture — and  the  taste  he  had  enjoyed  of  the  wars 
had  made  him  more  so — he  was  full  of  it ;  and  so, 
one  sunny  morning  in  April,  their  wagon  started 
for  the  city.     The  wagon  was  only  a  small  one, 
with  two  horses,  scarcely  larger  than  those  that 
are  employed  to  carry  chickens  and  fruit  to  the 
market   from   the   Wassamaws   and  thereabouts. 
It  was  driven  by  a  negro  fellow  named  Clytus, 
and  carried  Mrs.  Grayling  and  Lucy.     James  and 
his  uncle  loved  the  saddle  too  well  to  shut  them 
selves  up  in  such  a  vehicle ;  and   both  of  them 
were  mounted  on  fine  horses  which  they  had  won 
from  the  enemy.     The  saddle  that  James  rode  on, 
— and  he  was  very  proud  of  it, — was  one  that  he 
had  taken  at  the  battle  of  Cowpens  from  one  of 
Tarleton's  own  dragoons,  after  he  had  tumbled  the 
owner.    The  roads  at  that  season  were  excessively 
bad,  for  the  rains  of  March  had  been  frequent  and 
heavy,  the  track  was  very  much  cut  up,  and  the 
red  clay  gullies  of  the  hills  of  «  Ninety-six"  were 
so  washed  that  it  required  all  shoulders,  twenty 
times  a  day,  to  get  the  wagon-wheels  out  of  the 
bog.     This  made  them  travel  very  slowly, — per 
haps,  not  more  than  fifteen  miles  a  day.     Another 
cause   for   slow  travelling  was,  the   necessity  of 
great  caution,  and  a  constant  look-out  for  enemies 
both  up  and  down  the  road.    James  and  his  uncle 
took  it  by  turns  to  ride  a-head,  precisely  as  they 
j  did  when  scouting  in  war,  but  one  of  them  always 
kept  along  with  the  wagon.     They  had  gone  on 
this  way  for  two  days,  and  saw  nothing  to  trouble 
and  alarm  them.     There  were  few  persons  on  the 
high-road,  and  these  seemed  to  the  full  as  shy  of 
them  as  they  probably  were  of  strangers.     But 
just  as  they  were  about  to  camp,  the  evening  of 
the  second  day,  while  they  were  splitting  light- 
wood,  and  getting  out  the  kettles  and  the  frying- 
pan,  a  person  rode  up  and  joined  them  without 
much  ceremony.     He  was  a  short,  thick-set  man, 
somewhere  between  forty  and  fifty :  had  on  very 
coarse  and  common  garments,  though  he  rode  a 
fine  black  horse  of  remarkable  strength  and  vigour. 
He  was  very  civil  of  speech,  though  he  had  but 
little  to  say,  and  that  little  showed  him  to  be  a 
person    without   much   education    and    with   no 
refinement.     He  begged  permission  to  make  one 
of  the   encampment,  arid  his  manner  was  very 
respectful  and  even  humble ;  but  there  was  some 
thing  dark  and  sullen  in  his  face — his  eyes,  which 
were  of  a  light  gray  colour,  were  very  restless,  and 
his  nose   turned   up  sharply,  and  was  very  red. 
His  forehead  was  excessively  broad,  and  his  eye 
brows  thick  and  shaggy — white  hairs  being  freely 
mingled  with  the  dark,  both  in  them  and  upon  his 
head.    Mrs.  Grayling  did  not  like  this  man's  looks, 
and  whispered  her  dislike  to  her  son  ;  but  Jarnes, 
who  felt  himself  equal  to  any  man,  said,  promptly — 
"What   of  that,  mother!    we  can't   turn  the 
stranger  off  and   say  « no ;'  and  if  he  means  any 
mischief,  there's  two  of  us,  you  know." 

The   man   had   no   weapons — none,   at   least, 
which  were  then  visible ;  and  deported  himself  in 


WILLIAM    GILMORE    SIMMS. 


507 


so  humble  a  manner,  that  the  prejudice  which  the 
party  had  formed  against  him  when  he  first  ap 
peared,  if  it  was  not  dissipated  while  he  remained, 
at  least  failed  to  gain  any  increase.  He  was  very 
quiet,  did  not  mention  an  unnecessary  word,  and 
seldom  permitted  his  eyes  to  rest  upon  those  of 
any  of  the  party,  the  females  not  excepted.  This, 
perhaps,  was  the  only  circumstance,  that,  in  the 
mind  of  Mrs.  Grayling,  tended  to  confirm  the  hos 
tile  impression  which  his  coming  had  originally 
occasioned.  In  a  little  while  the  temporary  en 
campment  was  put  in  a  state  equally  social  and 
warlike.  The  wagon  was  wheeled  a  little  way 
into  the  woods,  and  off  the  road ;  the  horses  fas 
tened  behind  it  in  such  a  manner  that  any  attempt 
to  steal  them  would  be  difficult  of  success,  even 
were  the  watch  neglectful  which  was  yet  to  be 
maintained  upon  them.  Extra  guns,  concealed 
in  the  straw  at  the  bottom  of  the  wagon,  were 
kept  well  loaded.  In  the  foreground,  and  between 
the  wagon  and  the  highway,  a  fire  was  soon 
blazing  with  a  wild  but  cheerful  gleam;  arid  the 
worthy  dame,  Mrs.  Grayling,  assisted  by  the  little 
girl,  Lucy,  lost  no  time  in  setting  on  the  frying- 
pan,  and  cutting  into  slices  the  haunch  of  bacon, 
which  they  had  provided  at  leaving  home.  James 
Grayling  patroled  the  woods,  meanwhile,  for  a 
mile  or  two  round  the  encampment,  while  his 
uncle,  Joel  Sparkman,  foot  to  foot  with  the  stran 
ger,  seemed — if  the  absence  of  all  care  constitutes 
the  supreme  of  human  felicity — to  realize  the  most 
perfect  conception  of  mortal  happiness.  But  Joel 
was  very  far  from  being  the  careless  person  that 
he  seemed.  Like  an  old  soldier,  he  simply  hung 
out  false  colours,  and  concealed  his  real  timidity 
by  an  extra  show  of  confidence  and  courage.  He 
did  not  relish  the  stranger  from  the  first,  any  more 
than  his  sister ;  and  having  subjected  him  to  a 
searching  examination,  such  as  was  considered,  in 
those  days  of  peril  and  suspicion,  by  no  means 
inconsistent  with  becoming  courtesy,  he  came 
rapidly  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  no  better 
than  he  should  be. 

"You  are  a  Scotchman,  stranger,"  said  Joel, 
suddenly  drawing  up  his  feet,  and  bending  forward 
to  the  other  with  an  eye  like  that  of  a  hawk  stoop 
ing  over  a  covey  of  partridges.  It  was  a  wonder 
that  he  had  not  made  the  discovery  before.  The 
broad  dialect  of  the  stranger  was  not  to  be  sub 
dued  ;  but  Joel  made  slow  stages  and  short  progress 
in  his  mental  journeyings.  The  answer  was  given 
with  evident  hesitation,  but  it  was  affirmative. 

"  Well,  now,  it's  mighty  strange  that  you  should  J 
ha'  fou't  with  us  and  not  agin  us,"  responded  Joel 
Sparkman.  "  There  was  a  precious  few  of  the 
Scotch,  and  none  that  I  knows  on,  saving  your 
self,  perhaps, — that  did'nt  go  dead  agin  us,  and 
for  the  lories,  through  thick  and  thin.  That 
'  Cross  Creek  settlement'  was  a  mighty  ugly  thorn 
in  the  sides  of  us  whigs.  It  turned  out  a  raal 
bad  stock  of  varmints.  I  hope, — I  reckon,  stran 
ger, — you  aint  from  that  part." 

«  No,"  said  the  other ;  "  oh  no !  I'm  from  over 
the  other  quarter.  I'm  from  the  Duncan  settle 
ment  above." 


« I've  hearn  tell  of  that  other  settlement,  but  I 
never  know'd  as  any  of  the  men  fou't  with  us. 
What  gineral  did  you  fight  under  1  What  Caro 
lina  gineral?" 

"  I  was  at  Gum  Swamp  when  General  Gates 
was  defeated  ,"  was  the  still  hesitating  reply  of  the 
other. 

"  Well,  I  thank  God,  I  warn't  there,  though  I 
reckon  things  wouldn't  ha'  turned  out  quite  so 
bad,  if  there  had  been  a  leetle  sprinkling  of  Sum- 
ter's,  or  Pickens's,  or  Marion's  men,  among 
them  two-legged  critters  that  run  that  day.  They 
did  tell  that  some  of  the  regiments  went  off 
without  ever  once  emptying  their  rifles.  Now, 
stranger,  I  hope  you  warn't  among  them  fellows." 

"I  was  not,"  said  the  other  with  something 
more  of  promptness. 

"  I  don't  blame  a  chap  for  dodging  a  bullet  if  he 

can,  or  being  too  quick  for  a  bagnet,  because,  I'm 

I   thinking,  a  live  man  is  always  a  better  man  than 

i  a   dead  one,  or  he  can  become  so;  but  to  run 

without  taking   a   single   crack  at  the  inimy,  is 

downright    cowardice.      There's    no    two   ways 

about  it,  stranger." 

This  opinion,  delivered  with  considerable  em 
phasis,  met  with  the  ready  assent  of  the  Scotch 
man,  but  Joel  Sparkman  was  not  to  be  diverted, 
even  by  his  own  eloquence,  from  the  object  of  his 
inquiry. 

"  But  you  ain't  said,"  he  continued,  "who  was 
your  Carolina  gineral.  Gates  was  from  Virginny, 
and  he  stayed  a  mighty  short  time  when  he  come. 
You  didn't  run  far  at  Camden,  I  reckon,  and  you 
joined  the  army  agin,  and  come  in  with  Greene. 
Was  that  the  how?" 

To  this  the  stranger  assented,  though  with  evi 
dent  disinclination. 

"  Then,  moutbe,  we  sometimes  went  into  the 
same  scratch  together  1  I  was  at  Cowpens  and 
<  Ninety-Six,'  and  seen  sarvice  at  other  odds  and 
eends,  where  there  was  more  fighting  than  fun. 
I  reckon  you  must  have  been  at  <  Ninety-Six,' — 
perhaps  at  Cowpens,  too,  if  you  went  with  Mor 
gan?" 

The  unwillingness  of  the  stranger  to  respond  to 
these  questions  appeared  to  increase.  He  ad 
mitted,  however,  that  he  had  been  at  "Ninety- 
Six,"  though,  as  Sparkman  afterwards  remembered, 
in  this  case,  as  in  that  of  the  defeat  of  Gates  at 
Gum  Swamp,  he  had  not  said  on  which  side  he 
had  fought.  Joel,  as  he  discovered  the  reluctance 
of  his  guest  to  answer  his  questions,  and  perceived 
his  growing  doggedness,  forbore  to  annoy  him,  but 
mentally  resolved  to  keep  a  sharper  look-out  than 
ever  upon  his  motions.  His  examination  con 
cluded  with  an  inquiry,  which,  in  the  plain-dealing 
regions  of  the  south  and  south-west,  is  not  unfre- 
quently  put  first. 

«  And  what  mout  be  your  name,  stranger?" 

« Macnab,"  was  the  ready  response,  « Sandy 
Macnab." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Macnab,  I  see  that  my  sister's  got 
supper  ready  for  us ;  so  we  mout  as  well  fall  to 
upon  the  hoecake  and  bacon." 

Sparkman  rose  while  speaking,  and  led  the  way 


508 


WILLIAM    GILMORE    SIMMS. 


to  the  spot,  near  the  wagon,  where  Mrs.  Grayling  | 
had  spread  the  feast.  "  We're  pretty  nigh  on 
to  the  main  road,  here,  but  I  reckon  there's  no  , 
great  danger  now.  Besides,  Jim  Grayling  keeps 
watch  for  us,  and  he's  got  two  as  good  eyes  in  his 
head  as  any  scout  in  the  country,  and  a  rifle  that, 
after  you  once  know  how  it  shoots,  'twould  do 
your  heart  good  to  hear  its  crack,  if  so  be  that 
twa'n't  your  heart  that  he  drawed  sight  on.  He's 
a  perdigious  fine  shot,  and  as  ready  to  shoot  and 
fight  as  if  he  had  a  nateral  calling  that  way." 

"Shall  we  wait  for  him  before  we  eat?"  de 
manded  Macnab,  anxiously. 

"  By  no  sort  o'  reason,  stranger,"  answered 
Sparkman.  "He'll  watch  for  us  while  we're 
eating,  and  after  that  I'll  change  shoes  with  him. 
So  fall  to,  and  don't  mind  what's  a  coming." 

Sparkman  had  just  broken  the  hoecake,  when  a 
distant  whistle  was  heard. 

"  Ha !  That's  the  lad  now !"  he  exclaimed, 
rising  to  his  feet.  «  He's  on  trail.  He's  got  a 
sight  of  an  inimy's  fire,  I  reckon.  'Twon't  be 
onreasonable,  friend  Macnab,  to  get  our  we'pons 
in  readiness;"  and,  so  speaking,  Sparkman  bid 
his  sister  get  into  the  wagon,  where  the  little 
Lucy  had  already  placed  herself,  while  he  threw 
open  the  pan  of  his  rifle,  and  turned  the  priming 
over  with  his  finger.  Macnab,  meanwhile,  had 
taken  from  his  holsters,  which  he  had  before  been 
sitting  upon,  a  pair  of  horseman's  pistols,  richly 
mounted  with  figures  in  silver.  These  were  large 
and  long,  and  had  evidently  seen  service.  Unlike 
his  companion,  his  proceedings  occasioned  no  com 
ment.  What  he  did  seemed  a  matter  of  habit,  of 
which  he  himself  was  scarcely  conscious.  Hav 
ing  looked  at  his  priming,  he  laid  the  instruments 
beside  him  without  a  word,  and  resumed  the  bit 
of  hoecake  which  he  had  just  before  received  from 
Sparkman.  Meanwhile,  the  signal  whistle,  sup 
posed  to  come  from  James  Grayling,  was  repeat 
ed.  Silence  ensued  then  for  a  brief  space,  which 
Sparkman  employed  in  perambulating  the  grounds 
immediately  contiguous.  At  length,  just  as  he 
had  returned  to  the  fire,  the  sound  of  a  horse's 
feet  was  heard,  and  a  sharp  quick  halloo  from 
Grayling  informed  his  uncle  that  all  was  right. 
,.The  youth  made  his  appearance  a  moment  after, 
accompanied  by  a  stranger  on  horseback ;  a  tall, 
fine-looking  young  man,  with  a  keen  flashing  eye, 
and  a  voice  whose  lively  clear  tones,  as  he  was 
heard  approaching,  sounded  cheerily  like  those  of 
a  trumpet  after  victory.  James  Grayling  kept 
along  on  foot  beside  the  new-comer;  and  his 
hearty  laugh,  and  free,  glib,  garrulous  tones,  be 
trayed  to  his  uncle,  long  ere  he  drew  nigh,  enough 
to  declare  the  fact,  that  he  had  met  unexpectedly  ' 
with  a  friend,  or,  at  least,  an  old  acquaintance. 

"  Why,  who  have  you  got  there,  James1?"  was  | 
the  demand  of  Sparkman,  as  he  dropped  the  butt  i 
of  his  rifle  upon  the  ground. 

"  Why,  who  do  you  think,  uncle  ?  Who  but  ' 
Major  Spencer — bur  own  major!" 

"  You    don't   say    so ! — what ! — well !      Li'nel 
Spencer,    for    sartin !     Lord    bless    you,   major,  ' 
who'd  ha'  thought  to  see  you  in  these  parts ;  and  i 


jest  mounted  too,  for  all  natur,  as  if  the  war  was 
to  be  fou't  over  agin.  Well,  I'm  raal  glad  to  see 
you.  I  am,  that's  sartin  !" 

"  And  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you,  Sparkman," 
said  the  other,  as  he  alighted  from  his  steed,  and 
yielded  his  hand  to  the  cordial  grasp  of  the 
other. 

"  Well,  I  knows  that,  major,  without  you  saying 
it.  But  you've  jest  come  in  the  right  time.  The 
bacon's  frying,  and  here's  the  bread ; — let's  down 
upon  our  haunches,  in  right  good  airnest,  camp 
fashion,  and  make  the  most  of  what  God  gives  us 
in  the  way  of  blessings.  I  reckon  you  don't  mean 
to  ride  any  further  to-night,  major?" 

"No,"  said  the  person  addressed,  "not  if  you'll 
let  me  lay  my  heels  at  your  fire.  But  who's  in 
your  wagon?  My  old  friend,  Mrs.  Grayling,  I 
suppose  ?" 

"  That's  a  true  word,  major,"  said  the  lady  her 
self,  making  her  way  out  of  the  vehicle  with  good- 
humoured  agility,  and  coming  forward  with  ex 
tended  hand. 

"  Really,  Mrs.  Grayling,  I'm  very  glad  to  see 
you."  And  the  stranger,  with  the  blandness  of 
a  gentleman  and  the  hearty  warmth  of  an  old 
neighbour,  expressed  his  satisfaction  at  once  more 
finding  himself  in  the  company  of  an  old  ac 
quaintance.  Their  greetings  once  over,  Major 
Spencer  readily  joined  the  group  about  the  fire, 
while  James  Grayling — though  with  some  reluc 
tance — disappeared  to  resume  his  toils  of  the  scout 
while  the  supper  proceeded. 

"And  who  have  you  here?"  demanded  Spen 
cer,  as  his  eye  rested  on  the  dark,  hard  features  of 
the  Scotchman.  Sparkman  told  him  all  that  he 
himself  had  learned  of  the  name  and  character  of. 
the  stranger,  in  a  brief  whisper,  and  in  a  moment 
after  formally  introduced  the  parties  in  this 
fashion — 

"  Mr.  Macnab,  Major  Spencer.  Mr.  Maon-ab 
says  he's  true  blue,  major,  and  fou't  at  Camden, 
when  General  Gates  run  so  hard  to  <  bring  the 
d — d  militia  back.'  He  also  fou't  at '  Ninety-Six,' 
and  Cowpens — so  I  reckon  we  had  as  good  as 
count  him  one  of  us." 

Major  Spencer  scrutinized  the  Scotchman  keen 
ly — a  scrutiny  which  the  latter  seemed  very  ill  to 
relish.  He  put  a  few  questions  to  him  on  the 
subject  of  the  war,  and  some  of  the  actions  in 
which  he  allowed  himself  to  have  been  concerned  ; 
but  his  evident  reluctance  to  unfold  himself — a 
reluctance  so  unnatural  to  the  brave  soldier  who 
has  gone  through  his  toils  honourably — had  the 
natural  effect  of  discouraging  the  young  officer, 
whose  sense  of  delicacy  had  not  been  materially 
impaired  amid  the  rude  jostlings  of  military  life. 
But,  though  he  forbore  to  propose  any  other  ques 
tions  to  Macnab,  his  eyes  continued  to  survey  the 
features  of  his  sullen  countenance  with  curiosity 
and  a  strangely  increasing  interest.  This  he  sub 
sequently  explained  to  Sparkman,  when,  at  the 
close  of  supper,  James  Grayling  came  in,  and  the 
former  assumed  the  duties  of  the  scout. 

"  I  have  seen  that  Scotchman's  face  somewhere, 
Sparkman,  and  I'm  convinced  at  some  interesting 


WILLIAM    GILMORE    SIMMS. 


509 


moment;  hut  where,  when,  or  how,  I  cannot  call 
to  mind.  The  sight  of  it  is  even  associated  in  my 
mind  with  something  painful  and  unpleasant; 
where  could  I  have  seen  him  1" 

"  I  don't  somehow  like  his  looks  myself,"  said 
Sparkman,  «  and  I  mislists  he's  been  rether  more 
of  a  tory  than  a  whig ;  but  that's  nothing  to  the 
purpose  now ;  and  he's  at  our  fire,  and  we've 
broken  hoecake  together;  so  we  cannot  rake  up 
the  old  ashes  to  make  a  dust  with." 

"  No,  surely  not,"  was  the  reply  of  Spencer. 
"Even  though  we  knew  him  to  be  a  tory,  that 
cause  of  former  quarrel  should  occasion  none  now. 
But  it  should  produce  watchfulness  and  caution. 
I'm  glad  to  see  that  you  have  not  forgot  your  old 
business  of  scouting  in  the  swamp." 

"Kin  I  forget  it,  major  1"  demanded  Spark 
man,  in  tones  which,  though  whispered,  were  full 
of  emphasis,  as  he  laid  his  ear  to  the  earth  to 
listen. 

"  James  has  finished  supper,  major — that's  his 
whistle  to  tell  me  so ;  and  I'll  jest  step  back  to 
make  it  cl'ar  to  him  how  we're  to  keep  up  the 
watch  to-night." 

"  Count  me  in  your  arrangements,  Sparkman, 
as  I  am  one  of  you  for  the  night,"  said  the  major. 

"  By  no  sort  of  means,"  was  the  reply.  "  The 
night  must  be  shared  between  James  and  myself. 
Ef  so  be  you  wants  to  keep  company  with  one  or 
t'other  of  us,  why,  that's  another  thing,  and,  of 
course,  you  can  do  as  you  please." 

"  We'll  have  no  quarrel  on  the  subject,  Joel," 
said  the  officer,  good-naturedly,  as  they  returned 
to  the  camp  together. 

CHAPTER    II. 

THE  arrangements  of  the  party  were  soon  made. 
Spencer  renewed  his  offer  at  the  fire  to  take  his 
part  in  the  watch  ;  and  the  Scotchman,  Macnab, 
volunteered  his  services  also;  hut  the  offer  of  the 
latter  was  another  reason  why  that  of  the  former 
should  be  declined.  Sparkman  was  resolute  to 
have  every  thing  his  own  way ;  and  while 
James  Grayling  went  out  upon  his  lonely  rounds, 
he  busied  himself  in  cutting  bushes  and  making  a 
sort  of  tent  for  the  use  of  his  late  commander. 
Mrs.  Grayling  and  Lucy  slept  in  a  wagon.  The 
Scotchman  stretched  himself  with  little  effort  be 
fore  the  fire ;  while  Joel  Sparkman,  wrapping 
himself  up  in  his  cloak,  crouched  under  the  wagon 
body,  with  his  back  resting  partly  against  one  of 
the  wheels.  From  time  to  time  he  aros»  and 
thrust  additional  brands  into  the  fire,  looked  up  at 
the  night,  and  round  upon  the  little  encampment, 
then  sunk  back  to  his  perch  and  stole  a  few  mo 
ments,  at  intervals,  of  uneasy  sleep.  The  first 
two  hours  of  the  watch  were  over,  and  James 
Grayling  was  relieved.  The  youth,  however,  felt 
in  no  mood  for  sleep,  and  taking  his  seat  by  the 
fire,  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a  little  volume  of 
Easy  Reading  Lessons,  and  by  the  fitful  flame  of 
the  resinous  light-wood,  he  prepared,  in  this  rude 
manner,  to  make  up  for  the  precious  time  which 
his  youth  had  lost  of  its  legitimate  employments, 
in  the  .stirring  events  of  the  preceding  seven  years 


consumed  in  war.  He  was  surprised  at  this  em 
ployment  by  his  late  commander,  who,  himself 
sleepless,  now  emerged  from  the  bushes  and  joined 
Grayling  at  the  fire.  The  youth  had  been  rather 
a  favourite  with  Spencer.  They  had  both  been 
reared  in  the  same  neighbourhood,  and  the  first 
military  achievements  of  James  had  taken  pi  are 
under  the  eye,  and  had  met  the  approbation  of  his 
officer.  The  difference  of  their  ages  was  just  such 
as  to  permit  of  the  warm  attachment  of  the  lad 
without  diminishing  any  of  the  reverence  which 
should  be  felt  by  the  inferior.  Grayling  was  not 
more  than  seventeen,  and  Spencer  was  perhaps 
thirty-four — the  very  prime  of  manhood.  They 
sat  by  the  fire  and  talked  of  old  times  and  told  old 
stories  with  the  hearty  glee  and  good-nature  of 
the  young.  Their  mutual  inquiries  led  to  the 
revelation  of  their  several  objects  in  pursuing  the 
present  journey.  Those  of  James  Grayling  were 
scarcely,  indeed,  to  be  considered  his  own.  They 
were  plans  and  purposes  of  his  uncle,  and  it  does 
not  concern  this  narrative  that  we  should  know 
more  of  their  nature  than  has  already  been  revealed. 
But,  whatever  they  were,  they  were  as  freely  un 
folded  to  his  hearer  as  if  the  parties  had  been 
brothers,  and  Spencer  was  quite  as  frank  in  his 
revelations  as  his  companion.  He,  too,  was  on 
his  way  to  Charleston,  from  whence  he  was  to 
take  passage  for  England. 

"  I  am  rather  in  a  hurry  to  reach  town,"  he  said, 
"  as  I  learn  that  the  Falmouth  packet  is  preparing 
to  sail  for  England  in  a  few  days,  and  I  must  go 
in  her." 

"  For  England,  major !"  exclaimed  the  youth 
with  unaffected  astonishment. 

«  Yes,  James,  for  England.  But  why — what 
astonishes  you  1" 

"  Why,  lord  !"  exclaimed  the  simple  youth,  "  if 
they  only  knew  there,  as  I  do,  what  a  cutting  and 
slashing  you  did  use  to  make  among  their  red 
coats,  I  reckon  they'd  hang  you  to  the  first 
hickory." 

"  Oh,  no !  scarcely,"  said  the  other,  with  a 
smile. 

"But  I  reckon  you'll  change  your  name,  ma 
jor  !"  continued  the  youth. 

"No,"  responded  Spencer,  "if  I  did  that,  I 
should  lose  the  object  of  my  voyage.  You  must, 
know,  James,  that  an  old  relative  has  left  me  a 
good  deal  of  money  in  England,  and  I  can  only 
get  it  by  proving  that  I  am  Lionel  Spencer ;  so 
you  see  I  must  carry  my  own  name,  whatever 
may  be  the  risk." 

"  Well,  major,  you  know  best ;  but  I  do  think 
if  they  could  only  have  a  guess  of  what  you  did 
among  their  sodgers  at  Hobkirk's  and  Cowpens, 
and  Eutaw,  and  a  dozen  other  places,  they'd  find 
some  means  of  hanging  you  up,  peace  or  no  peace. 
But  I  don't  see  what  occasion  you  have  to  be 
going  cl'ar  away  to  England  for  money,  when 
you've  got  a  sight  of  your  own  already." 

"  Not  so  much  as  you  think  for,"  replied  the 

major,  giving  an  involuntary  and   uneasy  glance 

at   the    Scotchman,  who   was   seemingly   sound 

asleep  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  fire.     «  There 

2v2 


510 


WILLIAM    GILMORE    SIMMS. 


is,  you  know,  but  little  money  in  the  country  at 
any  time,  and  I  must  get  what  I  want  for  my  ex 
penses  when  I  reach  Charleston.  I  have  just 
enough  to  carry  me  there." 

"  Well,  now,  major,  that's  mighty  strange.  I 
always  thought  that  you  was  about  the  best  off  of 
any  man  in  our  parts ;  but  if  you're  strained  so 
close,  I'm  thinking,  major, — if  so  be  you  wouldn't 
think  me  too  presumptuous, — you'd  better  let  me 
lend  you  a  guinea  or  so  that  I've  got  to  spare,  and 
you  can  pay  me  back  when  you  get  the  English 
money." 

And  the  youth  fumbled  in  his  bosom  for  a  little 
cotton  wallet,  which,  with  its  limited  contents,  was 
displayed  in  another  instant  to  the  eyes  of  the 
officer. 

"  No,  no,  James,"  said  the  other,  putting  back 
the  generous  tribute  ;  "  I  have  quite  enough  to 
carry  me  to  Charleston,  and  when  there  I  can 
easily  get  a  supply  from  the  merchants.  But  I 
thank  you,  my  good  fellow,  for  your  offer.  You 
are  a  good  fellow,  James,  and  I  will  remember 
you." 

It  is  needless  to  pursue  the  conversation  far 
ther.  The  night  passed  away  without  any  alarms, 
and  at  dawn  of  the  next  day  the  whole  party  was 
engaged  in  making  preparation  for  a  start.  Mrs. 
Grayling  was  soon  busy  in  getting  breakfast  in 
readiness.  Major  Spencer  consented  to  remain 
with  them  until  it  was  over:  but  the  Scotchman, 
after  returning  thanks  very  civilly  for  his  accom 
modation  of  the  night,  at  once  resumed  his  jour 
ney.  His  course  seemed,  like  their  own,  to  lie 
below ;  but  he  neither  declared  his  route  nor  be 
trayed  the  least  desire  to  know  that  of  Spencer. 
The  latter  had  no  disposition  to  renew  those  in 
quiries  from  which  the  stranger  seemed  to  shrink 
the  night  before,  and  he  accordingly  suffered  him 
to  depart  with  a  quiet  farewell,  and  the  utterance 
of  a  good-natured  wish,  in  which  all  the  parties 
joined,  that  he  might  have  a  pleasant  journey. 
When  he  was  fairly  out  of  sight,  Spencer  said  to 
Sparkman, 

"  Had  I  liked  that  fellow's  looks,  nay,  had  I  not 
positively  disliked  them,  I  should  have  gone  with 
him.  As  it  is,  I  will  remain  and  share  your 
breakfast." 

%  The  repast  being  over,  all  parties  set  forward  ; 
but  Spencer,  after  keeping  along  with  them  for  a 
mile,  took  his  leave  also.  The  slow  wagon-pace 
at  which  the  family  travelled,  did  not  suit  the  high- 
spirited  cavalier;  and  it  was  necessary,  as  he  as 
sured  them,  that  he  should  reach  the  city  in  two 
nights  more.  They  parted  with  many  regrets,  as 
truly  felt  as  they  were  warmly  expressed ;  and 
lames  Grayling  never  felt  the  tedium  of  wagon 
travelling  to  be  so  severe  as  throughout  the  whole 
of  that  day  when  he  separated  from  his  favourite 
captain.  But  he  was  too  stout-hearted  a  lad  to 
make  anv  complaint ;  and  his  dissatisfaction  only 
showed  itself  in  his  unwonted  silence,  and  an  over- 
anxiety,  which  his  steed  seemed  to  feel  in  com 
mon  with  himself,  to  go  rapidly  ahead.  Thus  the 
day  passed,  and  the  wayfarers  at  its  close  had 
made  a  progress  of  some  twenty  miles  from  sun 


to  sun.  The  same  precautions  marked  their  en 
campment  this  night  as  the  last,  and  they  rose  in 
better  spirits  with  the  next  morning,  the  dawn  of 
which  was  very  bright  and  pleasant,  and  encou 
raging.  A  similar  journey  of  twenty  miles  brought 
them  to  the  place  of  bivouac  as  the  sun  went 
down ;  and  they  prepared  as  usual  for  their  secu 
rities  and  supper.  They  found  themselves  on  the 
edge  of  a  very  dense  forest  of  pines  and  scrubby 
oaks,  a  portion  of  which  was  swallowed  up  in  a 
deep  bay — so  called  in  the  dialect  of  the  country 
— -a  swamp-bottom,  the  growth  of  which  consisted 
of  mingled  cypresses  and  bay-trees,  with  tupola, 
gum,  and  dense  thickets  of  low  stunted  shrub 
bery,  cane  grass,  and  dwarf  willows,  which  filled 
up  every  interval  between  the  trees,  and  to  the 
eye  most  effectually  barred  out  every  human  in 
truder.  This  bay  was  chosen  as  the  background 
for  the  camping  party.  Their  wagon  was  wheeled 
into  an  area  on  a  gently  rising  ground  in  front, 
under  a  pleasant  shade  of  oaks  and  hickories,  with 
a  lonely  pine  rising  loftily  in  occasional  spots 
among  them.  Here  the  horses  were  taken  out, 
and  James  Grayling  prepared  to  kindle  up  a  fire ; 
but,  looking  for  his  axe,  it  was  unaccountably 
missing,  and  after  a  fruitless  search  of  half  an 
hour,  the  party  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  had 
been  left  on  the  spot  where  they  had  slept  last 
night.  This  was  a  disaster,  and,  while  they  me 
ditated  in  what  manner  to  repair  it,  a  negro  boy 
appeared  in  sight,  passing  along  the  road  at  their 
feet,  and  driving  before  him  a  small  herd  of  cattle. 
From  him  they  learned  that  they  were  only  a 
mile  or  two  from  a  farmstead  where  an  axe  might 
be  borrowed ;  and  James,  leaping  on  his  horse, 
rode  forward  in  the  hope  to  obtain  one.  He 
found  no  difficulty  in  his  quest;  and,  having  ob 
tained  it  from  the  farmer,  who  was  also  a  tavern- 
keeper,  he  casually  asked  if  Major  Spencer  had 
not  stayed  with  him  the  night  before.  He  was 
somewhat  surprised  when  told  that  he  had  not. 

"  There  was  one  man  stayed  with  me  last 
night,"  said  the  farmer,  «  but  he  did'nt  call  himself 
a  major,  and  didn't  much  look  like  one." 

"He  rode  a  fine  sorrel  horse, — tall,  bright 
colour,  with  white  fore  foot,  didn't  he  1"  asked 
James. 

"No,  that  he  didn't!  He  rode  a  powerful 
black,  coal  black,  and  not  a  bit  of  white  about 
him." 

"That  was  the  Scotchman!  But  I  wonder 
the  major  didn't  stop  with  you.  He  must  have 
rode  on.  Isn't  there  another  house  near  you, 
below  1" 

"  Not  one.  There's  ne'er  a  house  either  above 
or  below  for  a  matter  of  fifteen  miles.  I'm  the 
only  man  in  all  that  distance  that's  livipg  on  this 
road ;  and  I  don't  think  your  friend  could  have 
gone  below,  as  I  should  have  seen  him  pass.  I've 
been  all  day  out  there  in  that  field  before  your 
eyes,  clearing  up  the  brush." 

CHAPTER    III. 

SOMEWHAT  wondering  that  the  major  should 
have  turned  aside  from  the  track,  though  without 


WILLIAM    GILMORE    SIMMS. 


511 


attaching  to  it  any  importance  at  that  particular 
moment,  James  Grayling  took  up  the  borrowed 
axe  and  hurried  back  to  the  encampment,  where 
the  toil  of  cutting  an  extra  supply  of  light-wood 
to  meet  the  exigencies  of  the  ensuing  night,  suffi 
ciently  exercised  his  mind  as  well  as  his  body,  to 
prevent  him  from  meditating  upon  the  seeming 
strangeness  of"  the  circumstance.  But  when  he 
sat  down  to  his  supper  over  the  fire  that  he  had 
kindled,  his  fancies  crowded  thickly  upon  him,  and 
he  felt  a  confused  doubt  and  suspicion  that  some 
thing  was  to  happen,  he  knew  not  what.  His 
conjectures  and  apprehensions  were  without  form, 
though  not  altogether  void ;  and  he  felt  a  strange 
sickness  and  a  sinking  at  the  heart  which  was 
very  unusual  with  him.  He  had,  in  short,  that 
lowness  of  spirits,  that  cloudy  apprehensiveness 
of  soul  which  takes  the  form  of  presentiment,  and 
makes  us  look  out  for  danger  even  when  the  skies 
are  without  a  cloud,  and  the  breeze  is  laden, 
equally  and  only,  with  balm  and  music.  His 
moodiness  found  no  sympathy  among  his  com 
panions.  Joel  Sparkman  was  in  the  best  of  hu 
mours,  and  his  mother  was  so  cheery  and  happy, 
that  when  the  thoughtful  boy  went  off  into  the 
woods  to  watch,  he  could  hear  her  at  every  mo 
ment  breaking  out  into  little  catches  of  a  country 
ditty,  which  the  gloomy  events  of  the  late  war 
had  not  yet  obliterated  from  her  memory. 

"  It's  very  strange  !"  soliloquized  the  youth,  as 
he  wandered  along  the  edges  of  the  dense  bay  or 
swamp-bottom,  which  we  have  passingly  referred 
to, — "  it's  very  strange  what  troubles  me  so !  I 
feel  almost  frightened,  and  yet  I  know  I'm  not  to 
be  frightened  easily,  and  I  don't  see  any  thing  in 
the  woods  to  frighten  me.  It's  strange  the  major 
didn't  come  along  this  road !  Maybe  he  took 
another  higher  up  that  leads  by  a  different  settle 
ment.  I  wish  I  had  asked  the  man  at  the  house 
if  there's  such  another  road.  I  reckon  there  must 
be,  however,  for  where  could  the  major  have 
gone  1" 

The  unphilosophical  mind  of  James  Grayling 
did  not,  in  his  farther  meditations,  carry  him 
much  beyond  this  starting  point;  and  with  its 
continual  recurrence  in  soliloquy,  he  proceeded  to 
traverse  the  margin  of  the  bay,  until  he  came  to 
its  junction  with,  and  termination  at,  the  high 
road.  The  youth  turned  into  this,  and,  involun 
tarily  departing  from  it  a  moment  after,  soon  found 
himself  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  bay  thicket 
He  wandered  on  and  on,  as  he  himself  described 
it,  without  any  power  to  restrain  himself.  He 
knew  not  how  far  he  went;  but,  instead  of  main 
taining  his  watch  for  two  hours  only,  he  was  gone 
more  than  four ;  and,  <at  length,  a  sense  of  weari 
ness  which  overpowered  him  all  of  a  sudden, 
caused  him  to  seat  himself  at  the  foot  of  a  tree, 
and  snatch  a  few  moments  of  rest.  He  denied 
that  he  slept  in  this  time.  He  insisted  to  the  last 
moment  of  his  life  that  sleep  never  visited  his 
eyelids  that  night, — that  he  was  conscious  of 
fatigue  and  exhaustion,  but  not  drowsiness, — 
and  that  this  fatigue  was  so  numbing  as  to  be 
painful,  and  effectually  kept  him  from  any  sleep. 


While  he  sat  thus  beneath  the  tree,  with  a  body 
weak  and  nerveless,  but  a  mind  excited,  he  knew 
not  how  or  why,  to  the  most  acute  degree  of  ex 
pectation  and  attention,  he  heard  his  name  called 
by  the  well-known  voice  of  his  friend,  Major 
Spencer.  The  voice  called  him  three  times, — 
"James  Grayling! — James! — James  Grayling!" 
before  he  could  muster  strength  enough  to  an 
swer.  It  was  not  courage  he  wanted, — of  that  he 
was  positive,  for  he  felt  sure,  as  he  said,  that 
something  had  gone  wrong,  and  he  was  never 
more  ready  to  fight  in  his  life  than  at  that  mo 
ment,  could  he  have  commanded  the  physical 
capacity ;  but  his  throat  seemed  dry  to  suffoca 
tion, — his  lips  effectually  sealed  up  as  if  with 
wax,  and  when  he  'did  answer,  the  sounds  seemed 
as  fine  and  soft  as  the  whisper  of  some  child  just 
born. 

«  Oh !  major,  is  it  you  1" 

Such,  he  thinks,  were  the  very  words  he  made 
use  of  in  reply  ;  and  the  answer  that  he  received 
was  instantaneous,  though  the  voice  came  from 
some  little  distance  in  the  bay,  and  his  own  voice  he 
did  not  hear.  He  only  knows  what  he  meant  to 
say.  The  answer  was  to  this  effect. 

"  It  is,  James ! — It  is  your  own  friend,  Lionel 
Spencer,  that  speaks  to  you ;  do  not  be  alarmed 
when  you  see  me  !  I  have  been  shockingly  mur 
dered  !" 

James  asserts  that  he  tried  to  tell  him  that  he 
would  not  be  frightened,  but  his  own  voice  was 
still  a  whisper,  which  he  himself  could  scarcely 
hear.  A  moment  after  he  had  spoken,  he  heard 
something  like  a  sudden  breeze  that  rustled  through 
the  bay  bushes  at  his  feet,  and  his  eyes  were  closed 
without  his  effort,  and  indeed  in  spite  of  himself. 
When  he  opened  them,  he  saw  Major  Spencer 
standing  at  the  edge  of  the  bay,  about  twenty 
steps  from  him.  Though  he  stood  in  the  shade 
of  a  thicket,  and  there  was  no  light  in  the  heavens 
save  that  of  the  stars,  he  was  yet  enabled  to  dis 
tinguish  perfectly,  and  with  great  ease,  every 
lineament  of  his  friend's  face. 

He  looked  very  pale,  and  his  garments  were 
covered  with  blood;  and  James  said  that  he  strove 
very  much  to  rise  from  the  place  where  he  sat 
and  approach  him ; — "  for,  in  truth,"  said  the  lad, 
«  so  far  from  feeling  any  fear,  I  felt  nothing  but 
fury  in  my  heart;  but  I  could  not  move  a  limb. 
My  feet  were  fastened  to  the  ground ;  my  hands 
to  my  sides ;  and  I  could  only  bend  forward  and 
gasp.  I  felt  as  if  I  should  have  died  with  vexa 
tion  that  I  could  not  rise ;  but  a  power  which  I 
could  not  resist  made  me  motionless,  and  almost 
speechless.  I  could  only  say,  <  Murdered  !' — and 
that  one  word  I  believe  I  must  have  repeated  a 
dozen  times. 

" « Yes,  murdered  ! — murdered  by  the  Scotch 
man  who  slept  with  us  at  your  fire  the  night  be 
fore  last.  James,  I  look  to  you  to  have  the  mur 
derer  brought  to  justice  !  James  ! — do  you  hear 
me,  James  1' 

"  These,"  said  James,  "  I  think  were  the  very 
words,  or  near  about  the  very  words,  that  I  heard ; 
and  I  tried  to  ask  the  major  to  tell  me  how  it  was, 


512 


WILLIAM   GILMORE    SIMMS. 


and  how  I  could  do  what  he  required ;  but  I  didn't 
hear  myself  speak,  though  it  would  appear  that  he 
did,  for  almost  immediately  after  I  had  tried  to 
speak  what  I  wished  to  say,  he  answered  me  just 
as  if  I  had  said  it.  He  told  me  that  the  Scotch 
man  had  waylaid,  killed,  and  hidden  him  in  that 
very  bay ;  that  his  murderer  had  gone  to  Charles 
ton  ;  and  that  if  I  made  haste  to  town,  I  would 
find  him  in  the  Falmouth  packet,  which  was  then 
lying  in  the  harbour  and  ready  to  sail  for  Eng 
land.  He  farther  said  that  every  thing  depended 
on  my  making  haste, — that  I  must  reach  town  by 
to-morrow  night  if  I  Wanted  to  be  in  season,  and 
go  right  on  board  the  vessel  and  charge  the 
criminal  with  the  deed.  '  Do  not  be  afraid,'  said 
he,  when  he  had  finished  ;  <  be  afraid  of  nothing, 
James,  for  God  will  help  and  strengthen  you  to 
the  end.'  When  I  heard  all,  I  burst  into  a  flood 
of  tears,  and  then  I  felt  strong.  I  felt  that  I  could 
talk,  or  fight,  or  do  almost  any  thing ;  and  I  jump 
ed  up  to  my  feet,  and  was  just  about  to  run  down 
to  where  the  major  stood,  but,  with  the  first  step 
which  I  made  forward,  he  was  gone.  I  stopped 
and  looked  all  around  me,  but  I  could  see  nothing ; 
and  the  bay  was  just  as  black  as  midnight.  But 
I  went  down  to  it,  and  tried  to  press  in  where  I 
thought  the  major  had  been  standing ;  but  I 
couldn't  get  far,  the  brush  and  bay  bushes  were  so 
close  and  thick.  I  was  now  bold  and  strong 
enough,  and  I  called  out,  loud  enough  to  be  heard 
half  a  mile.  I  didn't  exactly  know  what  I  called 
for,  or  what  I  wanted  to  learn,  or  I  have  forgotten. 
But  I  heard  nothing  more.  Then  I  remembered 
the  camp,  and  began  to  fear  that  something  might 
have  happened  to  mother  and  uncle,  for  I  now 
felt,  what  I  had  not  thought  of  before,  that  I  had 
gone  too  far  round  the  bay  to  be  of  much  assist 
ance,  or,  indeed,  to  be  in  time  for  any,  had  they 
been  suddenly  attacked.  Besides,  I  could  not 
think  how  long  I  had  been  gone;  but  it  now 
seemed  very  late.  The  stars  were  shining  their 
brightest,  and  the  thin  white  clouds  of  morning 
were  beginning  to  rise  and  run  towards  the  west. 
Well,  I  bethought  me  of  my  course, — for  I  was  a 
little  bewildered  and  doubtful  where  I  was ;  but, 
after  a  little  thinking,  I  took  the  back  track,  and 
o^on  got  a  glimpse  of  the  camp-fire,  which  was 
nearly  burnt  down  ;  and  by  this  I  reckoned  I  was 
gone  considerably  longer  than  my  two  hours. 
When  I  got  back  into  the  camp,  I  looked  under 
the  wagon,  and  found  uncle  in  a  sweet  sleep,  and  I 
though  my  heart  was  full  almost  to  bursting  with  j 
what  I  had  heard,  and  the  cruel  sight  I  had  seen,  | 
yet  I  wouldn't  waken  him ;  and  I  beat  about  and 
mended  the  fire,  and  watched,  and  waited,  until 
near  daylight,  when  mother  called  to  me  out  of 
the  wagon,  and  asked  who  it  was.  This  wakened 
my  uncle,  and  then  I  up  and  told  all  that  had  hap 
pened,  for  if  it  had  been  to  save  my  life,  I  couldn't 
have  kept  it  in  much  longer.  But  though  mother 
said  it  was  very  strange,  Uncle  Sparkman  con 
sidered  that  I  had  been  only  dreaming;  but  he 
couldn't  persuade  me  of  it;  and  when  I  told  him 
I  intended  to  be  off  at  daylight,  just  as  the  major 
had  told  me  to  do,  and  ride  my  best  all  the  way  to 


Charleston,  he  laughed,  and  said  I  was  a  fool. 
But  I  felt  that  I  was  no  fool,  and  I  was  solemn 
certain  that  I  hadn't  been  dreaming;  and  though 
both  mother  and  he  tried  their  hardest  to  make 
me  put  off  going,  yet  I  made  up  my  mind  to  it, 
and  they  had  to  give  up.  For,  wouldn't  I  have 
been  a  pretty  sort  of  a  friend  to  the  major,  if,  after 
what  he  told  me,  I  could  have  stayed  behind,  and 
gone  on  only  at  a  wagon-pace  to  look  after  the 
murderer !  I  don't  think  if  I  had  done  so  that  I 
should  ever  have  been  able  to  look  a  white  man 
in  the  face  again.  Soon  as  the  peep  of  day,  I  was 
on  horseback.  Mother  was  mighty  sad,  and 
begged  me  not  to  go,  but  Uncle  Sparkman  was 
mighty  sulky,  and  kept  calling  me  fool  upon  fool, 
until  I  was  almost  angry  enough  to  forget  that  we 
were  of  blood  kin.  But  all  his  talking  did  not 
stop  me,  and  I  reckon  I  was  five  miles  on  my  way 
before  he  had  his  team  in  traces  for  a  start.  I  rode 
as  briskly  as  I  could  get  on  without  hurting  my 
nag.  I  had  a  smart  ride  of  more  than  forty  miles 
before  me,  and  the  road  was  very  heavy.  But  it 
was  a  good  two  hours  from  sunset  when  I  got 
into  town,  and  the  first  question  I  asked  of  the 
people  I  met  was,  to  show  me  where  the  ships 
were  kept.  When  I  got  to  the  wharf  they  showed 
me  the  Falmouth  packet,  where  she  lay  in  the 
stream,  ready  to  sail  as  soon  as  the  wind  should 
favour." 

CHAPTER  IV. 

JAMES  GRAYLING,  with  the  same  eager  impa 
tience  which  he  has  been  suffered  to  describe  in 
his  own  language,  had  already  hired  a  boat  to  go 
on  board  the  British  packet,  when  he  remembered 
that  he  had  neglected  all  those  means,  legal  and 
otherwise,  by  which  alone  his  purpose  might  be 
properly  effected.  He  did  not  know  much  about 
legal  process,  but  he  had  common  sense  enough, 
the  moment  that  he  began  to  reflect  on. the  sub 
ject,  to  know  that  some  such  process  was  neces 
sary.  This  conviction  produced  another  difficulty; 
he  knew  not  in  which  quarter  to  turn  for  counsel 
and  assistance ;  but  here  the  boatman  who  saw 
his  bewilderment,  and  knew  by  his  dialect  and 
dress  that  he  was  a  back-countryman,  came  to  his 
relief,  and  from  him  he  got  directions  where  to 
find  the  merchants  with  whom  his  wncle,  Spark 
man,  had  done  business  in  former  years.  To 
them  he  went,  and  without  circumlocution,  told 
the  whole  story  of  his  ghostly  visitation.  Even  as 
a  dream,  which  these  gentlemen  at  once  conjec 
tured  it  to  be,  the  story  of  James  Grayling  was 
equally  clear  and  curious;  and  his  intense  warmth 
and  the  entire  absorption,  which  the  subject  had 
effected,  of  his  mind  and  soul,  was  such  that  they 
judged  it  not  improper,  at  Jeast  to  carry  out  the 
search  of  the  vessel  which  he  contemplated.  It 
would  certainly,  they  thought,  be  a  curious  coin 
cidence — believing  James  to  be  a  veracious  youth 
— if  the  Scotchman  should  be  found  on  board. 
But  another  test  of  his  narrative  was  proposed  by 
one  of  the  firm.  It  so  happened  that  the  business 
agents  of  Major  Spencer,  who  was  well  known  in 
Charleston,  kept  their  office  but  a  few  rods  distant 
from  their  own ;  and  to  them  all  parties  at  once 


WILLIAM    GILMORE    SIMMS. 


513 


proceeded.  But  here  the  story  of  James  was  en 
countered  by  a  circumstance  that  made  somewhat 
against  it.  These  gentlemen  produced  a  letter 
from  Major  Spencer,  intimating  the  utter  impos 
sibility  of  his  coming  to  town  for  the  space  of  a 
month,  and  expressing  his  regret  that  he  should 
be  unable  to  avail  himself  of  the  opportunity  of 
the  foreign  vessel,  of  whose  arrival  in  Charleston, 
and  proposed  time  of  departure,  they  had  them 
selves  advised  him.  They  read  the  letter  aloud  to 
James  and  their  brother  merchants,  and  with  diffi 
culty  suppressed  their  smiles  at  the  gravity  with 
which  the  former  related  and  insisted  upon  the 
particulars  of  his  vision. 

"  He  has  changed  his  mind,"  returned  the  im 
petuous  youth  ;  "  he  was  on  his  way  down,  I  tell 
you, — a  hundred  miles  on  his  way, — when  he 
camped  with  us.  I  know  him  well,  I  tell  you, 
and  talked  with  him  myself  half  the  night." 

"  At  least,"  remarked  the  gentlemen  who  had 
gone  with  James,  "  it  can  do  no  harm  to  look  into 
the  business.  We  can  procure  a  warrant  for 
searching  the  vessel  after  this  man,  Macnab  ;  and 
should  he  be  found  on  bpard  the  packet,  it  will  be 
a  sufficient  circumstance  to  justify  the  magistrates 
in  detaining  him,  until  we  can  ascertain  where 
Major  Spencer  really  is." 

The  measure  was  accordingly  adopted,  and  it 
was  nearly  sunset  before  the  warrant  was  pro 
cured,  and  the  proper  officer  in  readiness.  The 
impatience  of  a  spirit  so  eager  and  so  devoted  as 
James  Grayling,  under  these  delays,  may  be  im 
agined  ;  and  when  in  the  boat,  and  on  his  way  to 
the  packet  where  the  criminal  was  to  be  sought, 
his  blood  became  so  excited  that  it  was  with  much 
ado  he  could  be  kept  in  his  seat.  His  quick, 
eager  action  continually  disturbed  the  trim  of  the 
boat,  and  one  of  his  mercantile  friends,  who  had 
accompanied  him,  with  that  interest  in  the  affair 
which  curiosity  alone  inspired,  was  under  constant 
apprehension  lest  he  would  plunge  overboard  in 
his  impatient  desire  to  shorten  the  space  which 
lay  between.  The  same  impatience  enabled  the 
youth,  though  never  on  shipboard  before,  to  grasp 
the  rope  which  had  been  flung  at  their  approach, 
and  to  mount  her  sides  with  catlike  agility.  With 
out  waiting  to  declare  himself  or  his  purpose,  he 
ran  from  one  side  of  the  deck  to  the  other,  greedily 
staring,  to  the  surprise  of  officers,  passengers,  and 
seamen,  in  the  faces  of  all  of  them,  and  surveying 
them  with  an  almost  offensive  scrutiny.  He 
turned  away  from  the  search  with  disappoint 
ment.  There  was  no  face  like  that  of  the  sus 
pected  man  among  them.  By  this  time,  his 
friend,  the  merchant,  with  the  sheriff's  officer, 
had  entered  the  vessel,  and  were  in  conference 
with  the  captain.  Grayling  drew  nigh  in  time  to 
hear  the  latter  affirm  that  there  was  no  man  of  the 
name  of  Macnab,  as  stated  in  the  warrant,  among 
his  passengers  or  crew. 

"  He  is — he  must  be  !"  exclaimed  the  impetuous 
youth.  "  The  major  never  lied  in  his  life,  and 
couldn't  lie  after  he  was  dead.  Macnab  is  here — 
he  is  a  Scotchman — " 

The  captain  interrupted  him— 
Ml 


"  We  have,  young  gentleman,  several  Scotch 
men  on  board,  and  one  of  them  is  named  Mac- 
leod— " 

"  Let  me  see  him — which  is  he !"  demanded  the 
youth. 

By  this  time,  the  passengers  and  a  goodly  por 
tion  of  the  crew  were  collected  about  the  little 
party.  The  captain  turned  his  eyes  upon  the 
group,  and  asked, 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Macleod  ?" 
"  He  is  gone  below — he's  sick !"  replied  one  ol 
the  passengers. 

"  That's  he  !  That  must  be  the  man  !"  ex 
claimed  the  youth.  "  I'll  lay  my  life  that's  no 
other  than  Macnab.  He's  only  taken  a  false 
name." 

It  was  now  remembered  by  one  of  the  passen 
gers,  and  remarked,  that  Macleod  had  expressed 
himself  as  unwell,  but  a  few  moments  before,  and 
had  gone  below  even  while  the  boat  was  rapidly 
approaching  the  vessel.  At  this  statement,  the 
captain  led  the  way  into  the  cabin,  closely  followed 
by  James  Grayling  and  the  rest. 

"  Mr.  Macleod,"  he  said  with  a  voice  somewhat 
elevated,  as  he  approached  the  berth  of  that  per 
son,  "you  are  wanted  on  deck  for  a  few  mo 
ments." 

"  I  am  really  too  unwell,  captain,"  replied  a 
feeble  voice  from  behind  the  curtain  of  the  berth. 

"  It  will  be  necessary,"  was  the  reply  of  the  cap 
tain.  "  There  is  a  warrant  from  the  authorities  of 
the  town,  to  look  after  a  fugitive  from  justice." 

Macleod  had  already  begun  a  second  speech 
declaring  his  feebleness,  when  the  fearless  youth, 
Grayling,  bounded  before  the  captain  and  tore 
away,  with  a  single  grasp  of  his  hand,  the  curtain 
which  concealed  the  suspected  man  from  their 
sight. 

"  It  is  he  !"  was  the  instant  exclamation  of  the 
youth,  as  he  beheld  him.  "  It  is  he — Macnab,  the 
Scotchman — the  man  that  murdered  Major  Spen 
cer!" 

Macnab, — for  it  was  he, — was  deadly  pale.  He 
trembled  like  an  aspen.  His  eyes  were  dilated 
with  more  than  mortal  apprehension,  and  his  lips 
were  perfectly  livid.  Still,  he  found  strength  to 
speak,  and  to  deny  the  accusation.  He  knew  no 
thing  of  the  youth  before  him — nothing  of  Major 
Spencer — his  name  was  Macleod,  and  he  had 
never  called  himself  by  any  other.  He  denied, 
but  with  great  incoherence,  every  thing  which  was 
urged  against  him. 

"  You  must  get  up,  Mr.  Macleod,"  said  the 
captain  :  "  the  circumstances  are  very  much  against 
you.  You  must  go  with  the  officer  !" 

"  Will  you  give  me  up  to  my  enemies  1"  de 
manded  the  culprit.  "  You  are  a  countryman — a 
Briton.  I  have  fought  for  the  king,  our  master, 
against  these  rebels,  and  for  this  they  seek  my 
life.  Do  not  deliver  me  into  their  bloody 
hands!" 

"Liar!"  exclaimed  James  Grayling — "Didn't 
you  tell  us  at  our  own  camp-fire  that  you  wero 
with  us  1  that  you  were  at  Gates's  defeat,  and 
Ninety-Six  V  " 


514 


WILLIAM    GILMORE    SIMMS. 


"But  I  didn't  tell  you,"  said  the  Scotchman, 
with  a  grin,  "  which  side  I  was  on !" 

"  Ha !  remember  that !"  said  the  sheriff's  offi 
cer.  "  He  denied,  just  a  moment  ago,  that  he 
knew  this  young  man  at  all ;  now,  he  confesses 
that  he  did  see  and  camp  with  him." 

The  Scotchman  was  aghast  at  the  strong  point 
which,  in  his  inadvertence,  he  had  made  against 
himself;  and  his  efforts  to  excuse  himself,  stam 
mering  and  contradictory,  served  only  to  involve 
him  more  deeply  in  the  meshes  of  his  difficulty. 
Still  he  continued  his  urgent  appeals  to  the  cap 
tain  of  the  vessel,  and  his  fellow-passengers,  as 
citizens  of  the  same  country,  subjects  to  the  same 
monarch,  to  protect  him  from  those  who  equally 
hated  and  would  destroy  them  all.  In  order  to 
move  their  national  prejudices  in  his  behalf,  he 
boasted  of  the  immense  injury  which  he  had  done, 
as  a  tory,  to  the  rebel  cause ;  and  still  insisted 
that  the  murder  was  only  a  pretext  of  the  youth 
before  him,  by  which  to  gain  possession  of  his 
person,  and  wreak  upon  him  the  revenge  which 
his  own  fierce  performances  during  the  war  had 
naturally  enough  provoked.  One  or  two  of  the 
passengers,  indeed,  joined  with  him  in  entreating 
the  captain  to  set  the  accusers  adrift  and  make 
sail  at  once  ;  but  the  stout  Englishman  who  was 
in  command,  rejected  instantly  the  unworthy 
counsel.  Besides,  he  was  better  aware  of  the 
dangers  which  would  follow  any  such  rash  pro 
ceeding.  Fort  Moultrie,  on  Sullivan's  Island,  had 
been  already  refitted  and  prepared  for  an  enemy  ; 
and  he  was  lying,  at  that  moment,  under  the  for 
midable  range  of  grinning  teeth,  which  would 
have  opened  upon  him,  at  the  first  movement, 
from  the  jaws  of  Castle  Pinckney. 

"No,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  "you  mistake  your 
man.  God  forbid  that  I  should  give  shelter  to  a 
murderer,  though  he  were  from  my  own  parish." 

''But  I  am  no  murderer,"  said  the  Scotchman. 

"  You  look  cursedly  like  one,  however,"  was  the 
reply  of  the  captain.  "  Sheriff,  take  your  pri 
soner." 

'The  base  creature  threw  himself  at  the  feet  of 
the  Englishman,  and  clung,  with  piteous  entreaties, 
to  his  knees.  The  latter  shook  him  off,  and  turn 
ed  away  in  disgust. 

"  Steward,"  he  cried,  "  bring  up  this  man's  lug 
gage." 

He  was  obeyed.  The  luggage  was  brought  up 
from  the  cabin  and  delivered  to  the  sheriff's  offi 
cer,  by  whom  it  was  examined  in  the  presence  of 
all,  and  an  inventory  made  of  its  contents.  It 
consisted  of  a  small  new  trunk,  which,  it  after 
wards  appeared,  he  had  bought  in  Charleston, 
soon  after  his-  arrival.  This  contained  a  few 
changes  of  raiment,  twenty-six  guinea's  in  money, 
a  gold  watch,  not  in  repair,  and  the  two  pistols 
which  he  had  shown  while  at  Joel  Sparkman's 
carnp  fire ;  but,  with  this  difference,  that  the  stock 
of  one  was  broken  off  short  just  above  the  grasp, 
tnd  the  butt  was  entirely  gone.  It  was  not  found 
•among  his  chattels.  A  careful  examination  of  the 
articles  in  his  trunk  did  not  result  in  any  thing 
calculated  to  strengthen  the  charge  of  his  crimi 


nality  ;  but  there  was  not  a  single  person  present 
who  did  not  feel  as  morally  certain  of  his  guilt  as 
if  the  jury  had  already  declared  the  fact.  That 
night  he  slept — if  he  slept  at  all — in  the  common 
jail  of  the  city. 

CHAPTER    V. 

His  accuser,  the  warm-hearted  and  resolute 
James  Grayling,  did  not  sleep.  The  excitement, 
arising  from  mingling  and  contradictory  emotions, 
— sorrow  for  his  brave  young  commander's  fate, 
and  the  natural  exultation  of  a  generous  spirit  at 
the  consciousness  of  having  performed,  with  sig 
nal  success,  an  arduous  and  painful  task,  combined 
to  drive  all  pleasant  slumbers  from  his  eyes ;  and 
with  the  dawn  he  was  again  up  and  stirring,  with 
his  mind  still  full  of  the  awful  business  in  which 
he  had  been  engaged.  We  do  not  care  to  pursue 
his  course  in  the  ordinary  walks  of  the  city,  nor 
account  for  his  employments  during  the  few  days 
which  ensued,  until,  in  consequence  of  a  legal 
examination  into  the  circumstances  which  antici 
pated  the  regular  work  of  the  sessions,  the  extreme 
excitement  of  the  young  accuser  had  been  renew 
ed.  Macnab  or  Macleotl, — and  it  is  possible  that 
both  names  were  fictitious, — as  soon  as  he  re 
covered  from  his  first  terrors,  sought  the  aid  of  an 
attorney — one  of  those  acute,  small,  chopping 
lawyers,  to  be  found  in  almost  every  community, 
who  are  willing  to  serve  with  equal  zeal  the  sin 
ner  and  the  saint,  provided  that  they  can  pay 
with  equal  liberality.  The  prisoner  was  brought 
before  the  court  under  habeas  corpus,  and  several 
grounds  submitted  by  his  counsel  with  the  view  to 
obtaining  his  discharge.  It  became  necessary  to 
ascertain,  among  the  first  duties  of  the  state,  whe 
ther  Major  Spencer,  the  alleged  victim,  was  really 
dead.  Until  it  could  be  established  that  a  man 
should  be  imprisoned,  tried,  and  punished  for  a 
crime,  it  was  first  necessary  to  show  that  a  crime 
had  been  committed,  and  the  attorney  made  him 
self  exceedingly  merry  with  the  ghost  story  of 
young  Grayling.  In  those  days,  however,  the  an 
cient  Superstition  was  not  so  feeble  as  she  has 
subsequently  become.  The  venerable  judge  was 
one  of  those  good  men  who  had  a  decent  respect 
for  the  faith  and  opinions  of  his  ancestors ;  and 
though  he  certainly  would  not  have  consented  to 
the  hanging  of  Macleod  under  the  sort  of  testi 
mony  which  had  been  adduced,  he  yet  saw 
enough,  in  all  the  circumstances,  to  justify  his 
present  detention.  In  the  mean  time,  efforts  were 
to  be  made,  to  ascertain  the  whereabouts  of  Major 
Spencer ;  though,  were  he  even  missing,' — so  the 
counsel  for  Macleod  contended, — his  death  could 
be  by  no  means  assumed  in  consequence.  To 
this  the  judge  shook  his  head  doubtfully.  "'Fore 
God  !"  said  he,  "  I  would  not  have  you  to  be  too 
sure  of  that."  He  was  an  Irishman,  and  pro 
ceeded  after  the  fashion  of  his  country.  The 
reader  will  therefore  bear  with  his  bull.  "  A  man 
may  properly  be  hung  for  murdering  another, 
though  the  murdered  man  be  not  dead  ;  ay,  before 
God,  even  though  he  be  actually  unhurt  and  un 
injured,  while  the  murderer  is  swinging  by  the 
neck  for  the  bloody  deed  !" 


WILLIAM    GILMORE    SIMMS. 


515 


The  judge, — who  it  must  be  understood  was  a 
real  existence,  and  who  had  no  small  reputation 
in  his  day  in  the  south, — proceeded  to  establish 
the  correctness  of  his  opinions  by  authorities  and 
argument,  with  all  of  which,  doubtlessly,  the  bar 
were  exceedingly  delighted ;  but,  to  provide  them  | 
in  this  place  would  only  be  to  interfere  with  our 
own  progress.  James  Grayling,  however,  was  j 
not  satisfied  to  wait  the  slow  processes  which  were 
suggested  for  coming  at  the  truth.  Even  the 
wisdom  of  the  judge  was  lost  upon  him,  possibly, 
for  the  simple  reason  that  he  did  not  comprehend  • 
it.  But  the  ridicule  of  the  culprit's  lawyer  stung 
him  to  the  quick,  and  he  muttered  to  himself, 
more  than  once,  a  determination  "  to  lick  the  life 
out  of  that  impudent  chap's  leather."  But  this 
was  not  his  only  resolve.  There  was  one  which  l 
he  proceeded  to  put  into  instant  execution,  and 
that  was  to  seek  the  body  of  his  murdered  friend 
in  the  spot  where  he  fancied  it  might  be  found — 
namely,  the  dark  and  dismal  bay  where  the  spectre 
had  made  its  appearance  to  his  eyes. 

The  suggestion  was  approved — though  he  did  j 
not  need   this  to  prompt  his  resolution — by  his   i 
mother  and  uncle,  Sparkman.     The  latter  deter-  j 
mined  to  be  his  companion,  and  he  was  farther  j 
accompanied   by    the    sheriff's   officer    who    had   j 
arrested  the  suspected  felon.     Before  daylight,  on  | 
the   morning   after    the    examination    before    the 
judge  had   taken   place,  and  when   Macleod  had   ! 
been  remanded  to  prison,  James  Grayling  started 
on  his  journey.     His  fiery  zeal  received  additional 
force  at  every  added  moment  of  delay,  and  his 
eager  spurring  brought  him  at  an  early  hour  after 
noon,  to  the  neighbourhood  of  the  spot  through 
which  his  search  was  to  be   made.     When  his  \ 
companions   and   himself  drew  nigh,  they   were 
all  at  a  loss  in  which  direction   first  to  proceed. 
The  bay  was  one  of  those  massed  forests,  whose 
wall  of  thorns,  vines,  and  close  tenacious  shrubs, 
seemed   to   defy   invasion.     To    the    eye    of  the 
townsman  it  was  so  forbidding  that  he  pronounced 
it  absolutely  impenetrable.     But  James  was  not  to  J 
be  baffled.     He  led  them  round  it,  taking  the  very 
course  which  he  had  pursued  the  night  when  the 
revelation  was  made  him ;  he  showed  them  the 
very  tree  at  whose  foot  he   had   sunk  when   the  | 
supernatural  torpor — as  he  himself  esteemed  it —  J 
began  to  fall  upon  him  ;  he  then  pointed  out  the 
spot,    some   twenty   steps    distant,    at  which   the 
spectre  made  his  appearance.     To  this  spot  they 
then   proceeded   in   a   body,  and   essayed  an  en 
trance,  but  were  so  discouraged  by  the  difficulties 
at  the  outset,  that  all,  James  not   excepted,  con 
cluded  that  neither  the  murderer  nor  his  victim 
could  possibly  have  found  entrance  there. 

But,  lo!    a  marvel!     Such    it  seemed,  at  the   j 
first   blush,  to   all  the   party.      While   they  stood   , 
confounded  and  indecisive,  undetermined  in  which 
way  to  move,  a  sudden  flight  of  wings  was  heard, 
even  from  the  centre  of  the  bay,  at  a  little  distance 
above  the  spot  where  they  had  striven  for  entrance. 
They  looked  up,  and  beheld  about  fifty  buzzards — 
those  notorious  domestic  vultures  of  the  south — 
ascending  from  the  interior  of  the  bay,  and  perch 


ing  along  upon  the  branches  of  the  loftier  trees  by 
which  it  was  overhung.  Even  were  the  character 
of  these  birds  Jess  known,  the  particular  business 
in  which  they  had  just  then  been  engaged,  was 
betrayed  by  huge  gobbets  of  flesh  which  some  of 
them  had  borne  aloft  in  their  flight,  and  still  con 
tinued  to  rend  with  beak  arid  bill,  as  they  tottered 
upon  the  branches  where  they  stood.  A  piercing 
scream  issued  from  the  lips  of  James  Grayling  as 
he  beheld  this  sight,  and  strove  to  scare  the  offen 
sive  birds  from  their  repast. 

"  The  poor  major !  the  poor  major !"  was  the 
involuntary  and  agonized  exclamation  of  the 
youth.  "  Did  I  ever  think  he  would  come  to 
this !" 

The  search,  thus  guided  and  encouraged,  was 
pressed  with  renewed  diligence  and  spirit;  and,  at 
length,  an  opening  was  found  through  which  it 
was  evident  that  a  body  of  considerable  size  had 
but  recently  gone.  The  branches  were  broken 
from  the  small  shrub  trees,  and  the  undergrowth 
trodden  into  the  earth.  They  followed  this  path, 
and,  as  is  the  case  commonly  with  waste  tracts 
of  this  description,  the  density  of  the  growth  di 
minished  sensibly  at  every  step  they  took,  till  they 
reached  a  little  pond,  which,  though  circumscribed 
in  area,  and  full  of  cypresses,  yet  proved  to  be 
singularly  deep.  Indeed,  it  was  aa  alligator-hole, 
where,  in  all  probability,  a  numerous  tribe  of  these 
reptiles  had  their  dwelling.  Hero,  on  the  edge  of 
the  pond,  they  discovered  the  object  which  had 
drawn  the  keen-sighted  vultures  to  their  feast,  in 
the  body  of  a  horse,  which  James  Grayling  at 
once  identified  as  that  of  Maj  >r  Spencer.  The 
carcass  of  the  animal  was  already  very  much  torn 
and  lacerated.  The  eyes  were  plucked  out,  and 
the  animal  completely  disembowelled.  Yet,  on 
examination,  it  was  not  difficult  to  discover  the 
manner  of  his  death.  This  had  been  effected  by 
fire-arms.  Two  bullets  had  passed  through  his 
skull,  just  above  the  eyes,  either  of  which  must 
have  been  fatal.  The  murderer  had  led  the  horse 
to  the  spot,  and  committed  the  cruel  deed  where 
his  body  was  found.  The  search  was  now  con 
tinued  for  that  of  the  owner,  but  for  some  time  it 
proved  ineffectual.  At  length,  the  keen  eyes  of 
James  Grayling  detected,  amidst  a  heap  of  moss 
and  green  sedge  that  rested  beside  an  overthrown 
tree,  whose  branches  jutted  into  the  pond,  a  whi 
tish,  but  discoloured  object,  that  did  not  seem  na 
tive  to  the  place.  Bestriding  the  fallen  tree,  he 
was  enabled  to  reach  this  object,  which,  with  a 
burst  of  grief,  he  announced  to  the  distant  party 
was  the  hand  and  arm  of  his  unfortunate  friend, 
the  wristband  of  the  shirt  being  the  conspicuous 
object  which  had  first  caught  his  eye.  Grasping 
this,  he  drew  the  corse,  which  had  been  thrust 
beneath  the  branches  of  the  tree,  to  the  surface ; 
and,  with  the  assistance  of  his  uncle,  it  was  finally 
brought  to  the  dry  land.  Here  it  underwent  a 
careful  examination.  The  head  was  very  much 
disfigured;  the  skull  was  fractured  in  several 
places  by  repeated  blows  of  some  hard  instrument, 
inflicted  chiefly  from  behind.  A  closer  inspection 
revealed  a  bullet-hole  in  the  abdomen,  the  first 


516 


WILLIAM    GILMORE    SIMMS. 


wound,  in  all  probability,  which  the  unfortunate 
gentleman  received,  and  by  which  he  was,  perhaps, 
tumbled  from  his  horse.  The  blows  on  the  head 
would  seem  to  have  been  unnecessary,  unless  the 
murderer — whose  proceedings  appeared  to  have 
been  singularly  deliberate, — was  resolved  upon 
making  "  assurance  doubly  sure."  But,  as  if  the 
watchful  Providence  had  meant  that  nothing 
should  be  left  doubtful  which  might  tend  to  the 
complete  conviction  of  the  criminal,  the  constable 
stumbled  upon  the  butt  of  the  broken  pistol  which 
bad  been  found  in  Macleod's  trunk.  This  he 
picked  up  on  the  edge  of  the  pond  in  which  the 
corse  had  been  discovered,  and  while  James  Gray 
ling  and  his  uncle,  Sparkman,  were  engaged  in 
drawing  it  from  the  water.  The  place  where  the 
fragment  was  discovered  at  once  denoted  the  pis 
tol  as  the  instrument  by  which  the  final  blows 
were  inflicted.  "'Fore  God,"  said  the  judge  to 
the  criminal,  as  these  proofs  were  submitted  on  the 
trial,  "  you  may  be  a  very  innocent  man  after  all, 
as,  by  my  faith,  I  do  think  there  have  been  many 
murderers  before  you ;  but  you  ought,  neverthe 
less,  to  be  hung  as  an  example  to  all  other  per 
sons  who  suffer  such  strong  proofs  of  guilt  to 
follow  their  innocent  misdoings.  Gentlemen  of 
the  jury,  if  this  person,  Macleod  or  Macnab,  didn't 
murder  Major  Spencer,  either  you  or  I  did ;  and 
you  must  now  decide  which  of  us  it  is !  I  say, 
gentlemen  of  the  jury,  either  you,  or  I,  or  the 
prisoner  at  the  bar,  murdered  this  man  ;  and  if  you 
have  any  doubts  which  of  us  it  was,  it  is  but  jus 
tice  and  mercy  that  you  should  give  the  prisoner 
the  benefit  of  your  doubts ;  and  so  find  your  ver 
dict.  But,  before  God,  should  you  find  him  not 
guilty,  Mr.  Attorney  there  can  scarcely  do  any 
thing  wiser  than  to  put  us  all  upon  trial  for  the 
deed." 

The  jury,  it  may  be  scarcely  necessary  to  add, 
perhaps  under  certain  becoming  fears  of  an  alter 
native  such  as  his  honour  had  suggested,  brought 
in  a  verdict  of  "  Guilty,"  without  leaving  the 
panel;  and  Macnab,  alias  Macleod,  was  hung  at 
White  Point,  Charleston,  somewhere  about  the 
year  1 78-. 

"  And  here,"  said  my  grandmother,  devoutly, 
"you  behold  a  proof  of  God's  watchfulness  to  see 
that  murder  should  not  be  hidden,  and  that  the 
murderer  should  not  escape.  You  see  that  he 
sent  the  spirit  of  the  murdered  man — since,  by  no 
other  mode  could  the  truth  have  been  revealed — to 
declare  the  crime,  and  to  discover  the  criminal. 
But  for  that  ghost,  Macnab  would  have  got  off  to 
Scotland,  and  probably  have  been  living  to  this 
very  day  on  the  money  that  he  took  from  the  per 
son  of  the  poor  major." 

As  the  old  lady  finished  the  ghost  story,  which, 
by  the  way,  she  had  been  tempted  to  relate  for 
the  fiftieth  time,  in  order  to  combat  my  father's 
ridicule  of  such  superstitions,  the  latter  took  up 
the  thread  of  the  narrative. 

"  Now,  my  son,"  said  he,  «  as  you  have  heard 
all  that  your  grandmother  has  to  say  on  this  sub 
ject,  I  will  proceed  to  show  you  what  you  have  to 
believe,  and  what  not.  It  is  true  that  Macnab 


murdered  Spencer  in  the  manner  related ;  that 
James  Grayling  made  the  discovery  and  prose 
cuted  the  pursuit ;  found  the  body  and  brought 
the  felon  to  justice  ;  that  Macnab  suffered  death, 
and  confessed  the  crime  ;  alleging  that  he  was 
moved  to  do  so,  as  well  because  of  the  money 
that  he  suspected  Spencer  to  have  in  his  posses 
sion,  as  because  of  the  hate  which  he  felt  for  a 
man  who  had  been  particularly  bold  and  active  in 
cutting  up  a  party  of  Scotch  loyalists  to  which  he 
belonged,  on  the  borders  of  North  Carolina.  But 
the  appearance  of  the  spectre  was  nothing  more 
than  the  work  of  a  quick  imagination,  added  to  a 
shrewd  and  correct  judgment.  James  Grayling 
saw  no  ghost,  in  fact,  but  such  as  was  in  his  own 
mind  ;  and,  though  the  instance  was  one  of  a  most 
remarkable  character,  one  of  singular  combination, 
and  well  depending  circumstances,  still,  I  think  it 
is  to  be  accounted  for  by  natural  and  very  simple 
laws." 

The  old  lady  was  indignant. 

"  And  how  could  he  see  the  ghost  just  on  the 
edge  of  the  same  bay  where  the  murder  had  been 
committed,  and  where  the  body  of  the  murdered 
man  even  then  was  lying?" 

My  father  did  not  directly  answer  the  demand, 
but  proceeded  thus  : — 

"  James  Grayling,  as  we  know,  mother,  was  a 
very  ardent,  impetuous,  sagacious  man.  He  had 
the  sanguine,  the  race-horse  temperament.  He 
was  generous,  always  prompt  and  ready,  and  one 
who  never  went  backward.  What  he  did,  he 
did  quickly,  boldly,  and  thoroughly  !  He  never 
shrank  from  trouble  of  any  kind  :  nay,  he  re 
joiced  ift  the  constant  encounter  with  difficulty 
and  trial ;  and  his  was  the  temper  which  com 
mands  and  enthrals  mankind.  He  felt  deeply 
and  intensely  whatever  occupied  his  mind,  and 
when  he  parted  from  his  friend  he  brooded  over 
little  else  than  their  past  communion  and  the 
great  distance  by  which  they  were  to  be  sepa 
rated.  The  dull  travelling  wagon-gait  at  which 
he  himself  was  compelled  to  go,  was  a  source  of 
annoyance  to  him ;  and  he  became  sullen,  all  the 
day,  after  the  departure  of  his  friend.  When,  on 
the  evening  of  the  next  day,  he  came  to  the  house 
where  it  was  natural  to  expect  that  Major  Spencer 
would  have  slept  the  night  before,  and  he  learned 
the  fact  that  no  one  stopped  there  but  the  Scotch 
man,  Macnab,  we  see  that  he  was  struck  with  the 
circumstance.  He  mutters  it  over  to  himself, 
"  Strange,  where  the  major  could  have  gone  !" 
His  mind  then  naturally  reverts  to  the  character 
of  the  Scotchman ;  to  the  opinions  and  suspicions 
which  had  been  already  expressed  of  him  by  his 
uncle,  and  felt  by  himself.  They  had  all,  pre 
viously,  come  to  the  full  conviction  that  Macnab 
was,  and  had  always  been,  a  tory,  in  spite  of  his 
protestations.  His  mind  next,  and  very  naturally, 
reverted  to  the  insecurity  of  the  highways ;  the 
general  dangers  of  travelling  at  that  period  ;  the 
frequency  of  crime,  and  the  number  of  desperate 
men  who  were  everywhere  to  be  met  with.  The 
very  employment  in  which  he  was  then  engaged, 
in  scouting  the  woods  for  the  protection  of  the 


WILLIAM    GILMORE    SIMMS. 


517 


camp,  was  calculated  to  bring  such  reflections  to 
his  mind.  If  these  precautions  were  considered 
necessary  for  the  safety  of  persons  so  poor,  so 
wanting  in  those  possessions  which  might  prompt 
cupidity  to  crime,  how  much  more  necessary  were 
precautions  in  the  case  of  a  wealthy  gentleman 
like  Major  Spencer!  He  then  remembered  the 
conversation  with  the  major  at  the  camp-fire,  when 
they  fancied  that  the  Scotchman  was  sleeping. 
How  natural  to  think  then,  that  he  was  all  the 
while  awake ;  and,  if  awake,  he  must  have  heard 
him  speak  of  the  wealth  of  his  companion.  True, 
the  major,  with  more  prudence  than  himself,  denied 
that  he  had  any  money  about  him,  more  than  would 
bear  his  expenses  to  the  city  ;  but  such  an  assurance 
was  natural  enough  to  the  lips  of  a  traveller  who 
knew  the  dangers  of  the  country.  That  the  man, 
Macnab,  was  not  a  person  to  be  trusted,  was  the 
equal  impression  of  Joel  Sparkman  and  his  nephew 
from  the  first.  The  probabilities  were  strong  that 
he  would  rob  and  perhaps  murder,  if  he  might  hope 
to  do  so  with  impunity  ;  and  as  the  youth  made  the 
cjrcuit  of  the  bay  in  the  darkness  and  solemn  still 
ness  of  the  night,  its  gloomy  depths  and  mournful 
shadows,  naturally  gave  rise  to  such  reflections  as 
would  be  equally  active  in  the  mind  of  a  youth,  and 
of  one  somewhat  familiar  with  the  arts  and  usages 
of  strife.  He  would  see  that  the  spot  was  just  the 
one  in  which  a  practised  partisan  would  delight  to 
set  an  ambush  for  an  unwary  foe.  There  ran  the 
public  road,  with  a  little  sweep,  around  two-thirds 
of  the  extent  of  its  dense  and  impenetrable  thickets. 
The  ambush  could  lie  concealed,  and  at  ten  steps 
command  the  bosom  of  its  victim.  Here,  then,  you 
perceive  that  the  mind  of  James  Grayling,  stimu 
lated  by  an  active  and  sagacious  judgment,  had  by 
gradual  and  reasonable  stages  come  to  these  con 
clusions  :  that  Major  Spencer  was  an  object  to 
tempt  a  robber ;  that  the  country  was  full  of  rob 
bers  ;  that  Macnab  was  one  of  them  ;  that  this  was 
the  very  spot  in  which  a  deed  of  blood  could  be 
most  easily  committed,  and  most  easily  concealed; 
and,  one  important  fact,  that  gave  strength  and 
coherence  to  the  whole,  that  Major  Spencer  had  not 
reached  a  well-known  point  of  destination,  while 
Macnab  had. 

"  With  these  thoughts,  thus  closely  linked  to 
gether,  the  youth  forgets  the  limits  of  his  watch 
and  his  circuit.  This  fact,  alone,  proves  how  active 
his  imagination  had  become.  It  leads  him  forward, 
brooding  more  and  more  on  the  subject,  until,  in  the 
very  exhaustion  of  his  body,  he  sinks  down  beneath 
a  tree.  He  sinks  down  and  falls  asleep ;  and  in  his 
sleep,  what  before  was  plausible  conjecture,  becomes 
fact,  and  the  creative  properties  of  his  imagination 
give  form  and  vitality  to  all  his  fancies.  These 
forms  are  bold',  broad,  and  deeply  coloured,  in  due 
proportion  with  the  degree  of  force  which  they  re 
ceive  from  probability.  Here,  he  sees  the  image  of 
his  friend  ;  but,  you  will  remark — and  this  should 
almost  conclusively  satisfy  any  mind  that  all  that 
he  sees  is  the  work  of  his  imagination, — that, 
though  Spencer  tells  him  that  he  is  murdered,  and 
by  Macnab,  he  does  not  tell  him  how,  in  what 
manner,  or  with  what  weapons.  Though  he  sees 


him  pale  and  ghostlike,  he  does  not  see,  nor  can  he 
say,  where  his  wounds  are !  He  sees  his  pale  fea 
tures  distinctly,  and  his  garments  are  bloody.  Now, 
had  he  seen  the  spectre  in  the  true  appearances  of 
death,  as  he  was  subsequently  found,  he  would  not 
have  been  able  to  discern  his  features,  which  were 
battered,  according  to  his  own  account,  almost  out 
of  all  shape  of  humanity,  and  covered  with  mud ; 
while  his  clothes  would  have  streamed  with  mud 
and  water,  rather  than  with  blood." 

"  Ah  !"  exclaimed  the  old  lady,  my  grandmother, 
"  it's  hard  to  make  you  believe  any  thing  that  you 
don't  see ;  you  are  like  Saint  Thomas  in  the  Scrip 
tures  ;  but  how  do  you  propose  to  account  for  his 
knowing  that  the  Scotchman  was  on  board  the 
Falmouth  packet]  Answer  to  that!" 

"  That  is  not  a  more  difficult  matter  than  any  of 
the  rest.  You  forget  that  in  the  dialogue  which 
took  place  between  James  and  Major  Spencer  at 
the  camp,  the  latter  told  him  that  he  was  about  to 
take  passage  for  Europe  in  the  Falmouth  packet, 
which  then  lay  in  Charleston  harbour,  and  was 
about  to  sail.  Macnab  heard  all  that." 

"  True  enough,  and  likely  enough,"  returned 
the  old  lady  ;  "  but,  though  you  show  that  it  was 
Major  Spencer's  intention  to  go  to  Europe  in  the 
Falmouth  packet,  that  will  not  show  that  it  was 
also  the  intention  of  the  murderer." 

"  Yet  what  more  probable,  and  how  natural  for 
James  Grayling  to  imagine  such  a  thing  !  In  the 
first  place  he  knew  that  Macnab  was  a  Briton  ;  he 
felt  convinced  that  he  was  a  tory ;  and  the  infer 
ence  was  immediate,  that  such  a  person  would 
scarcely  have  remained  long  in  a  country  where 
such  characters  laboured  under  so  much  odium, 
disfranchisement,  and  constant  danger  from  popu 
lar  tumults.  The  fact  that  Macnab  was  compelled 
to  disguise  his  true  sentiments,  and  affect  those  of 
the  people  against  whom  he  fought  so  vindictively, 
shows  what  was  his  sense  of  the  danger  which  he 
incurred.  Now,  it  is  not  unlikely  that  Macnab 
was  quite  as  well  aware  that  the  Falmouth  packet 
was  in  Charleston,  and  about  to  sail,  as  Major  Spen 
cer.  No  doubt  he  was  pursuing  the  same  journey, 
with  the  same  object,  and  had  he  not  murdered  Spen 
cer,  they  would,  very  likely,  have  been  fellow-pas 
sengers  together  to  Europe.  But,  whether  he  knew 
the  fact  before  or  not,  he  probably  heard  it  stated 
by  Spencer  while  he  seemed  to  be  sleeping ;  and, 
even  supposing  that  he  did  not  then  know,  it  was 
enough  that  he  found  this  to  be  the  fact  on  reach 
ing  the  city.  It  was  an  after-thought  to  fly  to 
Europe  with  his  ill-gotten  spoils ;  and  whatever 
may  have  appeared  a  politic  course  to  the  criminal, 
would  be  a  probable  conjecture  in  the  mind  of  him 
by  whom  he  was  suspected.  The  whole  story  is 
one  of  strong  probabilities  which  happened  to  be 

verified He  never,  my  son,  saw  any  other 

ghosts  than  those  of  his  own  making  !" 

I  heard  my  father  with  great  patience  to  the 
end,  though,  he  seemed  very  tedious.  He  had 
taken  a  great  deal  of  pains  to  destroy  one  of  my 
greatest  sources  of  pleasure.  I  need  not  add  that 
I  continued  to  believe  in  the  ghost,  and,  with  my 
grandmother,  to  reject  the  philosophy. 
2X 


JOSEPH   C.  NEAL. 


[Born  1807.  Died  1847.] 


THE  author  of  Charcoal  Sketches  was  born 
in  Greenland  in  New  Hampshire  on  the  third 
of  February,  1807.  His  father  had  been  for 
many  years  principal  of  a  popular  academy  in 
Philadelphia,  and  was  now  minister  of  a  Con 
gregational  church, — a  retirement  to  the  coun 
try  and  from  the  arduous  duties  in  which  he 
had  been  engaged  having  been  rendered  neces 
sary  by  ill  health.  He  died  when  our  author, 
his  only  son,  was  about  two  years  of  age,  and 
his  family  soon  after  returned  to  Philadelphia. 

Mr.  Neal  resided  several  years  in  the  village 
of  Potts ville,  but  in  1831  he  settled  in  Phila 
delphia  as  editor  of  The  Pennsylvanian,  a 
journal  which  has  since  been  conspicuous  for 
its  influence  on  the  political  character  of  the 
state,  and  for  a  certain  liveliness  and  courtesy 
which  do  not  commonly  distinguish  the  organs 
of  contending  parties.  For  about  ten  years 
his  devotion  to  the  arduous  duties  of  his  pro 
fession  was  unremitted;  but  at  length  his 
health  failed,  and,  in  1841,  he  travelled  in 
Europe  and  Africa  in  the  hope  of  deriving 
benefit  from  relaxation  and  change  of  scene. 
He  returned  in  the  following  year,  and  was 
able  to  resume  his  occupation ;  but  he  finally 
retired  from  the  Pennsylvanian  in  1844,  to 
enter  upon  the  lighter  and  more  congenial 
business  of  conducting  a  weekly  literary  mis 
cellany  which  he  established  in  the  autumn 
of  that  year  under  the  title  of  Neal's  Saturday 
Gazette.  The  reputation  he  had  acquired  dur 
ing  his  long  connection  with  the  press,  par 
ticularly  as  a  writer  of  wit  and  humour,  se 
cured  for  this  periodical  an  immediate  success 
which  has  rarely  been  paralleled ;  and  it  ap 
pears  to  have  grown  steadily  in  the  popular 
favour,  as  every  week  has  brought  increase 
of  its  circulation. 

Mr.  Neal's  first  compositions,  of  that  class 
for  which  he  is  chiefly  distinguished,  appeared 
under  the  title  of  City  Worthies,  in  The  Penn 
sylvanian,  soon  after  the  establishment  of  that 
journal,  and  were  reprinted  and  praised  in  a 
large  proportion  of  the  newspapers  of  the 
country.  In  1837  he  published  Charcoal 
Sketches,  or  Scenes  in  a  Metropolis,  in  which 

518 


|  he  drew,  with  remarkable  spirit  and  fidelity, 

a  class  of  characters  always  floating  near  the 

i  bottom  in  great  cities.     Of  this  work  several 

!  large  editions  have  been  sold  in  the  United 

j  States,  and  it  was  republished  in  London, 

under  the  auspices  of  Mr.  Dickens.     In  1844 

he  published  Peter  Ploddy  and  other  Oddities, 

and  he  has  since  given  to  the  public  a  new 

series  of  Charcoal  Sketches  in  his  Gazette. 

The  effect  of  many  of  Mr.  Neal's  portrait 
ures  is  injured  by  the  use  of  descriptive  names, 
such  as  "Fydget  Fixington,"  "Tippleton 
Tipps,"  "Shiverton  Shakes,"  and  "  Slyder 
Downehylle,"  in  which  there  is  exhibited  no 
humour,  and  but  a  puerile  invention.  This 
sort  of  nomenclature  prevents  the  interest 
which  might  arise  from  the  gradual  disco 
very  of  a  person's  peculiarities  from  conver 
sation  and  action,  and  shows  a  consciousness 
of  a  want  of  power  to  individualize  in  any 
other  manner.  The  system  is  allowable  only 
in  allegory,  and  even  in  this  sort  of  writing 
should  be  used  with  great  caution  and  judg 
ment.  Mr.  Neal  is  a  very  good  moral  philo 
sopher,  of  a  certain  sort,  or  rather,  a  moral 
historian,  who  is  not  so  careful  of  the  dignity 
of  his  subject  as  to  refrain  from  an  occasional 
exhibition  of  it  in  undress.  It  is  sometimes 
apparent,  however,  that  he  is  a  describer  and 
narrator  only,  without  that  genial  sympathy 
with  his  own  creations  which  is  necessary  to 
give  them  an  actual  existence  to  the  mind. 
His  style  is  compact  and  pointed,  abounding 
in  droll  combinations,  and  peculiar  phrases, 
which  have  the  ease  and  naturalness  of  tran 
scripts  of  real  conversations. 

Mr.  Neal's  style  in  other  compositions  is 
neat  and  graceful,  and  frequently  sparkling 
and  witty.  He  had  too  much  good  nature  to 
be  caustic,  and  too  much  refinement  to  be 
coarse.  It  evinces  ingenuousness,  sincerity, 
and  manly  feeling. 

— Mr.  Neal  continued  in  the  editorship  of 
The  Saturday  Gazette,  until  the  third  of  July, 
1848,  when  he  died,  very  suddenly,  in  Philadel 
phia.  A  second  series  of  his  Charcoal  Sketches 
has  since  been  published  by  his  widow. 


JOSEPH    C.   NEAL. 


519 


A  PRETTY  TIME  OF  NIGHT. 

FROM   SECOIVD   SERIES   OF   CHARCOAL  SKETCHES. 

WE  know  it  to  be  theoretical  in  certain  schools — 
in  the  kitchen,  for  instance,  which  is  the  most  ortho 
dox  and  sensible  of  the  schools — that,  as  a  general 
rule,  the  leading  features  of  character  are  indicated 
by  the  mode  in  which  we  pull  a  bell ;  and  that,  to 
a  considerable  extent,  we  may  infer  the  kind  of 
person  who  is  at  the  door — just  as  we  do  the  kind 
of  fish  that  bobs  the  cork — by  the  species  of  vibra 
tion  which  is  given  to  the  wire.     Rash,  impetuous,   , 
choleric  and  destructive,  what  chance  has  the  poor   ! 
little  bell  in  such  hands'?     But  the  considerate,   ! 
modest,  lowly  and  retiring — do  you  ever  know  such   i 
people  to  break  things?     Depend  upon  it,  too,  that 
our  self-estimate  is  largely  indicated  by  our  conduct  | 
in  this  respect.    If  it  does  not  betray  what  we  really   i 
are,  it  most  assuredly  discloses  the  temper  of  the 
mind  at  the  moment  of  our  ringing. 

«  Tinkle !" 

Did  you  hear? 

Nothing  could  be  more  amiable  or  more  unob 
trusive  than  that.  It  would  scarcely  disturb  the 
nervous  system  of  a  mouse ;  and  whoever  listened 
to  it,  might  at  once  understand,  that  it  was  the  soft 
tintinnabulary  whisper  of  a  gentleman  of  the  con 
vivial  turn  and  of  the  "  locked  out"  description, 
who,  conscious  probably  of  default,  is  desirous  of 
being  admitted  to  his  domiciliary  comforts,  upon 
the  most  pacific  and  silent  terms  that  can  be  ob 
tained  from  those  who  hold  the  citadel  and  possess 
the  inside  of  the  door. 

«  Tinkle !" 

Who  can  doubt  that  he — Mr.  Tinkle — would 
take  off  his  boots  and  go  up  stairs  in  his  stocking- 
feet,  muttering  rebuke  to  every  step  that  creaked  1 
What  a  deprecating  mildness  there  is  in  the  de 
portment  of  the  "  great  locked  out !"  How  gently 
do  they  tap,  and  how  softly  do  they  ring;  while 
perchance,  in  due  proportion  to  their  enjoyment  in 
untimely  and  protracted  revel,  is  the  penitential 
aspect  of  their  return.  There  is  a  "  never-do-so- 
any-more-ishness"all  about  them — yea — even  about 
the  bully  boys  "  who  would'nt  go  home  till  morn 
ing — till  daylight  does  appear,"  singing  up  to  the 
very  door ;  and  when  they 

«  Tinkle !" 

It  is  intended  as  a  hint  merely,  and  not  as  a  broad 
annunciation — insinuated — not  proclaimed  aloud 
— that  somebody  who  is  very  sorry — who  "  didn't 
go  to  help  it,"  and  all  that — is  at  the  threshold, 
and  that  if  it  be  the  same  to  you,  he  would  be  ex 
ceeding  glad  to  come  in,  with  as  little  of  scolding 
and  rebuke  as  may  be  thought  likely  to  answer  the 
purpose.  There  is  a  hope  in  it — a  subdued  hope — 

«  Tinkle !" 

— that  perchance  a  member  of  the  family — good- 
natured  as  well  as  insomnolent — may  be  spon 
taneously  awake,  and  disposed  to  open  the  door 
without  clamouring  up  Malcolm,  Donalbain,  and 
the  whole  house.  Why  should  every  one  know  7 
But — 

"  Tinkle— tankle !" 

Even  patience  itself — on  a  damp,  chilly,  un 


wholesome  night — patience  at  the  street  door,  all 
alone  by  itself  and  disposed  to  slumber — as  patience 
is  apt  to  be  after  patience  has  been  partaking  of 
potations  and  of  collations — even  patience  itself 
cannot  be  expected  to  remain  tinkling  there — 
"  pianissimo" — hour  after  hour,  as  if  there  were 
nothing  else  in  this  world  worthy  of  attention  but 
the  ringing  of  bells.  Who  can  be  surprised,  that 
patience  at  last  becomes  reckless  and  desperate,  let 
the  consequences — rhinoceroses  or  Hyrcan  tigers 
— assume  what  shape  they  may  1 

There  is  a  furious  stampede  upon  the  marble — 
a  fierce  word  or  two  of  scathing  Saxon,  and  then — 

"Rangle— ja-a-a-ngle — ra-a-a-ng!!!" — the  sound 
being  of  that  sharp,  stinging,  excruciating  kind, 
which  leads  to  the  conclusion  that  somebody  is 
"  worse,"  and  is  getting  in  a  rage. 

That  one,  let  me  tell  you,  was  Mr.  Dawson  Daw 
dle,  in  whom  wrath  had  surmounted  discretion,  and 
who,  as  a  forlorn  hope,  had  now  determined  to 
make  good  his  entrance — assault,  storm,  escalade 
— at  any  hazard  and  at  any  cost.  Dawson  Dawdle 
was  furious  now — "  sevagerous" — as  you  have 
been,  probably,  when  kept  at  the  door  till  your 
teeth  rattled  like  castanets  and  cachuchas. 

Passion  is  picturesque  in  attitude  as  well  as 
poetic  in  expression.  Dawson  Dawdle  braced  his 
feet  one  on  each  side  of  the  door-post,  as  a  pur 
chase,  and  tugged  at  the  bell  with  both  hands, 
until  windows  flew  up  in  all  directions,  and  night- 
capped  heads  in  curious  variety  were  projected 
into  the  gloom.  Something  seemed  to  be  the 
matter  at  Dawdle's. 

"  Who's  sick  ?"  cried  one. 

"Where's  the  fire?"  asked  another. 

"  The  Mexicans  are  come !"  shouted  a  third. 
But  Dawson  Dawdle  had  reached  that  state  of  in 
tensity,  which  is  regardless  of  every  consideration 
but  that  of  the  business  in  hand,  and  he  continued 
to  pull  away,  as  if  at  work  by  the  job,  while  several 
observing  watchmen  stood  by  in  admiration  of  his 
zeal.  Yet  there  was  no  answer  to  this  pealing 
appeal  for  admittance — not  that  Mrs.  Dawson  Daw 
dle  was  deaf — not  she — nor  dumb  either.  Nay, 
she  had  recognised  Mr.  Dawdle's  returning  step 
— that  husband's  "  foot,"  which  should,  according 
to  the  poet, 

"Have  music  in't, 
As  he  comes  up  the  stair." 

But  Dawdle  was  allowed  to  make  his  music  in 
the  street,  while  his  wife — obdurate — listened  with 
a  smile  bordering,  we  fear,  a  little  upon  exultation, 
at  his  progressive  lessons  and  rapid  improvements 
in  the  art  of  ringing  "  triple-bob-majors." 

«  Let  him  wait,"  remarked  Mrs.  Dawson  Daw 
die ;  "  let  him  wait — 'twill  do  him  good.  I'm  sure 
I've  been  waiting  long  enough  for  him." 

And  so  she  had ;  but,  though  there  be  a  doubt 
whether  this  process  of  waiting  had  "  done  good" 
in  her  own  case,  yet  if  there  be  truth  or  justice 
in  the  vengeful  practice  which  would  have  us  act 
towards  others  precisely  as  they  deport  themselves 
to  us, — and  every  one  concedes  that  it  is  very 
agreeable,  however  wrong,  to  carry  on  the  war 
after  this  fashion, — Mrs.  Dawson  Dawdle  could 


520 


JOSEPH    C.  NEAL. 


have  little  difficulty  in  justifying  herself  for  the 
course  adopted. 

Only  to  think  of  it,  now ! 

Mrs.  Dawson  Dawdle  is  one  of  those  natural 
and  proper  people,  who  become  sleepy  of  evenings, 
and  who  are  rather  apt  to  yawn  after  tea.  Mr. 
Dawson  Dawdle,  on  the  other  hand,  is  of  the  un 
natural  and  improper  species,  who  are  not  sleepy 
or  yawny  of  evenings — never  so,  except  of  morn 
ings.  Dawson  insists  on  it  that  he  is  no  chicken 
to  go  to  roost  at  sundown ;  while  Mrs.  Dawson 
Dawdle  rises  with  the  lark.  The  larks  he  prefers, 
are  larks  at  night.  Now,  as  a  corrective  to  these 
differences  o^  opinion,  Dawson  Dawdle  had  been 
cunningly  deprived  of  his  pass-key,  that  he  might 
be  induced  "  to  remember  not  to  forget"  to  come 
home  betimes — a  thing  he  was  not  apt  to  remember, 
especially  if  good  companionship  intervened. 

Thus,  Mrs.  Dawdle  was  »  waiting  up"  for  him.  •  •  • 

To  indulge  in  an  episode  here,  apropos  to  the 
general  principle  involved,  it  may  be  said,  perti 
nently  enough,  that  this  matter  of  waiting,  if  you 
have  nerves — "  waiting  up,"  or  "  waiting  down" — 
choose  either  branch  of  the  dilemma — is  not  to  be 
ranged  under  the  head  of  popular  amusements,  or 
classified  in  the  category  of  enlivening  recreation. 
To  wait — who  has  not  waited  1 — fix  it  as  we  will 
— is  always  more  or  less  of  a  trial ;  and  whether 
the  arrangement  be  for  "  waiting  up" — disdainful 
of  sleep — or  for  "  waiting  down" — covetous  of 
dozes — it  rarely  happens  that  the  intervals  are  em 
ployed  in  the  invocation  of  other  than  left-handed 
blessings,  on  the  head  of  those  who  have  caused 
this  deviation  from  comfortable  routine ;  or  that, 
on  their  tardy  arrival — people  conscious  of  being 
waited  for,  always  stay  out  as  long  and  as  pro- 
vokingly  as  they  can — we  find  ourselves  at  all 
disposed  to  amiable  converse,  or  complimentary 
expression. 

And  reason  good.  If  we  lie  down,  for  instance, 
when  my  young  lady  has  gone  to  a  "  Polka  party," 
or  my  young  gentleman  has  travelled  away  to  an 
affair  of  the  convivialities,  do  we  ever  find  it  con 
ducive  to  refreshing  repose,  this  awkward  conscious 
ness,  overpending  like  the  sword  of  Damocles,  that 
sooner  or  later  the  disturbance  must  come,  to  call 
us  startingly  from  dreams?  Nor,  after  we  have 
tossed  and  tumbled  into  a  lethargy,  is  it  to  be  set 
dowji  as  a  pleasure  to  be  aroused,  all  stupid  and 
perplexed,  to  scramble  down  the  stairway,  for  the 
admission  of  delinquents,  who — the  fact  admits  of 
no  exception — ring,  ring,  ring,  or  knock,  knock, 
knock  away,  long  after  you  have  heard  them,  and 
persist  in  goading  you  to  frenzies,  by  peal  upon 
peal,  when  your  very  neck  is  endangered  by  ra 
pidity  of  movement  in  their  behalf.  It  is  a  lucky 
thing  for  them  when  they  so  ungratefully  ask  "  why 
you  didn't  make  haste,"  as  they  always  do,  or  mutter 
about  being  «  kept  there  all  night,"  as  they  surely 
will,  that  despotic  powers  are  unknown  in  these 
regions,  and  that  you  are  not  invested  with  su 
preme  command.  But  now  get  thee  to  sleep  again, 
as  quickly  as  thou  canst,  though  it  may  be  that  the 
task  is  not  the  easiest  in  the  world. 

"  Waiting  up,"  too ;  this  likewise  has  its  delecta 


tions.  The  very  clock  seems  at  last  to  have  entered 
into  the  conspiracy — the  hands  move  with  sluggish 
weariness,  and  there  is  a  laggard  sound  in  the 
swinging  of  the  pendulum,  which  almost  says  that 
time  itself  is  tired,  as  it  ticks  its  progress  to  the 
drowsy  ear.  There  is  a  bustle  in  the  street,  no 
doubt,  as  you  sit  down  doggedly  to  wakefulness ; 
and  many  feet  are  pattering  from  the  theatre  and 
circus.  For  a  time  the  laugh  is  heard,  and  people 
chatter  as  they  pass,  boy  calling  unto  boy,  or  deep- 
mouthed  men  humming  an  untuned  song.  Now 
doors  are  slammed,  and  shutters  closed,  and  bolts 
are  shooting,  in  earnest  of  retirements  for  the  night. 
Forsaken  dogs  bark  round  and  round  the  house, 
and  vocal  cats  beset  the  portico.  The  rumbling  of 
the  hack  dwindles  in  the  distance,  as  the  cabs  roll 
by  from  steamboat  wharf  and  railroad  depot.  You 
are  deserted  and  alone — tired  of  book — sated  with 
newspaper — indisposed  to  thought.  You  nod — ha ! 
ha! — bibetty  bobetty  ! — as  your  hair  smokes  and 
crackles  in  the  lamp.  But  it  is  folly  now  to  peep 
forth.  Will  they  never  come  1  No — do  they  ever, 
until  all  reasonable  patience  is  exhausted  ? — Yes 
— here  they  are  ! — Pshaw ! — sit  still — it  is  but  a 
straggling  step;  and  hour  drags  after  hour,  until 
you  have  resolved  it  o'er  and  o'er  again,  that  this 
shall  be  the  last  of  your  vigils,  let  who  will  request 
it  as  a  favour  that  you  will  be  good  enough  to  sit 
up  for  them.  1  wouldn't  do  it! 

So  it  is  not  at  all  to  be  marvelled  at  that  Mrs. 
Dawson  Dawdle — disposed  as  we  know  her  to  be, 
to  sleepiness  at  times  appropriate  to  sleep — was 
irate  at  the  non-appearance  of  Mr.  Dawson  Daw 
dle,  or  that  after  he  had  reached  home,  she  detained 
him  vengefully  at  the  street  door,  as  an  example  to 
such  dilatoriness  in  general,  for  it  is  a  prevailing 
fault  in  husbandry,  and  that,  in  particular,  being 
thus  kept  out  considerably  longer  than  he  wished 
to  keep  out — too  much  of  a  good  thing  being  good 
for  nothing — he  might  be  taught  better,  on  the 
|  doctrine  of  curing  an  evil  by  aggravation — both 
were  aggravated. 

But  the  difficulty  presents  itself  here,  that  Mr. 
Dawson  Dawdle  has  a  constitutional  defect,  beyond 
reach  of  the  range  of  ordinary  remedial  agents. 
Being  locked  out,  is  curative  to  some  people,  for  at 
least  a  time — till  they  forget  it,  mostly.     But  Daw- 
son  Dawdle  is  the  man  who  is  always  too  late — 
he  must  be  too  late — he  would  not  know  himself 
if  he  were  not  too  late — it  would  not  be  he,  if  he 
were  not  too  late.     Too  late  is  to  him  a  matter  of 
course — a  fixed  result  in  his  nature.    He  had  heard 
j   of  "  soon,"  and   he  believed  that   perhaps  there 
I   might  occasionally  be  something  of  the  sort — spas- 
|   modic  and  accidental — but,  for  his  own  part,  he 
j   had  never  been  there  himself.     And  as  for  "  too 
i   soon ;"  he  regarded  it  as  imaginative  altogether — 
I  an  incredibility.     The  presumption  is,  that  he  must 
have  been  born  an  hour  or  so  too  late,  and  that  he 
had  never  been  able  to  make  up  the  difference.    In 
fact,  Dawson  Dawdle  is  a  man  to  be  relied  on — no 
mistake   as  to  Dawson   Dawdle.     Whenever  he 
makes  an  appointment,  you  are  sure  he  will  not 
keep  it,  which  saves  a  deal  of  trouble  on  your  side 
of  the  question :  and  at  the  best,  if  an  early  hour 


JOSEPH    C.   NEAL. 


521 


be  set,  any  time  will  answer,  in  the  latter  part  of 
the  day.  Dawson  Dawdle  forgets,  too ; — how 
complimentary  it  is  to  be  told  that  engagements 
in  which  we  are  involved  are  so  readily  forgotten ! 
Leave  it  to  the  Dawdles  to  forget ;  and  never  dou 
ble  the  affront  by  an  excuse  that  transcends  the 
original  oftence — Or  else,  Dawson  Dawdle  did 
not  know  it  was  so  late ;  and  yet  Dawson  might 
have  been  sure  of  it.  When  was  it  otherwise  than 
late  with  the  late  Mr.  Dawson  Dawdle  1 

«  Well,"  said  he  at  the  bell-handle  all  this  time, 
"  Well,  I  suppose  it's  late  again — it  rings  as  if  it 
was  late ;  and  somehow  or  other  it  appears  to  me 
that  it  ahvays  is  late,  especially  and  particularly 
when  my  wife  tells  me  to  be  sure  to  be  home  early 
• — 'you,  Dawson,  come  back  soon ;  d'ye  hear ?'  and 
all  that  sort  o'  thing.  I  wish  she  wouldn't — it  puts 
me  out,  to  keep  telling  me  what  I  ought  to  do ; 
and  when  I  have  to  remember  to  come  home  early, 
it  makes  me  forget  all  about  it,  and  discomboberates 
my  ideas  so  that  I'm  a  great  deal  later  than  I 
would  be  if  I  was  left  to  my  own  sagacity.  Let 
me  alone,  and  I'm  great  upon  sagacity  ;  but  yet 
what  is  sagacity  when  it  has  no  key  arid  the  dead- 
latch  is  down  1  What  chance  has  sagacity  got 
when  sagacity's  wife  won't  let  sagacity  in  1  I'll 
have  another  pull  at  the  bell — exercise  is  erood  for 
one's  health." 

This  last  peal — as  peals,  under  such  circum 
stances,  are  apt  to  be — was  louder,  more  sonorous, 
and  in  all  resp::cts  more  terrific  than  any  of  its 
"  illustrious  predecessors,"  practice  in  this  respect 
tending  to  the  improvement  of  skill  on  the  one 
hand,  just  as  it  adds  provocation  to  temper  on  the 
other.  For  a  moment,  the  fate  of  Dawson  Dawdle 
quivered  in  the  scale,  as  the  eye  of  his  exasperated 
lady  glanced  fearfully  round  the  room  for  a  means 
of  retaliation  and  redress.  Nay,  her  hand  rested 
for  an  instant  upon  ji  pitcher,  while  thoughts  of 
hydropathies,  douches,  showerbaths,  Graefenbergs, 
and  Priessnitzes,  in  their  medicinal  application  to 
dilatory  husbands,  presented  themselves  in  quick 
aquatic  succession,  like  the  rushings  of  a  cataract. 
Never  did  man  come  nearer  to  being  drowned  than 
Mr.  Dawsoa  Dawdle. 

"  But  no,"  said  she,  relenting;  "if  he  were  to 
ketch  his  death  o'  cold,  he'd  be  a  great  deal  more 
trouble  than  he  is  now — husbands  with  bad  colds 
— coughing  husbands  and  sneezing  husbands — are 
the  stupidest  and  tiresomest  kind  of  husbands — bad 
as  they  may  be,  ducking  don't  improve  'em.  I'll 
have  recourse  to  moral  suasion  ;  and  if  that  won't 
answer,  I'll  duck  him  afterwards." 

Suddenly  and  in  the  midst  of  a  protracted  jangle, 
the  door  flew  widely  open,  and  displayed  the  form 
of  Mrs.  Dawson  Dawdle,  standing  sublime — silent 
— statuesque — wrapped  in  wrath  and  enveloped  in 
taciturnity.  Dawdle  was  appalled. 

"My  dear!"  and  his  hand  dropped  nervelessly 
from  the  hell-handle.  "M}7  dear,  it's  me — only  me !" 

Not  a  word  of  response  to  the  tender  appeal — 
the  lady  remained  obdurate  in  silence — chilly  and 
voiceless  as  the  marble,  with  her  eyes  sternly  fixed 
upon  the  intruder.  Dawson  Dawdle  felt  himself 
running  down. 

66 


"  My  dear — he  !  he  !"  and  Dawson  laughed  with 
a  melancholy  quaver — « it's  me  that's  come  home 
— you  know  me — it's  late,  I  confess — it's  most  al 
ways  late — and  I — ho !  ho ! — why  don't  you  say 
something,  Mrs.  Dawson  Dawdle  1 — Do  you  think 
I'm  going  to  be  skeercd,  Mrs.  Dawdle"?" 

As  the  parties  thus  confronted  each  other,  Mrs. 
Dawdle's  "  masterly  inactivity"  proved  overwhelm 
ing.  For  reproaches,  Dawson  was  prepared — he 
could  bear  part  in  a  war  of  opinion — the  squabble 
is  easy  to  most  of  us — but  where  are  we  when  the 
antagonist  will  not  deign  to  speuk,  and  environs 
us,  as  it  were,  in  an  ambuscade,  so  that  we  fear 
the  more  because  we  know  not  what  to  fear  1 

"  Why  don't  she  blow  me  up  1"  queried  Dawdle 
to  himself,  as  he  found  his  valour  collapsing — «  why 
don't  she  blow  me  up  like  an  affectionate  woman 
and  a  loving  wife,  instead  of  standing  there  in  that 
ghostified  fashion  1" 

Mrs.  Dawdle's  hand  slowly  extended  itself  to 
wards  the  culprit,  who  made  no  attempt  at  evasion 
or  defence — slowly  it  entwined  itself  in  the  folds 
of  his  neck-handkerchief,  and,  as  the  unresisting 
Duwson  had  strange  fancies  relative  to  bow-strings, 
he  found  himself  drawn  inward  by  a  sure  and 
steady  grasp.  Swiftly  was  he  sped  through  the 
darksome  entry  and  up  the  winding  stair,  without 
a  word  to  comfort  him  in  his  stumbling  progress. 

"Dawson  Dawdle! — Look  at  the  clock! — A 
pretty  time  of  night,  indeed,  and  you  a  married 
man.  Look  at  the  clock,  I  say,  and  see." 

Mrs.  Dawson  Dawdle,  however,  had,  for  the  mo 
ment,  lost  her  advantage  in  thus  giving  utterance 
to  her  emotion  ;  and  Mr.  Dawson  Dawdle,  though 
much  shaken,  began  to  recover  his  spirits. 

"  Two  o'clock,  Mr.  Dawdle — two ! — isn't  it  two, 


I  ask 


you 


« If  you  are  positive  about  the  fact,  Mrs.  Daw 
dle,  it  would  be  unbecoming  in  me  to  call  your 
veracity  in  question,  and  I  decline  looking.  So 
far  as  I  am  informed,  it  generally  is  two  o'clock 
just  about  this  time  in  the  morning — at  least,  it 
always  has  been  whenever  I  stayed  up  to  see.  If 
the  clock  is  right,  you'll  be  apt  to  find  it  two  just 
as  it  strikes  two — that's  the  reason  it  strikes,  and 
I  don't  know  that  it  could  have  a  better  reason." 

"  A  pretty  time  !" 

"  Yes — pretty  enough  !"  responded  Dawdle  ; 
"  when  it  don't  rain,  one  time  of  night  is  as  pretty 
as  another  time  of  night — it's  the  people  that's  up 
in  the  time  of  night,  that's  not  pretty  ;  and  you, 
Mrs.  Dawdle,  are  a  case  in  pint — keeping  a  man 
out  of  his  own  house.  It's  not  the  night  that's 
not  pretty,  Mrs.  Dawdle,  but  the  goings  on,  that's 
not — and  you  are  the  goings  on.  As  for  me,  I'm 
for  peace — a  dead-latch  key  and  peace  ;  and  I  move 
that  the  goings  on  be  indefinitely  postponed,  be 
cause,  Mrs.  Dawdle,  I've  heard  it  all  before — I  know 
it  like  a  book ;  and  if  you  insist  on  it,  Mrs.  Daw 
dle,  I'll  save  you  trouble,  and  speak  the  whole 
speech  for  you  right  off'  the  reel,  only  I  can't  cry 
good  when  I'm  jolly." 

But  Dawson  Dawdle's  volubility,  assumed  foi 
the  purpose  of  hiding  his  own  misgivings,  did  not 
answer  the  end  which  he  had  in  view ;  for  Mrs. 
2x2 


522 


JOSEPH    C.  NEAL. 


Dawson  Dawdle,  having  had  a  glimpse  at  its  effects, 
again  resorted  to  the  "silent  system"  of  connubial 
management.  She  spoke  no  more  that  night, 
which  Dawson,  perchance,  found  agreeable  enough ; 
but  she  would  not  speak  any  more  the  day  after, 
which  perplexed  him  when  he  came  down  too  late 
for  breakfast,  or  returned  too  late  for  dinner. 

"  I  do  wish  she  would  say  something,"  muttered 
Dawdle ;  "  something  cross,  if  she  likes — any  thing, 
so  it  makes  a  noise.  It  makes  a  man  feel  bad,  after 
he's  used  to  being  talked  to,  not  to  be  talked  to  in 
the  regular  old-fashioned  way.  When  one's  so 
accustomed  to  being  blowed  up,  it  seems  as  if  he 
was  lost  or  didn't  belong  to  anybody,  if  no  one 
sees  to  it  that  he's  blowed  up  at  the  usual  time. 
Bachelors,  perhaps,  can  get  along  well  enough 
without  having  their  comforts  properly  attended  to 
in  this  respect. — What  do  they  know,  the  miserable 
creatures,  about  such  warm  receptions,  and  such 
little  endearments  1  When  they  are  out  too  late, 
nobody's  at  home  preparing  a  speech  for  them ;  but 
I  feel  just  as  if  I  was  a  widower,  if  I'm  not  talked 
to  for  not  being  at  home  in  time." 


CORNER  LOUNGERS. 

FROM  PETER  PLODDY  AND   OTHER  ODDITIES. 

"  COMMON  people,  Billy — low,  onery,  common 
people,  can't  make  it  out  when  natur's  raised  a  gen 
tleman  in  the  family — a  gentleman  all  complete,  only 
the  money's  been  forgot.  If  a  man  won't  work  all 
the  time — day  in  and  day  out — if  he  smokes  by  the 
fire  or  whistles  out  of  the  winder,  the  very  gals  bump 
agin  him  and  say  <  get  out  of  the  way  loaf!'  " 

"  But,  Billy,  my  son,  never  mind,  and  keep  not  a 
lettin'  on,"  continued  Nollikins,  and  a  beam  of  hope 
irradiated  his  otherwise  saturnine  countenance ;  | 
the  world's  a  railroad  and  the  cars  is  comin' — all 
we'll  have  to  do  is  to  jump  in,  chalked  free.  There 
will  be  a  time — something  must  happen.  Rich 
widders  are  about  yet,  though  they  are  snapped  up 
so  fast.  Rich  widders,  Billy,  are  « special  provi 
dences,'  as  my  old  boss  used  to  say  when  I  broke 
my  nose  in  the  entry,  sent  here  like  rafts  to  pick  up 
deservin'  chaps  when  they  can't  swim  no  longer. 
When  you've  bin  down  twy'st,  Billy,  and  are  jist 
off  agin,  then  comes  the  widder  a  floatin'  along,  j 
Why,  splatterdocks  is  nothin'  to  it,  and  a  widder 
is  the  best  of  all  life-preservers,  when  a  man  is 
most  a  case,  like  you  and  me." 

"  Well,  I'm  not  perticklar,  not  I,  nor  never  was. 
I'll  take  a  widder,  for  my  part,  if  she's  got  the  mint 
drops,  and  never  ask  no  questions.  I'm  not  proud — 
never  was  harrystocratic — I  drinks  with  anybody, 
and  smokes  all  the  cigars  they  give  me.  What's  the 
use  of  bein'  stuck  up,  stiffy  ]  It's  my  principle  that 
other  folks  are  nearly  as  good  as  me,  if  they're  not 
constables  nor  aldermen.  I  can't  stand  them  sort." 

"  No,  Billy,"  said  Nollikins,  with  an  encouraging 
smile,  "  no,  Billy,  such  indiwidooals  as  them  don't 
know  human  natur' — but,  as  I  was  goin'  to  say,  if 
there  happens  to  be  a  short  crop  of  widders,  why 
can't  somebody  leave  us  a  fortin  ? — That  will  do  as 
well,  if  not  better.  Now  look  here — what's  easier 


than  this  ]  I'm  standin'  on  the  wharf — the  rich 
man  tries  to  go  aboard  of  the  steamboat — the  nig 
gers  push  him  off  the  plank — in  I  jumps,  ca-splash ! 
The  old  gentleman  isn't  drowned ;  but  he  might 
have  been  drowned  but  for  me,  and  if  he  had  a 
bin,  where's  the  use  of  his  money  then  1  So  he 
gives  me  as  much  as  I  want  now,  and  a  great  deal 
more  when  he  defuncts  riggler,  accordin'  to  law  and 
the  practice  of  civilized  nations.  You  see — that's 
the  way  the  thing  works.  I'm  at  the  wharf  every 
day — can't  afford  to  lose  a  chance,  and  I  begin  to 
wish  the  old  chap  would  hurra  about  comin'  along. 
What  can  keep  him1?" 

"  If  it  'ud  come  to  the  same  thing  in  the  end," 
remarked  Billy  Bunkers,  "  I'd  rather  the  niggers 
would  push  the  old  man's  little  boy  into  the  water, 
if  it's  all  the  same  to  him.  Them  fat  old  fellers 
are  so  heavy  when  they're  skeered,  and  hang  on  so 
— why,  I  might  get  drowned  before  I  had  time  to 
go  to  bank  with  the  check  !  But  what's  the  use 
of  waitin'  ]  Couldn't  we  shove  'em  in  some  warm 
afternoon,  ourselves  ?  Who'd  know  in  the  crowd] " 

"  I've  thought  of  that,  Bunkers,  when  a  man  was 
before  me  that  looked  like  the  right  sort.  I've  often 
said  to  myself,  <  My  friend,  how  would  you  like  to 
be  washed  for  nothin'  ]' — but,  Billy,  there  might 
be  mistakes — perhaps,  when  you  got  him  out,  he 
couldn't  pay.  What  then  ?" 

«  Why,  keep  a  puttin'  new  ones  in  to  soak  every 
day,  till  you  do  fish  up  the  right  one." 

"  It  won't  do,  my  friend — they'd  smoke  the  joke 
• — all  the  riff-raff  in  town  would  be  pushin'  old 
gentlemen  into  the  river,  and  the  elderly  folks 
would  have  to  give  up  travellin'  by  the  steamboat. 
We  must  wait,  I'm  afeared,  till  the  real  thing  hap 
pens.  The  right  person  will  be  sure  to  come  along." 

"  I  hope  so ;  and  so  it  happens  quick,  I  don't 
much  care  whether  it's  the  old  man,  or  his  little 
boy,  or  that  rich  widder,  that  gets  a  ducking.  I'm 
not  proud." .... 

"  Then  you'll  see  me  come  the  nonsense  over 
the  old  folks — who's  loafer  now ! — and  my  dog  will 
bite  their  cat — who's  ginger-pop  and  jam  spruce 
beer,  at  this  present  writin',  I'd  like  to  know  1"  . . . 

Thus,  wrapped  in  present  dreams  and  future 
anticipations — a  king  that  is  to  be — lives  Nicholas 
Nollikins — the  grand  exemplar  of  the  corner  loung 
ers.  There  he  stations  himself;  for  hope  requires 
a  boundless  prospect  and  a  clear  look-out,  that,  by 
whatever  route  fortune  chooses  to  approach,  she 
may  have  a  prompt  reception.  Nicholas  and  his 
tribe  exist  but  for  to-morrow,  and  rely  firmly  upon 
that  poetic  justice,  which  should  reward  those  who 
wait  patiently  until  the  wheel  of  fortune  turns  up 
a  prize.  They  feel,  by  the  generous  expansion  of 
their  souls,  by  their  impatience  of  ignoble  toil,  by 
their  aspirations  after  the  beautiful  and  nice,  that 
their  present  position  in  society  is  the  result  of  ac 
cident  and  inadvertency,  and  that,  if  they  are  not 
false  to  the  nature  that  is  within  them,  the  time 
must  come  when  the  mistake  will  be  rectified,  and 
"  they  shall  walk  in  silk  attire  and  siller  hae  to 
spare,"  which  is  not  by  any  means  the  case  at  pre 
sent.  All  that  can  be  expected  just  now,  is,  that 
they  should  spare  other  people's  "  siller." 


EDGAR  A.  POE. 


[BorulSll.    Died  1849.] 


EDGAR  A.  POE,  born  in  Baltimore  in  Janu 
ary,  1811,  was  the  second  son  of  David  and 
Elizabeth  Arnold  Poe,  of  the  theatre,  both 
of  whom  died  in  Richmond,  in  1815,  leaving 
three  children  in  homeless  poverty.  He  was 
adopted  by  Mr.  Allan,  a  merchant,  who  in 
the  following  year  placed  him  at  a  school  near 
London,  from  which  in  1822  he  was  removed 
to  the  University  of  Virginia,  where  he  gra 
duated  with  distinction  in  1826.  His  irregu 
larities  at  college  caused  a  disagreement  with 
his  patron,  and  he  joined  an  expedition  to 
assist  the  Greeks;  but  after  proceeding  as  far 
as  St.  Petersburg,  on  the  way  to  Athens,  he 
returned,  and  a  reconciliation  with  Mr.  Allan 
having  been  effected,  he  was  enabled  to  enter 
the  Military  Academy  at  West  Point.  Here 
he  made  his  first  essays  in  literature,  in  a 
small  volume  of  Poems,  printed  in  1830, 
about  which  time  he  left  the  Academy,  and 
Mr.  Allan  having  died  without  making  any 
provision  for  him  in  his  will,  he  was  com 
pelled  afterward  to  rely  entirely  upon  his  pen 
for  support.  Securing  attention  with  two 
literary  prizes  at  Baltimore,  he  was  in  1835 
engaged  by  the  proprietor  of  The  Southern 
Literary  Messenger,  at  Richmond,  to  assist 
in  editing  that  magazine;  in  1838,  he  removed 
to  Philadelphia,  where  he  was  connected  as 
editor  with  Burton's  Magazine  one  year,  and 
with  Graham's  a  year  and  a  half;  and  he  con 
tinued  in  the  latter  city  until  1844,  during 
which  time  he  published  Tales  of  the  Gro 
tesque  and  the  Arabesque,  in  two  volumes  ; 
and  Arthur  Gordon  Pym,  a  nautical  romance, 
m  one  volume ;  besides  many  of  his  finest 
criticisms,  and  other  tales  and  poems,  in 
periodicals.  He  went  next  to  New  York, 
where  he  was  employed  several  months  as  a 
reviewer  of  books  for  the  Home  Journal,  and 
was  first  an  associate  and  afterward  the  sole 
editor  of  the  Broadway  Journal.  In  the  winter 
of  1848,  while  at  Fordham,  a' few  miles  from 
the  city,  he  suffered  much  from  poverty,  and 
his  wife,  to  whom  he  had  been  married  about 
twelve  years,  died  in  the  following  spring. 
He  had.  already  published  new  collections 
of  his  Poems  and  Tales,  and  the  magazine 


sketches  of  the  Literati,  and  in  1849  he  gave 
to  the  world  Eureka,  a  Prose  Poem,  intended 
to  illustrate  his  views  of  the  constitution  of 
the  Universe.  In  the  summer  of  1849  he  re 
visited  Virginia,  and  it  was  believed  that  he 
had  entirely  mastered  his  habits  of  dissipa 
tion  ;  but  on  the  fourth  of  October  he  set  out 
for  New  York,  to  fulfil  a  literary  engage 
ment,  and  to  prepare  for  his  second  marriage. 
Arriving  in  Baltimore,  he  gave  his  trunk  to  a 
porter,  with  directions  to  convey  it  to  the 
cars  which  were  to  leave  in  an  hour  or  two 
for  Philadelphia,  and  went  into  a  tavern  to 
obtain  some  refreshment.  Here  he  met  ac 
quaintances  who  invited  him  to  drink :  his 
resolutions  and  duties  were  forgotten ;  in  a 
few  hours  he  was  in  such  a  state  as  is  com 
monly  induced  only  by  long-continued  intoxi 
cation  ;  after  a  night  of  insanity  and  expo 
sure,  he  was  carried  to  a  hospital ;  and  there, 
on  the  evening  of  the  seventh  of  October,  1849, 
he  died,  at  the  age  of  thirty-eight  years. 

Soon  afterward,  having  been  appointed  his 
literary  executor,  I  collected  and  published 
his  various  works,  in  three  volumes,  for  the 
benefit  of  his  family.  In  the  third  volume  I 
have  given  an  account  of  his  life,  with  opinions 
of  his  genius.  His  realm  was  on  the  shadowy 
confines  of  human  experience,  among  the 
abodes  of  crime,  gloom,  and  horror,  and  there 
he  delighted  to  surround  himself  with  images 
of  beauty  and  of  terror,  to  raise  his  solemn 
palaces  and  towers  and  spires  in  a  night  upon 
which  should  rise  no  sun.  His  minuteness 
of  detail,  refinement  of  reasoning,  and  pro 
priety  and  power  of  language — the  perfect 
keeping  and  apparent  good  faith,  with  which 
he  managed  the  evocation  and  exhibition  of 
his  strange  and  spectral  and  revolting  crea 
tions — gave  him  an  astonishing  mastery  over 
his  readers,  so  that  his  books  were  closed  as 
one  would  lay  aside  nightmare  or  the  spells 
of  opium.  The  analytical  subtlety  evinced  in 
his  works  has  frequently  been  overestimated, 
because  it  has  not  been  sufficiently  consi 
dered  that  his  mysteries  were  composed  with 
the  express  design  of  being  dissolved.  When 
Poe  attempted  the  illustration  of  the  pro- 

523 


524 


EDGAR    A.    POE. 


founder  operations  of  the  mind,  as  displayed 
in  written  reason  or  in  real  action,  he  fre 
quently  failed  entirely.  In  poetry,  as  in 
prose,  he  was  eminently  successful  in  the 
metaphysical  treatment  of  the  passions.  His 
poems  are  constructed  with  wonderful  inge 
nuity,  and  finished  with  consummate  art. 
They  display  a  sombre  and  weird  imagina 
tion,  and  a  taste  almost  faultless  in  the  ap 
prehension  of  that  sort  of  beauty  which  was 
most  agreeable  to  his  temper.  But  they 
evince  little  genuine  feeling,  and  less  of  that 
spontaneous  ecstacy  which  gives  its  freedom, 
smoothness,  and  naturalness  to  immortal 
verse.  He  was  not  remarkably  original  in 
invention.  Indeed  some  of  his  plagiarisms  are 
scarcely  paralleled  for  audacity:  for  instance, 


in  The  Pit  and  the  Pendulum,  the  complicate 
machinery  upon  which  the  interest  depends 
is  borrowed  from  a  story  entitled  Vivenzio,  in 
Blackwood's  Magazine.  In  his  Marginalia  he 
also  borrowed  largely,  especially  from  Cole 
ridge.  As  a  critic,  he  rarely  ascended  from 
the  particular  to  the  general,  from  subjects 
to  principles;  he  was  familiar  with  the  micro 
scope  but  never  looked  through  the  telescope. 
His  criticisms  are  of  value  to  the  degree  in 
which  they  are  demonstrative,  but  his  unsup 
ported  assertions  and  opinions  were  so  apt 
to  be  influenced  by  friendship  or  enmity,  by 
the  desire  to  please  or  the  fear  to  offend,  or 
by  his  constant  ambition  to  surprise,  or  pro 
duce  a  sensation,  that  they  should  be  received 
in  all  cases  with  distrust  of  their  fairness. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER. 

DURING  the  whole  of  a  dull,  dark,  and  soundless 
day  in  the  autumn  of  the  year,  when  the  clouds  hung 
oppressively  low  in  the  heavens,  I  had  been  passing 
/alone  on  horseback,  through  a  singularly  dreary 
Wact  of  country;  and  at  length  found  myself,  as 
the  shades  of  the  evening  drew  on,  within  view  of 
the  melancholy  House  of  Usher.  I  know  not  how 
it  was — but,  with  the  first  glimpse  of  the  building, 
a  sense  of  insufferable  gloom  pervaded  my  spirit. 
I  say  insufferable  ;  for  the  feeling  was  unrelieved  by 
any  of  that  half-pleasurable,  because  poetic,  senti 
ment,  with  which  the  mind  usually  receives  even  the 
sternest  natural  images  of  the  desolate  or  terrible. 
I  looked  upon  the  scene  before  me — upon  the  mere 
house,  and  the  simple  landscape  features  of  the  do 
main — upon  the  bleak  walls — upon  the  vacant  eye- 
like  windows — upon  a  few  rank  sedges — and  upon 
a  few  white  trunks  of  decayed  trees — with  an  utter 
depression  of  soul  which  I  can  compare  to  no  earthly 
sensation  more  properly  than  to  the  after-dream  of 
the  reveller  upon  opium — 'the  bitter  lapse  into  every 
day  life — the  hideous  dropping  off  of  the  veil.  There 
was  an  iciness,  a  sinking,  a  sickening  of  the  heart — 
an  unredeemed  dreariness  of  thought  which  no  goad 
ing  of  the  imagination  could  torture  into  aught  of  the 
sublime.  What  was  it  so  unnerved  me  in  the  con 
templation  of  the  House  of  Usher  ]  It  was  a  mys 
tery  all  insoluble;  nor  could  I  grapple  with  the  sha 
dowy  fancies  that  crowded  upon  me  as  I  pondered. 
I  was  forced  to  fall  back  upon  the  unsatisfactory 
conclusion,  that  while,  beyond  a  doubt,  there  are 
combinations  of  very  simple  natural  objects  which 
have  the  power  of  thus  affecting  us,  still  the  anal 
ysis  of  this  power  lies  among  considerations  beyond 
our  depth.  It  was  possible,  I  reflected,  that  a  mere 
different  arrangement  of  the  particulars  of  the  scene, 
of  the  details  of  the  picture,  would  be  sufficient  to 
molify,  or  perhaps  to  annihilate  its  capacity  for  sor 
rowful  impression ;  and  acting  upon  this  idea,  I 


reined  my  horse  to  the  precipitous  brink  of  a  black 
and  lurid  tarn  that  lay  in  unruffled  lustre  by  the 
dwelling,  and  gazed  down — but  with  a  shudder  even 
more  thrilling  than  before — upon  the  remodelled  and 
inverted  images  of  the  gray  sedge,  and  the  ghastly 
tree-stems^  and  the  vacant  and  eye-like  windows. 

Nevertheless,  in  this  mansion  of  gloom  I  now 
proposed  to  myself  a  sojourn  of  some  weeks.  Its 
proprietor,  Roderick  Usher,  had  been  one  of  my 
boon  companions  in  boyhood  ;  but  many  years  had 
elapsed,  since  our  last  meeting.  A  letter,  how 
ever,  had  lately  reached  me  in  a  distant  part  of  the 
country — >a  letter  from  him — which,  in  its  wildly 
importunate  nature,  had  admitted  of  no  other  than 
a  personal  reply.  The  MS.  gave  evidence  of  ner 
vous  agitation.  The  writer  spoke  of  acute  bodily 
illness — of  a  mental  disorder  which  oppressed  him 
— and  of  an  earnest  desire  to  see  me,  as  his  best, 
and  indeed  his  only  personal  friend,  with  a  view 
of  attempting,  by  the  cheerfulness  of  my  society, 
some  alleviation  of  his  malady.  It  was  the  manner 
in  which  all  this,  and  much  more,  was  said — it  was 
the  apparent  heart  that  went  with  his  request — 
which  allowed  me  no  room  for  hesitation ;  and  I 
accordingly  obeyed  forthwith  what  I  still  consi 
dered  a  very  singular  summons. 

Although,  as  boys,  we  had  been  even  intimate 
associates,  yet  I  really  knew  little  of  my  friend.  His 
reserve  had  been  always  excessive  and  habitual. 
I  was  aware,  however,  that  his  very  ancient  family 
had  been  noted,  time  out  of  mind,  for  a  peculiar  sen 
sibility  of  temperament,  display idg  itself,  through 
long  ages,  in  many  works  of  exalted  art,  and  mani 
fested,  of  late,  in  repeated  deeds  of  munificent  yet 
unobtrusive  charity,  as  well  as  in  a  passionate  de 
votion  to  the  intricacies,  perhaps  even  more  than 
to  the  orthodox  and  easily  recognisable  beauties,  of 
musical  science.  I  had  learned,  too,  the  very  re 
markable  fact,  that  the  stem  of  the  Usher  race,  all 
time-honoured  as  it  was,  had  put  forth,  at  no  period, 
any  enduring  branch ;  in  other  words,  that  the  en- 


EDGAR   A.    POE. 


525 


tire  family  lay  in  the  direct  line  of  descent,  and 
had  always,  with  very  trifling  and  very  temporary 
variation,  so  lain.  It  was  this  deficiency,  I  consi 
dered,  while  running  over  in  thought  the  perfect 
keeping  of  the  character  of  the  premises  with  the  ac 
credited  character  of  the  people,  and  while  specu 
lating  upon  the  possible  influence  which  the  one, 
in  the  long  lapse  of  centuries,  might  have  exer 
cised  upon  the  other — it  was  this  deficiency,  per 
haps,  of  collateral  issue,  and  the  consequent  unde- 
viating  transmission,  from  sire  to  son,  of  the  pa 
trimony  with  the  name,  which  had,  at  length,  so 
identified  the  two  as  to  merge  the  original  title  of 
the  estate  in  the  quaint  and  equivocal  appellation 
of  the  "  House  of  Usher" — an  appellation  which 
seemed  to  include,  in  the  minds  of  the  peasantry 
who  used  it,  both  the  family  and  the  family  man 
sion. 

I  have  said  that  the  sole  effect  of  my  somewhat 
childish  experiment — that  of  looking  down  within 
the  tarn — -had  been  to  deepen  the  first  singular  im 
pression.     There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  con-  ; 
sciousness  of  the  rapid  increase  of  my  superstition 
— for  why  should  I  not  so  term  it  1 — served  main-  i 
ly  to  accelerate  the  increase  itself.     Such,  I  have  j 
long  known,  is   the  paradoxical  law  of  all  senti-  j 
ments  having  terror  as  a  basis.     And  it  might  have  j 
been  for  this  reason  only,  that,  when  I  again  up-  ! 
lifted  my  eyes  to  the  house  itself,  from  its  image  in 
the  pool,  there  grew  in  my  mind  a  strange  fancy — 
a  fancy  so  ridiculous,  indeed,  that  I  but  mention  it 
to  show  the  vivid  force  of  the  sensations  which  op 
pressed  me.     I  had  so  worked  upon  my  imagination 
as  really  to  believe  that  about  the  whole  mansion 
and  domain  there  hung  an  atmosphere  peculiar  to 
themselves  and  their  immediate  vicinity — an  at 
mosphere  which  had  no  affinity  with  the  air  of 
heaven,  hut  which  had  reeked  up  from  the  decayed 
trees,  and  the  gray  wall,  and  in  the  silent  tarn — a 
pestilent  and  mystic  vapour,  dull,  sluggish,  faintly 
discernible,  and  leaden-hued. 

Shaking  off  from  my  spirit  what  must  have  been 
a  dream,  I  scanned  more  narrowly  the  real  aspect 
of  the  building.  Its  principal  feature  seemed  to  be 
that  of  an  excessive  antiquity.  The  discoloration 
of  ages  had  been  great.  Minute  fungi  overspread 
the  whole  exterior,  hanging  in  a  fine  tangled  web- 
work  from  the  eaves.  Yet  all  this  was  apart  from 
any  extraordinary  dilapidation.  No  portion  of  the 
masonry  had  fallen;  and  there  appeared  to  be  a 
wild  inconsistency  between  its  still  perfect  adapta 
tion  of  parts,  and  the  crumbling  condition  of  the 
individual  stones.  In  this  there  was  much  that  re 
minded  me  of  the  spacious  totality  of  old  wood 
work  which  has  rotted  for  long  years  in  some  neg 
lected  vault,  with  no  disturbance  from  the  breath 
of  the  external  air.  Beyond  this  indication  of  ex 
tensive  decay,  however,  the  fabric  gave  little  token 
of  instability.  Perhaps  the  eye  of  a  scrutinizing 
observer  might  have  discovered  a  barely  percepti 
ble  fissure,  which,  extending  from  the  roof  of  the 
building  in  front,  made  its  way  down  the  wall  in 
a  zigzag  direction,  until  it  became  lost  in  the  sul 
len  waters  of  the  tarn. 

Noticing  these  things,  I  rode  over  a  short  cause- 


;  way  to  the  house.  A  servant  in  waiting  took  my 
horse,  and  I  entered  the  Gothic  archway  of  the 
hall.  A  valet,  of  stealthy  step,  thence  conducted 
me,  in  silence,  through  many  dark  and  intricate 
passages  in-  my  progress  to  the  studio  of  his  master. 
Much  that  I  encountered  on  the  way  contributed, 
I  know  not  how,  to  heighten  the  vague  sentiments 
of  which  I  have  already  spoken.  While  the  ob 
jects  around  me — while  the  carvings  of  the  cei 
ings,  the  sombre  tapestries  of  the  walls,  the  ebon 
blackness  of  the  floors,  and  the  phantasmagoric  ar 
morial  trophies  which  rattled  as  I  strode,  were  but 
matters  to  which,  or  to  such  as  which,  I  had  been 
accustomed  from  my  infancy' — while  I  hesitated 
not  to  acknowledge  how  familiar  was  all  this — I 
still  wondered  to  find  how  unfamiliar  were  the  fan 
cies  which  ordinary  images  were  stirring  up.  On 
one  of  the  staircases,  I  met  the  physician  of  the 
family.  His  countenance,  I  thought,  wore  a  min 
gled  expression  of  low  cunning  and  perplexity. 

;   He  accosted   me  with  trepidation  and  passed  on. 

j   The  valet  now  threw  open  a  door  and  ushered  me 
into  the  presence  of  his  master. 

The  room  in  which  I  found  myself  was  very 
large  and  lofty.  The  windows  were  long,  narrow, 
and  pointed,  and  at  so  vast  a  distance  from  the 
black  oaken  floor  as  to  be  altogether  inaccessible 
from  within.  Feeble  gleams  of  encrimsoned  light 
made  their  way  through  the  trellised  panes,  and 
served  to  render  sufficiently  distinct  the  more  pro 
minent  objects  around ;  the  eye,  however,  strug 
gled  in  vain  to  reach  the  remoter  angles  of  the 
chamber,  or  the  recesses  of  the  vaulted  and  fretted 
ceiling.  Dark  draperies  hung  upon  the  walls.  The 
general  furniture  was  profuse,  comfortless,  antique, 
and  tattered.  Many  books  and  musical  instru 
ments  lay  scattered  about,  but  failed  to  give  any 
vitality  to  the  scene.  I  felt  that  I  breathed  an  at 
mosphere  of  sorrow.  An  air  of  stern,  deep,  and  ir 
redeemable  ^gloom  hung  over  and  pervaded  all. 

Upon  my  entrance,  Usher  arose  from  a  sofa  on 
which  he  had  been  lying  at  full  length,  and  greeted 
me  with  a  vivacious  warmth  which  had  much  in 
it,  I  at  first  thought,  of  an  overtone  cordiality — -of 
the  constrained  effort  of  the  e.nnuye  man  of  the 
world.  A  glance,  however,  at  his  countenance  con 
vinced  me  of  his  perfect  sincerity.  We  sat  down ; 
and  for  some  moments,  while  he  spoke  not,  I  gazed 
upon  him  with  a  feeling  half  of  pity,  half  of  awe. 
Surely,  man  had  never  before  so  terribly  altered,  in 
so  brief  a  period,  as  had  Roderick  Usher !  It  was 
with  difficulty  that  I  could  bring  myself  to  admit 
the  identity  of  the  wan  being  before  me  with  the 
companion  of  my  early  boyhood.  Yet  the  cha 
racter  of  his  face  had  been  at  all  times  remarkable. 
A  cadaverousness  of  complexion ;  an  eye  large, 
liquid,  and  luminous  beyond  comparison;  lips 
somewhat  thin  and  very  pallid,  but  of  a  surpassingly 
beautiful  curve  ;  a  nose  of  a  delicate  Hebrew  model, 
but  with  a  breadth  of  nostril  unusual  in  similar  forma 
tions  ;  a  finely  moulded  chin,  speaking,  in  its  want 
of  prominence,  of  a  want  of  moral  energy ;  hair 
of  a  more  than  web-like  softness  and  tenuity  ;  these 
features,  with  an  inordinate  expansion  above  the 
regions  of  the  temple,  made  up  altogether  a  coun- 


526 


EDGAR   A.    POE. 


tenance  not  easily  to  be  forgotten.  And  now  in 
the  mere  exaggeration  of  the  prevailing  character 
of  these  features,  and  of  the  expression  they  were 
wont  to  convey,  lay  so  much  of  change  that  I 
doubted  to  whom  I  spoke.  The  now  ghastly  pal 
lor  of  the  skin,  and  the  now  miraculous  lustre  of 
the  eye,  above  all  things  startled  and  even  awed 
me.  The  silken  hair,  too,  had  been  suffered  to 
grow  all  unheeded,  and  as,  in  its  wild  gossamei  tex 
ture,  it  floated  rather  than  fell  about  the  face,  I 
could  not,  even  with  effort,  connect  its  Arabesque 
expression  with  any  idea  of  simple  humanity. 

In  the  manner  of  my  friend  I  was  at  once  struck 
with  an  incoherence — -an  inconsistency  ;  and  I  soon 
found  this  to  arise  from  a  series  of  feeble  and  futile 
struggles  to  overcome  an  habitual  trepidancy — an 
excessive  nervous  agitation.  For  something  of 
this  nature  I  had  indeed  been  prepared,  no  less  by 
his  letter,  than  by  reminiscences  of  certain  boyish 
traits,  and  by  conclusions  deduced  from  his  pecu 
liar  physical  conformation  and  temperament.  His 
action  was  alternately  vivacious  and  sullen.  His 
voice  varied  rapidly  from  a  tremulous  indecision 
(when  the  animal  spirits  seemed  utterly  in  abey 
ance)  to  that  species  of  energetic  concision — that 
abrupt,  weighty,  unhurried,  and  hollow-sounding 
enunciation — -that  leaden,  self-balanced  and  per 
fectly  modulated  guttural  utterance,  which  may  be 
observed  in  the  lost  drunkard,  or  the  irreclaimable 
eater  of  opium,  during  the  periods  of  his  most  in 
tense  excitement. 

It  was  thus  that  he  spoke  of  the  object  of  my 
visit,  of  his  earnest  desire  to  see  me,  and  of  the  solace 
he  expected  me  to  afford  him.  He  entered,  at 
some  length,  into  what  he  conceived  to  be  the  na 
ture  of  his  malady.  It  was,  he  said,  a  constitu 
tional  and  a  family  evil,  and  one  for  which  he  de 
spaired  to  find  a  remedy — a  mere  nervous  affection, 
he  immediately  added,  which  would  undoubtedly 
soon  pass  off.  It  displayed  itself  in  a  host  of  un 
natural  sensations.  Some  of  these,  as  he  detailed 
them,  interested  and  bewildered  me ;  although,  per 
haps,  the  terms,  and  the  general  manner  of  the  nar 
ration  had  their  weight.  He  suffered  much  from 
a  morbid  acuteness  of  the  senses ;  the  most  insipid 
food  was  alone  endurable ;  he  could  wear  only  gar 
ments  of  certain  texture;  the  odours  of  all  flowers 
were  oppressive ;  his  eyes  were  tortured  by  even  a 
faint  light ;  and  there  were  but  peculiar  sounds,  and 
these  from  stringed  instruments,  which  did  not  in 
spire  him  with  horror. 

To  an  anomalous  species  of  terror  I  found  htm 
a  bounden  slave.  «I  shall  perish,"  said  he,  "I 
must  perish  in  this  deplorable  folly.  Thus,  thus, 
and  not  otherwise,  shall  I  be  lost.  I  dread  the 
events  of  the  future,  not  in  themselves,  but  in  their 
results.  I  shudder  at  the  thought  of  any,  even  the 
most  trivial,  incident,  which  may  operate  upon  this 
intolerable  agitation  of  soul.  I  have,  indeed,  no  ab 
horrence  of  danger,  except  in  its  absolute  effect — 
in  terror.  In  this  unnerved — in  this  pitiable  con 
dition — I  feel  that  the  period  will  sooner  or  later 
arrive  when  I  must  abandon  life  and  reason  toge 
ther,  in  some  struggle  with  the  grim  phantasm, 
FEAR. 


I  learned,  moreover,  at  intervals,  and  through 
broken  and  equivocal  hints,  another  singular  fea 
ture  of  his  mental  condition.  He  was  enchained 
by  certain  superstitious  impressions  in  regard  to  the 
dwelling  which  he  tenanted,  and  whence,  for  many 
years,  he  had  never  ventured  forth — in  regard  to 
an  influence  whose  supposititious  force  was  con 
veyed  in  terms  too  shadowy  here  to  be  re-stated — 
an  influence  which  some  peculiarities  in  the  mere 
form  and  substance  of  his  family  mansion,  had,  by 
dint  of  long  sufferance,  he  said,  obtained  over  his 
spirit — -an  effect  which  the  physique  of  the  gray 
walls  and  turrets,  and  of  the  dim  tarn  into  which 
they  all  looked  down,  had,  at  length,  brought  about 
upon  the  morale  of  his  existence. 

He  admitted,  however,  although  with  hesitation, 
that  much  of  the  peculiar  gloom  which  thus  af 
flicted  him  could  be  traced  to  a  more  natural  and 
far  more  palpable  origin — to  the  severe  and  long- 
continued  illness — indeed  to  the  evidently  approach 
ing  dissolution — of  a  tenderly  beloved  sister — his 
sole  companion  for  long  years — his  last  and  only 
relative  on  earth.  "  Her  decease,"  he  said,  with  a 
bitterness  which  I  can  never  forget,  "  would  leave 
him  (him  the  hopeless  and  the  frail)  the  last  of  the 
ancient  race  of  the  Ushers."  While  he  spoke,  the 
lady  Madeline  (for  so  was  she  called)  passed  slow 
ly  through  a  remote  portion  of  the  apartment,  and, 
without  having  noticed  my  presence,  disappeared. 
I  regarded  her  with  an  utter  astonishment  not  un- 
mingled  with  dread — and  yet  I  found  it  impossible 
to  account  for  such  feelings.  A  sensation  of  stu 
por  oppressed  me,  as  my  eyes  followed  her  retreat 
ing  steps.  When  a  door,  at  length,  closed  upon 
her,  my  glance  sought  instinctively  and  eagerly  the 
countenance  of  the  brother — but  he  had  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands,  and  I  could  only  perceive  that  a 
far  more  than  ordinary  wanness  had  overspread  the 
emaciated  fingers  through  which  trickled  many  pas 
sionate  tears. 

The  disease  of  the  lady  Madeline  had  long  baffled 
the  skill  of  her  physicians.  A  settled  apathy,  a 
gradual  wasting  away  of  the  person,  and  frequent 
although  transient  affections  of  a  partially  catalep- 
tical  character,  were  the  unusual  diagnosis.  Hither 
to  she  had  steadily  borne  up  against  the  pressure  of 
her  malady,  and  had  not  betaken  herself  finally  to 
bed  ;  but,  on  the  closing  in  of  the  evening  of  my 
arrival  at  the  house,  she  succumbed  (as  her  brother 
told  me  at  night  with  inexpressible  agitation)  to 
the  prostrating  power  of  the  destroyer ;  and  I  learned 
that  the  glimpse  I  had  obtained  of  her  person  would 
thus  probably  be  the  last  I  should  obtain — that  the 
lady,  at  least  while  living,  would  be  seen  by  me  no 
j  more. 

For  several  days  ensuing,  her  name  was  unvnen- 
tioned  by  either  Usher  or  myself:  and  during  this 
period  I  was  busied  in  earnest  endeavours  to  alle 
viate  the  melancholy  of  my  friend.  We  painted 
and  read  together ;  or  I  listened,  as  if  in  a  dream, 
to  the  wild  improvisations  of  his  speaking  guitar. 
And  thus,  as  a  closer  and  still  closer  intimacy  ad 
mitted  me  more  unreservedly  into  the  recesses  of 
his  spirit,  the  more  bitterly  did  I  perceive  the  futi 
lity  of  all  attempt  at  cheering  a  mind  from  which 


EDGAR   A.   POE. 


527 


darkness,  as  if  an  inherent  positive  quality,  poured 
forth  upon  all  objects  of  the  moral  and  physical 
universe,  in  one  unceasing  radiation  of  gloom. 

I  shall  ever  bear  about  me  a  memory  of  the  many 
solemn  hours  I  thus  spent  alone  with  the  master 
of  the  House  of  Usher.  Yet  I  should  fail  in  any 
attempt  to  convey  an  idea  of  the  exact  character 
of  the  studies,  or  of  the  occupations,  in  which  he 
involved  me,  or  led  me  the  way.  An  excited  and 
highly  distempered  ideality  threw  a  sulphureous 
lustre  over  all.  His  long  improvised  dirges  will 
ring  for  ever  in  my  ears.  Among  other  things,  I 
hold  painfully  in  mind  a  certain  singular  perver 
sion  and  amplification  of  the  wild  air  of  the  last 
waltz  of  Von  Weber.  From  the  paintings  over 
which  his  elaborate  fancy  brooded,  and  which  grew, 
touch  by  touch,  into  vaguenesses  at  which  I  shud 
dered  the  more  thrillingly,  because  I  shuddered 
knowing  not  why ; — from  these  paintings  (vivid  as 
their  images  now  are  before  me)  I  would  in  vain 
endeavour  to  educe  more  than  a  small  portion 
which  should  lie  within  the  compass  of  merely 
written  words.  By  the  utter  simplicity,  by  the 
nakedness  of  his  designs,  he  arrested  and  over 
awed  attention.  If  ever  mortal  painted  an  idea, 
that  mortal  was  Roderick  Usher.  For  me  at  least 
— in  the  circumstances  then  surrounding  me — 
there  arose  out  of  the  pure  abstractions  which  the 
hypochondriac  contrived  to  throw  upon  his  canvas, 
an  intensity  of  intolerable  awe,  no  shadow  of  which 
felt  I  ever  yet  in  the  contemplation  of  the  certainly 
glowing  yet  too  concrete  reveries  of  Fuseli. 

One  of  the  phantasmagoric  conceptions  of  my 
friend,  partaking  not  so  rigidly  of  the  spirit  of  ab 
straction,  may  be  shadowed  forth,  although  feebly, 
in  words.  A  small  picture  presented  the  interior 
of  an  immensely  long  and  rectangular  vault  or 
tunnel,  with  low  walls,  smooth,  white,  and  without 
interruption  or  device.  Certain  accessory  points 
of  the  design  served  well  to  convey  the  idea  that 
this  excavation  lay  at  an  exceeding  depth  below 
the  surface  of  the  earth.  No  outlet  was  observed 
in  any  portion  of  its  vast  extent,  and  no  torch,  or 
other  artificial  source  of  light  was  discernible ;  yet 
a  flood  of  intense  rays  rolled  throughout,  and 
bathed  the  whole  in  a  ghastly  and  inappropriate 
splendour. 

I  have  just  spoken  of  that  morbid  condition  of 
the  auditory  nerve  which  rendered  all  music  into 
lerable  to  the  sufferer,  with  the  exception  of  cer 
tain  effects  of  stringed  instruments.  It  was,  per 
haps,  the  narrow  limits  to  which  he  thus  confined 
himself  upon  the  guitar,  which  gave  birth,  in  great 
measure,  to  the  fantastic  character  of  his  perform 
ances.  But  the  fervid  facility  of  his  impromptus 
could  not  be  so  accounted  for.  They  must  have 
been,  and  were,  in  the  notes,  as  well  as  in  the 
words  of  his  wild  fantasias,  (for  he  not  unfrequent- 
ly  accompanied  himself  with  rhymed  verbal  im 
provisations,)  the  result  of  that  intense  mental  col- 
lectedness  and  concentration  to  which  1  have  pre 
viously  alluded  as  observable  only  in  particular  mo 
ments  of  the  highest  artificial  excitement.  The 
words  of  one  of  these  rhapsodies  I  have  easily  re 
membered.  I  was,  perhaps,  the  more  forcibly  im 


pressed  with  it,  as  he  gave  it,  because,  in  the  under 
or  mystic  current  of  its  meaning,  I  fancied  that  I 
perceived,  and  for  the  first  time,  a  full  conscious 
ness  on  the  part  of  Usher,  of  the  tottering  of 
his  lofty  reason  upon  her  throne.  The  verses, 
which  were  entitled  "  The  Haunted  Palace,"  ran 
very  nearly,  if  not  accurately,  thus: 

In  the  greenest  of  our  valleys, 

By  good  angels  tenanted, 
Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace — 

Radiant  palace — reared  its  head. 
In  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion — 

It  stood  there! 
Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 

Over  fabric  half  so  fair. 

Banners  yellow,  glorious,  golden, 

On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow; 
(This— all  this— was  in  the  olden 

Time  long  ago) 
And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied, 

In  that  sweet  day, 
Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid, 

A  winged  odour  went  away. 

Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley 

Through  two  luminous  windows  saw 
Spirits  moving  musically 

To  a  lute's  well-tuned  law, 
Round  about  a  throne,  where  sitting 

(Porphyrogene!) 
In  state  his  glory  well  befitting, 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 

And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing 

Was  the  fair  palace  door, 
Through  which  came  flowing,  flowing,  flowing, 

And  sparkling  evermore, 
A  troop  of  Echoes  whose  sweet  duty 

Was  but  to  sing, 
In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty, 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  king. 

But  evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow, 

Assailed  the  monarch's  high  estate; 
(Ah,  let  us  mourn,  for  never  morrow 

Shall  dawn  upon  him  desolate  !) 
And,  round  about  his  home,  the  glory 

That  blushed  and  bloomed 
Is  but  a  dim-remembered  story 

Of  the  old  time  entombed. 

And  travellers  now  within  that  valley, 

Through  the  red-litten  windows,  see 
Vast  forms  that  move  fantastically 

To  a  di scordant  melody ; 
While,  like  a  rapid  ghastly  river, 

Through  the  pale  door, 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  for  ever, 

And  laugh — but  smile  no  more. 

I  well  remember  that  suggestions  arising  from 
this  ballad,  led  us  into  a  train  of  thought  wherein 
there  became  manifest  an  opinion  of  Usher's  which 
I  mention  not  so  much  on  account  of  its  novelty, 
(for  other  men  have  thought  thus,)  as  on  account 
of  the  pertinacity  with  which  he  maintained  it. 
This  opinion,  in  its  general  form,  was  that  of  the 
sentience  of  all  vegetable  things.  But,  in  his  dis 
ordered  fancy,  the  idea  had  assumed  a  more  daring 
character,  and  trespassed,  under  certain  conditions, 
upon  the  kingdom  of  inorganization.  I  lack  words 
to  express  the  full  extent,  or  the  earnest  abandon 
of  his  persuasion.  The  belief,  however,  was  con 
nected  (as  I  have  previously  hinted)  with  the  gray 
stones  of  the  home  of  his  forefathers.  The  condi 
tions  of  the  sentience  had  been  here,  he  imagined, 
fulfilled  in  the  method  of  collocation  of  these  stones 
— in  the  order  of  their  arrangement,  as  well  as  in 
that  of  the  many  fungi  which  overspread  them 
and  of  the  decayed  trees  which  stood  around- 
above  all,  in  the  long  undisturbed  endurance  oi 


528 


EDGAR   A.    POE. 


this  arrangement,  and  in  its  reduplication  in  the 
still   waters  of  the  tarn.     Its  evidence — the  evi 
dence  of  the  sentience — was  to  be  seen,  he  said, 
(and  I  here  started  as  he  spoke,)  in  the  gradual  yet 
certain  condensation  of  an  atmosphere  of  their  own  ] 
about  the  waters  and  the  walls.     The  result  was  j 
discoverable,  he  added,  in  that  silent,  yet  importu-  j 
nate  and  terrible  influence  which  for  centuries  had  ! 
moulded  the  destinies  of  his  family,  and   which  I 
made  him  what  I  now  saw  him — what  he  was.  ! 
Such  opinions  need  no  comment,  and  I  will  make 
none. 

Our  books — the  books  which,  for   years,  had  j 
formed  no  small  portion  of  the  mental  existence  of  j 
the  invalid — were,  as  might  be  supposed,  in  strict  j 
keeping  with  this  character  of  phantasm.      We  j 
pored  together  over  such  works  as  the  Ververt  et 
Charteuse  of  Gresset ;  the  Belphegor  of  Machia-  [ 
velli ;  the  Heaven  and  Hell  of  Swedenborg ;  the  j 
Subterranean  Voyage  of  Nicholas  Klimm  by  Hoi-  j 
berg ;  the  Chiromancy  of  Robert   Flud,   of  Jean 
D'lndagine,  and  of  De  la  Chambre ;  the  Journey 
into  the  Blue  Distance  of  Tieck ;  and  the  City  of 
the  Sun  of  Campanella.     One  favourite  volume 
was  a  small  octavo  edition  of  the  Directoriwn  In- 
quisitorium,  by  the  Dominican  Ey  meric  de  Gironne ; 
and  there  were  passages  in  Pomponius  Mela,  about  ; 
the  old  African  Satyrs  and  CEgipans,  over  which  j 
Usher  would  sit  dreaming  for  hours.     His  chief  i 
delight,  however,  was  found  in  the  perusal  of  an  ex-  I 
ceedingly  rare  and  curious  book  in  quarto  Gothic  j 
— the  manual  of  a  forgotten  church — the   Vigiliae  \ 
Mortuorum  secundum    Chorum  Ecclesiae  Magun- 
*inae. 

I  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  wild  ritual  of 
this  work,  and  of  its  probable  influence  upon  the  \ 
hypochondriac,  when,  one  evening,  having  informed 
me  abruptly  that  the  lady  Madeline  was  no  more, 
he  stated  his  intention  of  preserving  her  corpse  for 
a  fortnight,  (previously  to  its  final  interment,)  in 
one  of  the  numerous  vaults  within  the  main  walls 
of  the  building.  The  worldly  reason,  however,  as 
signed  for  this  singular  proceeding,  was  one  which 
I  did  not  feel  at  liberty  to  dispute.  The  brother 
had  been  led  to  his  resolution  (so  he  told  me)  by 
consideration  of  the  unusual  character  of  the  ma 
lady  of  the  deceased,  of  certain  obtrusive  and  eager 
inquiries  on  the  part  of  her  medical  men,  and  of 
the  remote  and  exposed  situation  of  the  burial- 
ground  of  the  family.  I  will  not  deny  that  when 
I  called  to  mind  the  sinister  countenance  of  the 
person  whom  I  met  upon  the  staircase,  on  the  day 
of  my  arrival  at  the  house,  I  had  no  desire  to  op 
pose  what  I  regarded  as  at  best  but  a  harmless,  and 
by  no  means  an  unnatural,  precaution. 

At  the  request  of  Usher,  I  personally  aided  him 
in  the  arrangements  for  the  temporary  entombment. 
The  body  having  been  encoffined,  we  two  alone 
bore  it  to  its  rest.  The  vault  in  which  we  placed 
it  (and  which  had  been  so  long  unopened  that  our 
torches,  half  smothered  in  its  oppressive  atmo 
sphere,  gave  us  little  opportunity  for  investigation) 
was  small,  damp,  and  entirely  without  means  of 
admission  for  light;  lying,  at  great  depth,  immedi 
ately  beneath  that  portion  of  the  building  in  which 


was  my  own  sleeping  apartment.  It  had  been 
used,  apparently,  in  remote  feudal  times,  for  the 
worst  purposes  of  a  donjon-keep,  and,  in  later 
days,  as  a  place  of  deposit  for  powder,  or  some 
other  highly  combustible  substance,  as  a  portion  of 
its  floor,  and  the  whole  interior  of  a  long  archway 
through  which  we  reached  it,  were  carefully  sheathed 
with  copper.  The  door,  of  massive  iron,  had  been, 
also,  similarly  protected.  Its  immense  weight  caused 
an  unusually  sharp  grating  sound,  as  it  moved  upon 
its  hinges. 

Having  deposited  our  mournful  burden  upon 
tressels  within  this  region  of  horror,  we  partially 
turned  aside  the  yet  unscrewed  lid  of  the  coffin, 
and  looked  upon  the  face  of  the  tenant.  A  strik 
ing  similitude  between  the  brother  and  sister  now 
first  arrested  my  attention  ;  and  Usher,  divining, 
perhaps,  my  thoughts,  murmured  out  some  few 
words  from  which  I  learned  that  the  deceased  and 
himself  had  been  twins,  and  that  sympathies  of  a 
scarcely  intelligible  nature  had  always  existed  be 
tween  them.  Our  glances,  however,  rested  not 
long  upon  the  dead — for  we  could  not  regard  her 
unawed.  The  disease  which  had  thus  entombed 
the  lady  in  the  maturity  of  youth,  had  left,  as  usual 
in  all  maladies  of  a  strictly  cataleptical  character, 
the  mockery  of  a  faint  blush  upon  the  bosom  and 
the  face,  and  that  suspiciously  lingering  smile  upon 
the  lip  which  is  so  terrible  in  death.  We  replaced 
and  screwed  down  the  lid,  and,  having  secured  the 
door  of  iron,  made  our  way,  with  toil,  into  the 
scarcely  less  gloomy  apartments  of  the  upper  por 
tion  of  the  house. 

And  now,  some  days  of  bitter  grief  having 
elapsed,  an  observable  change  came  over  the  fea 
tures  of  the  mental  disorder  of  my  friend.  His 
ordinary  manner  had  vanished.  His  ordinary  oc 
cupations  were  neglected  or  forgotten.  He  roamed 
from  chamber  to  chamber  with  hurried,  unequal, 
and  objectless  step.  The  pallor  of  his  countenance 
had  assumed,  if  possible,  a  more  ghastly  hue — but 
the  lurninousness  of  his  eye  had  utterly  gone  out. 
The  once  occasional  huskiness  of  his  tone  was 
heard  no  more ;  and  a  tremulous  quaver,  as  if  of 
extreme  terror,  habitually  characterized  his  utter 
ance.  There  were  times,  indeed,  when  I  thought 
his  unceasingly  agitated  mind  was  labouring  with 
some  oppressive  secret,  to  divulge  which  he  strug 
gled  for  the  necessary  courage.  At  times  again,  I 
was  obliged  to  resolve  all  into  the  mere  inexplica 
ble  vagaries  of  madness,  for  I  beheld  him  gazing 
upon  vacancy  for  long  hours,  in  an  attitude  of  the 
profoundest  attention,  as  if  listening  to  some  ima 
ginary  sound.  It  was  no  wonder  that  his  condition 
terrified — that  it  infected  me.  I  felt  creeping  upon 
me,  by  slow  yet  certain  degrees,  the  wild  influ 
ences  of  his  own  fantastic  yet  impressive  supersti 
tions. 

It  was,  especially,  upon  retiring  to  bed  late  at 
night  of  the  seventh  or  eighth  day  after  the  placing 
of  the  lady  Madeline  within  the  donjon,  that  I  ex 
perienced  the  full  power  of  such  feelings.  Sleep 
came  not  near  my  couch — while  the  hours  waned 
and  waned  away.  I  struggled  to  reason  off  fife 
nervousness  which  had  dominion  over  me.  I  en- 


EDGAR   A.    POE. 


529 


deavoured  to  believe  that  much,  if  not  all  of  what 
I  felt,  was  due  to  the  bewildering  influence  of  the 
gloomy  furniture  of  the  room — of  the  dark  and  tat 
tered  draperies,  which,  tortured  into  motion  by  the 
breath  of  a  rising  tempest,  swayed  fitfully  to  and 
fro  upon  the  walls,  and  rustled  uneasily  about  the 
decorations  of  the  bed.  But  my  efforts  were  fruit 
less.  An  irrepressible  tremor  gradually  pervaded 
my  frame;  and,  at  length,  there  sat  upon  my  very 
heart  an  incubus  of  utterly  causeless  alarm.  Shak 
ing  this  off  with  a  gasp  and  a  struggle,  I  uplifted 
myself  upon  the  pillows,  and  peering  earnestly 
within  the  intense  darkness  of  the  chamber,  hear 
kened — I  know  not  why,  except  that  an  instinctive 
spirit  prompted  me — to  certain  low  and  indefinite 
sounds  which  came,  through  the  pauses  of  the 
storm,  at  long  intervals,  I  knew  not  whence.  Over 
powered  by  an  intense  sentiment  of  horror,  unac 
countable  yet  unendurable,  I  threw  on  my  clothes 
with  haste,  (for  I  felt  I  should  sleep  no  more  during 
the  night,)  and  endeavoured  to  arouse  myself  from 
the  pitiable  condition  into  which  I  had  fallen,  by 
pacing  rapidly  to  and  fro  through  the  apartment. 

I  had  taken  but  few  turns  in  this  manner,  when 
a  light  step  on  an  adjoining  staircase  arrested  my 
attention.  I  presently  recognised  it  as  that  of 
Usher.  In  an  instant  afterward  he  rapped,  with  a 
gentle  touch,  at  my  door,  and  entered,  bearing  a 
lamp.  His  countenance  was,  as  usual,  cadaver 
ously  wan — but,  moreover,  there  was  a  species  of 
mad  hilarity  in  his  eyes — an  evidently  restrained 
hysteria  in  his  whole  demeanor.  His  air  appalled 
me — but  any  thing  was  preferable  to  the  solitude 
which  I  had  so  long  endured,  and  I  even  welcomed 
his  presence  as  a  relief. 

"And  you  have  not  seen  if!"  he.  said  abruptly, 
after  having  stared  about  him  for  some  moments 
in  silence — "  you  have  not  then  seen  it? — but,  stay ! 
you  shall."  Thus  speaking,  and  having  carefully 
shaded  his  lamp,  he  hurried  to  one  of  the  casements, 
and  threw  it  freely  open  to  the  storm. 

The  impetuous  fury  of  the  entering  gust  nearly 
lifted  us  from  our  feet.  It  was,  indeed,  a  tempes 
tuous  yet  sternly  beautiful  night,  and  one  wildly 
singular  in  its  terror  and  its  beauty.  A  whirlwind 
had  apparently  collected  its  force  in  our  vicinity ; 
for  there  were  frequent  and  violent  alterations  in 
the  direction  of  the  wind ;  and  the  exceeding  den 
sity  of  the  clouds  (which  hung  so  low  as  to  press 
upon  the  turrets  of  the  house)  did  not  prevent  our 
perceiving  the  life-like  velocity  with  which  they 
flew  careering  from  all  points  against  each  other, 
without  passing  away  into  the  distance.  I  say  that 
even  their  exceeding  density  did  not  prevent  our  per 
ceiving  this — yet  we  had  no  glimpse  of  the  moon  or 
stars — nor  was  there  any  flashing  forth  of  the  light 
ning.  But  the  under  surfaces  of  the  huge  masses 
of  agitated  vapour,  as  well  as  all  terrestrial  objects 
immediately  around  us,  were  glowing  in  the  unna 
tural  light  of  a  faintly  luminous  and  distinctly  visi- 
ole  gaseous  exhalation  which  hung  about  and  en 
shrouded  the  mansion. 

"  You  must  not — you  shall  not  behold  this !" 
said  I,  shudderingly,  to  Usher,  as  I  led  him,  with  a 
penile  violence,  from  the  window  to  a  seat.  "  These 


appearances,  which  bewilder  you,  are  merely  elec 
trical  phenomena  not  uncommon — or  it  may  be 
that  they  have  their  ghastly  origin  in  the  rank  mi 
asma  of  the  tarn.  Let  us  close  this  casement ; — 
the  air  is  chilling  and  dangerous  to  your  frame. 
Here  is  one  of  your  favourite  romances.  I  will 
read  and  you  shall  listen  ; — and  so  we  will  pass 
away  this  terrible  night  together." 

The  antique  volume  which  I  had  taken  up  was 
the  "  Mad  Trist"  of  Sir  Launcelot  Canning ;  but 
I  had  called  it  favourite  of  Usher's  more  in  sad  jest 
than  in  earnest ;  for,  in  truth,  there  is  little  in  its 
uncouth  and  unimaginative  prolixity  which  could 
have  had  interest  for  the  lofty  and  spiritual  ideality 
of  my  friend.  It  was,  however,  the  only  book  im 
mediately  at  hand ;  and  I  indulged  a  vague  hope 
that  the  excitement  which  now  agitated  the  hypo 
chondriac  might  find  relief  (for  the  history  of  men 
tal  disorder  is  full  of  similar  anomalies)  even  in 
the  extremeness  of  the  folly  which  I  should  read. 
Could  I  have  judged,  indeed,  by  the  wild  over 
strained  air  of  vivacity  with  which  he  hearkened,  or 
apparently  hearkened,  to  the  words  of  the  tale,  I 
might  well  have  congratulated  myself  upon  the 
success  of  my  design. 

I  had  arrived  at  that  well-known  portion  of  the 
story  where  Ethelred,  the  hero  of  the  Trist,  having 
sought  in  vain  for  peaceable  admission  into  the 
dwelling  of  the  hermit,  proceeds  to  make  good  an 
entrance  by  force.  Here,  it  will  be  remembered, 
the  words  of  the  narrative  run  thus : 

"And  Ethelred,  who  was  by  nature  of  a  dough 
ty  heart,  and  who  was  now  mighty  withal,  on  ac 
count  of  the  powerfulness  of  the  wine  which  he 
had  drunken,  waited  no  longer  to  hold  parley  with 
the  hermit,  who,  in  sooth,  was  of  an  obstinate  and 
maliceful  turn,  but,  feeling  the  rain  upon  his  shoul 
ders,  and  fearing  the  rising  of  the  tempest,  uplifted 
his  mace  outright,  and,  with  blows,  made  quickly 
room  in  the  plankings  of  the  door  for  his  gauntleted 
hand ;  and  now  pulling  therewith  sturdily,  he  so 
cracked,  and  ripped,  and  tore  all  asunder,  that  the 
noise  of  the  dry  and  hollow-sounding  wood  ala- 
rumed  and  reverberated  throughout  the  forest." 

At  the  termination  of  this  sentence  I  started,  and, 
for  a  moment,  paused  ;  for  it  appeared  to  me  (al 
though  I  at  once  concluded  that  my  excited  fancy  , 
had  deceived  me) — it  appeared  to  me  that,  from 
some  very  remote  portion  of  the  mansion,  there 
came,  indistinctly,  to  my  ears,  what  might  have 
been,  in  its  exact  similarity  of  character,  the  echo 
(but  a  stifled  and  dull  one  certainly)  of  the  very 
cracking  and  ripping  sound  which  Sir  Launcelot 
had  so  particularly  described.  It  was,  beyond 
doubt,  the  coincidence  alone  which  had  arrested  my 
attention ;  for,  amid  the  rattling  of  the  sashes  of 
the  casements,  and  the  ordinary  commingled  noises 
of  the  still  increasing  storm,  the  sound,  in  itself, 
had  nothing,  surely,  which  should  have  interested 
or  disturbed  me.  I  continued  the  story  • 

"But  the  good  champion  Ethelred,  now  entering 
within  the  door,  was  sore  enraged  and  amazed 
to  perceive  no  signal  of  the  maliceful  hermit ;  but, 
in  the  stead  thereof,  a  dragon  of  a  scaly  and  prodi 
gious  demeanor,  and  of  a  fiery  tongue,  which  sate 
2Y 


J>30 


EDGAR   A.   POE. 


in  guard  before  a  palace  of  gold,  with  a  floor  of 
silver;  and  upon  the  wall  there  hung  a  shield  of 
shining  brass  with  this  legend  enwritten — 

Who  entereth  herein,  a  conqueror  hath  bin; 
AVho  siayeth  the  dragon,  the  shield  he  shall  win; 

And  Ethelred  uplifted  his  mace  and  struck  upon  the 
head  of  the  dragon,  which  fell  before  him,  and  gave 
up  hispesty  breath,  with  a  shriek  so  horrid  and  harsh, 
and  withal  so  piercing,  that  Ethelred  had  fain  to  close 
his  ears  with  his  hands  against  the  dreadful  noise 
of  it,  the  like  whereof  was  never  before  heard." 

Here  again  I  paused  abruptly,  and  now  with  a 
feeling  of  wild  amazement — for  there  could  be  no 
doubt  whatever  that,  in  this  instance,  I  did  actually 
hear  (although  from  what  direction  it  proceeded  I 
found  it  impossible  to  say)  a  low  and  apparently  dis 
tant,  but  harsh,  protracted,  and  most  unusual  scream 
ing  or  grating  sound — the  exact  counterpart  of  what 
my  fancy  had  already  conjured  up  for  the  dragon's 
unnatural  shriek  as  described  hy  the  romancer. 

Oppressed,  as  I  certainly  was,  upon  the  occur 
rence  of  this  second  and  most  extraordinary  coin 
cidence,  by  a  thousand  conflicting  sensations,  in 
which  wonder  and  extreme  terror  were  predomi 
nant,  I  still  retained  sufficient  presence  of  mind  to 
avoid  exciting,  by  any  observation,  the  sensitive 
nervousness  of  my  companion.  I  was  by  no  means 
certain  that  he  had  noticed  the  sounds  in  question  ; 
although,  assuredly,  a  strange  alteration  had,  dur 
ing  the  last  few  minutes,  taken  place  in  his  de 
meanor.  From  a  position  fronting  my  own,  he  had 
gradually  brought  round  his  chair,  so  as  to  sit  with 
his  face  to  the  door  of  the  chamber ;  and  thus  I 
could  but  partially  perceive  his  features,  although  I 
saw  that  his  lips  trembled  as  if  he  were  murmur 
ing  inaudibly.  His  head  had  dropped  upon  his 
breast — yet  I  knew  that  he  was  not  asleep,  from 
the  wide  and  rigid  opening  of  the  eye  as  I  caught 
a  glance  of  it  in  profile.  The  motion  of  his  body, 
too,  was  at  variance  with  this  idea — for  he  rocked 
from  side  to  side  with  a  gentle  yet  constant  and 
uniform  sway.  Having  rapidly  taken  notice  of  all 
this,  I  resumed  the  narrative  of  Sir  Launcelot, 
which  thus  proceeded : 

"  And  now,  the  champion,  having  escaped  from 
the  terrible  fury  of  the  dragon,  bethinking  himself 
of  the  brazen  shield,  and  of  the  breaking  up  of  the 
enchantment  which  was  upon  it,  removed  the  car 
cass  from  out  of  the  way  before  him,  and  approached 
valorously  over  the  silver  pavement  of  the  castle 
to  where  the  shield  was  upon  the  wall ;  which  in 
sooth  tarried  not  for  his  full  coming,  but  fell  down 
at  his  feet  upon  the  silver  floor,  with  a  mighty 
great  and  terrible  ringing  sound." 

No  sooner  had  these  syllables  passed  my  lips, 
than — as  if  a  shield  of  brass  had  indeed,  at  the 
moment,  fallen  heavily  upon  a  floor  of  silver — I 
became  aware  of  a  distinct,  hollow,  metallic,  and 
clangorous,  yet  apparently  muffled  reverberation. 
Completely  unnerved,  I  leaped  to  my  feet,  but  the 
measured  rocking  movement  of  Usher  was  undis 
turbed.  I  rushed  to  the  chair  in  which  he  sat. 
His  eyes  were  bent  fixedly  before  him,  and  through 
out  his  whole  countenance  there  reigned  a  stony 
rigidity.  But,  as  I  placed  my  hand  upon  his  shoul 


der,  there  came  a  strong  shudder  over  his  whole 
person;  a  sickly  smile  quivered  about  his  lips; 
and  I  saw  that  he  spoke  in  a  low,  hurried,  and  gib 
bering  murmur,  as  if  unconscious  of  my  presence. 
Bending  closely  over  him,  I  at  length  drank  in  the 
hideous  import  of  his  words. 

"  Not  hear  it  1 — yes,  I  hear  it,  and  have  heard  it. 
Long — long — long — many  minutes,  many  hours, 
many  days,  have  I  heard  it — yet  I  dared  not — oh, 
pity  me,  miserable  wretch  that  I  am  ! — I  dared  not 
— I  dared  not  speak !  We  have  put  her  living  in 
the  iomb  !  Said  I  not  that  my  senses  were  acute  1 
I  now  tell  you  that  I  heard  her  first  feeble  move 
ments  in  the  hollow  coffin.  I  heard  them — many, 
many  days  ago — -yet  I  dared  not — /  dared  not 
speuk  !  And  now — -to-night— Ethelred — ha  !  ha  ! 
— the  breaking  of  the  hermit's  door,  and  the  death- 
cry  of  the  dragon,  and  the  clangor  of  the  shield  ! 
• — say,  rather,  the  rending  of  her  coffin,  and  the 
grating  of  the  iron  hinges  of  her  prison,  and  her 
struggles  within  the  coppered  archway  of  the  vault! 
Oh  whither  shall  I  fly  1  Will  she  not  be  here  anon  ] 
Is  she  not  hurrying  to  upbraid  me  for  my  haste? 
Have  I  not  heard  her  footstep  on  the  stair  1  Do  I  not 
distinguish  that  heavy  and  horrible  beating  of  her 
heart]  Madman  !" — here  he  sprang  furiously  to 
his  feet,  and  shrieked  out  his  syllables,  as  if  in  the 
effort  he  were  giving  up  his  soul — "  Madman  !  1 
tell  you  that  she  now  stands  without  the  door  !" 

As  if  in  the  superhuman  energy  of  his  utter 
ance  there  had  been  found  the  potency  of  a  spell 
— the  huge  antique  pannels  to  which  the  speaker 
pointed,  threw  slowly  back,  upon  the  instant,  their 
ponderous  and  ebony  jaws.  It  was  the  work  of 
the  rushing  gust — but  then  without  those  doors 
there  did  stand  the  lofty  and  enshrouded  figure  of 
the  lady  Madeline  of  Usher.  There  was  blood 
upon  her  white  robes,  and  the  evidence  of  some 
bitter  struggle  upon  every  portion  of  her  emaciated 
frame.  For  a  moment  she  remained  trembling  and 
reeling  to  and  fro  upon  the  threshold — then,  with 
a  low  moaning  cry,  fell  heavily  inward  upon  the 
person  of  her  brother,  and  in  her  violent  and  now 
final  death-agonies,  bore  him  to  the  floor  a  corpse, 
and  a  victim  to  the  terrors  he  had  anticipated. 

From  that  chamber,  and  from  that  mansion,  I 
fled  aghast.  The  storm  was  still  abroad  in  all  its 
wrath  as  I  found  myself  crossing  the  old  causeway. 
Suddenly  there  shot  along  the  path  a  wild  light, 
and  I  turned  to  see  whence  a  gleam  so  unusual 
could  have  issued ;  for  the  vast  house  and  its  sha 
dows  were  alone  behind  me.  The  radiance  was 
that  of  the  full,  setting,  and  blood-red  moon,  which 
now  shon ;  vividly  through  that  once  barely-dis 
cernible  fissure,  of  which  I  have  before  spoken  as 
extending  from  the  roof  of  the  building,  in  a  zig 
zag  direction,  to  the  base.  While  I  gazed,  this 
fissure  rapidly  widened — there  came  a  fierce  breath 
of  the  whirlwind — the  entire  orb  of  the  satellite 
burst  at  once  upon  my  sight — my  brain  reeled  as 
I  saw  the  mighty  walls  rushing  asunder — there  was 
a  long  tumultuous  shouting  sound  like  the  voice  of 
a  thousand  waters — and  the  deep  and  dank  tarn  at 
my  feet  closed  sullenly  and  silently  over  the  frag 
ments  of  the  "  House  of  Usher." 


HENRY  T.   TUCKERMAN. 


[Born  1813.] 


HENRY  THEODORE  TUCKERMAN,  one  of  our 
most  genial  and  elegant  essayists,  and  a  very 
graceful  and  pleasing  poet,  was  born  in  Boston 
on  the  twentieth  of  April,  1813.  His  health 
having  somewhat  failed,  when  he  was  about 
nineteen  years  of  age,  by  the  advice  of  his 
physicians  he  relinquished  his  studies  to  test 
the  influence  of  travel  in  the  milder  climate  of 
southern  Europe.  He  passed  the  autumn  of 
1833,  and  the  following  winter  and  spring  in 
Italy,  and  having  returned  to  America,  pub 
lished  early  in  1835  his  first  work,  under  the 
title  of  The  Italian  Sketch  Book,  of  which  a 
second  edition  appeared  in  1837.  This  is  not 
so  much  a  description  of  the  scenery,  antiqui 
ties,  or  condition  of  the  country,  as  an  echo 
of  the  feelings  which  they  awakened.  It  ex 
hibited  a  fine  vein  of  sentiment,  and  a  delicate 
ideality  that  justified  the  favourable  auguries 
of  the  critics  concerning  the  author's  future 
distinction. 

Mr.  Tuckerman  resumed  and  for  a  time  pro 
secuted  his  academical  studies,  but  again  ex 
periencing  the  injurious  effects  of  a  sedentary 
life  and  continued  mental  application,  he  em 
barked  in  the  fall  of  1837  for  the  Mediterra 
nean.  After  visiting  Gibraltar  and  Malta  he 
made  the  tour  of  Sicily,  and  having  passed  a 
winter  in  Palermo,  proceeded  to  Florence, 
where  he  remained  the  chief  part  of  the  ensu 
ing  year.  On  his  return,  in  1839,  he  pub 
lished  Isabel,  or  Sicily,  a  Pilgrimage,  in  which, 
adopting  the  guise  of  a  romance  to  avoid  the 
egotistical  tone  of  a  formal  journal,  he  has 
given  many  interesting  descriptions  and  re 
flections  incident  to  a  residence  in  Sicily.  It 
is  a  graceful  and  ingenuous  book,  graphic  and 
suggestive,  and  indicative  of  refinement,  pure 
sympathies,  and  a  cultivated  taste, 

In  the  autumn  of  1841  he  published  a  vo 
lume  of  miscellanies  under  the  title  of  Ram 
bles  and  Reveries,  and  in  1846  appeared  his 
best  and  most  characteristic  work,  Thoughts 
|j  on  the  Poets.  This  volume  embraces  essays 
on  twenty-six*  Italian,  English  and  American 

*Petrarc!i,  Goldsmith,  Gray,  Collins,  Pope,  Burns,  Alfi- 
eri,Thomson.Covvper, Young.  Crabbe,  Coleridge,  Shelley,    ! 


poets.  It  exhibits  a  taste  skilled  in  the  fine 
influences  of  language,  a  subtle  apprehension 
of  ideal  beauty,  and  great  independence  in  li 
terary  and  personal  judgments.  In  consider 
ing  an  author's  character  he  has  a  just  regard 
to  his  peculiar  circumstances  and  history,  and 
in  examining  his  productions  assumes  as  much 
as  possible  his  spirit,  is  moved  by  the  in 
fluences  which  give  a  direction  to  his  genius, 
and  looks  upon  life  and  nature  with  his  eyes. 
The  essays  on  Goldsmith,  Burns,  Shelley  and 
Alfieri  are  instances  of  this  wise  candor  and 
intellectual  sympathy.  His  investigations 
seem  to  be  alike  genial,  and  his  comments  on 
all  to  be  marked  by  the  same  loving  disposition 
and  unpretending  but  acute  critical  judgment. 
The  latest  of  Mr.  Tuckerman's  writings  are 
a  series  of  agreeable  papers  entitled,  Leaves 
from  the  Diary  of  a  Dreamer,  a  melange  of 
description,  speculation  and  sentiment. 

His  principal  poem,  entitled  The  Spirit  of 
Poetry,  was  published  in  1843.  It  is  didac 
tic  and  critical,  carefully  studied  and  highly 
finished.  His  minor  pieces  have  more  fancy 
and  feeling.  Some  of  them  are  passionate  and 
tender,  and  they  generally  evince  much  delica 
cy,  and  a  manly  sincerity  of  disposition. 

He  wrote  a  series  of  criticisms,  which  were 
published  under  the  title  of  Artist  Life,  or 
Sketches  of  American  Painters;  also,  a  Memoir 
of  Horatio  Greenough  ;  Characteristics  of  Lit 
erature,  illustrated  by  the  Genius  of  Distin 
guished  Men ;  Mental  Portraits,  or  Studies  of 
Character ;  Life  of  Commodore  Silas  Talbot : 
The  Character  and  Services  of  De  Witt  Clinton  ; 
The  Optimist,  a  collection  of  Essays  ;  Essays, 
Biographical  and  Critical,  or  Studies  of  Char 
acter  :  The  Rebellion,  its  Latent  Causes,  and 
True  Significance ;  A  Sheaf  of  Verse  bound  for 
the  Fair  ;  America  and  her  Commentators,  with 
a  critical  sketch  of  Travel  in  the  U.  S. ;  Memo 
rial  of  the  Life  and  Character  of  Jno.  W.  Fran 
cis,  Jr. ;  and  a  Memoir  of  Dr.  Jno.  W.  Francis. 
He  has  written  much  on  literature  and  art  for 
the  magazines,  which  has  not  been  collected. 

Byron,  Keats,  Hunt,  Moore,  Rogers,  Wordsworth,  Camp 
bell,  Hemans,  Proctor/Tennyson,  Barrett,  Drake,  Bryant. 


532 


HENRY    T    TUCKERMAN. 


A  DEFENCE  OF  ENTHUSIASM. 

FROM   AN   ESSAY   ENTITLED   NEW   ENGLAND   PHILOSOPHY. 

LET  us  recognise  the  beauty  and  power  of  true 
enthusiasm  ;  and  whatever  we  may  do  to  enlighten 
ourselves  and  others,  guard  against  checking  or 
chilling  a  single  earnest  sentiment.  For  what  is 
the  human  mind,  however  enriched  with  acquisi 
tions  or  strengthened  by  exercise,  unaccompanied 
by  an  ardent  and  sensitive  heart  1  Its  light  may 
illumine,  but  it  cannot  inspire.  It  may  shed  a 
cold  and  moonlight  radiance  upon  the  path  of  life, 
but  it  warms  no  flower  into  bloom  ;  it  sets  free  no 
ice-bound  fountains.  Dr.  Johnson  used  to  say,  that 
an  obstinate  rationality  prevented  him  from  being 
a  papist.  Does  not  the  same  cause  prevent  many 
of  us  from  unburdening  our  hearts  and  breathing 
our  devotions  at  the  shrines  of  nature  1  There 
are  influences  which  environ  humanity  too  subtle 
for  the  dissecting  knife  of  reason.  In  our  better 
moments  we  are  clearly  conscious  of  their  presence, 
and  if  there  is  any  barrier  to  their  blessed  agency, 
it  is  a  formalized  intellect.  Enthusiasm,  too,  is 
the  very  life  of  gifted  spirits.  Ponder  the  lives  of 
the  glorious  in  art  or  literature  through  all  ages. 
What  are  they  but  records  of  toils  and  sacrifices 
supported  by  the  earnest  hearts  of  their  votaries  ? 
Dante  composed  his  immortal  poem  amid  exile  and 
suffering,  prompted  by  the  noble  ambition  of  vin 
dicating  himself  to  posterity  ;  and  the  sweetest  an 
gel  of  his  paradise  is  the  object  of  his  early  love. 
The  best  countenances  the  old  painters  have  be 
queathed  to  us  are  those  of  cherished  objects  inti 
mately  associated  with  their  fame.  The  face  of 
Raphael's  mother  blends  with  the  angelic  beauty 
of  all  his  madonnas.  Titian's  daughter  and  the 
wife  of  Corregio  again  and  again  meet  in  their 
works.  Well  does  Foscolo  call  the  fine  arts  the 
children  of  love.  The  deep  interest  with  which 
the  Italians  hail  gifted  men,  inspires  them  to  the 
mightiest  efforts.  National  enthusiasm  is  the  great 
nursery  of  genius.  When  Cellini's  statue  of  Per 
seus  was  first  exhibited  on  the  Piazza  at  Florence, 
it  was  surrounded  for  days  by  an  admiring  throng, 
and  hundreds  of  tributary  sonnets  were  placed 
upon  its  pedestal.  Petrarch  was  crowned  with 
laurel  at  Rome  for  his  poetical  labours,  and  crowds 
of  the  unlettered  may  still  be  seen  on  the  Mole  at 
Naples,  listening  to  a  reader  of  Tasso.  Reason 
is  not  the  only  interpreter  of  life.  The  fountain 
of  action  is  in  the  feelings.  Religion  itself  is  but 
a  state  of  the  affections.  I  once  met  a  beautiful 
peasant  woman  in  the  valley  of  the  Arno,  and  asked 
the  number  of  her  children.  "  I  have  three  here 
and  two  in  paradise,"  she  calmly  replied,  with  a 
tone  and  manner  of  touching  and  grave  simplicity. 
Her  faith  was  of  the  heart.  Constituted  as  human 
nature  is,  it  is  in  the  highest  degree  natural  that 
rare  powers  should  be  excited  by  voluntary  and 
spontaneous  appreciation.  Who  would  not  feel 
urged  to  high  achievement,  if  he  knew  that  every 
beauty  his  canvas  displayed,  or  every  perfect  note 
he  breathed,  or  every  true  inspiration  of  his  lyre, 
would  find  an  instant  response  in  a  thousand 
breasts  1  Lord  Brougham  calls  the  word  "  im 


possible"  the  mother-tongue  of  little  souls.  What, 
I  ask,  can  counteract  self-distrust,  and  sustain  the 
higher  efforts  of  our  nature  but  enthusiasm  ]  More 
of  this  element  would  call  forth  the  genius,  and 
gladden  the  life  of  New  England.  While  the 
mere  intellectual  man  speculates,  and  the  mere 
man  of  acquisition  cites  authority,  the  man  of  feel 
ing  acts,  realizes,  puts  forth  his  complete  energies. 
His  earnest  and  strong  heart  will  not  let  his  mind 
rest;  he  is  urged  by  an  inward  impulse  to  imbody 
his  thought.  He  must  have  sympathy ;  he  must 
have  results.  And  nature  yields  to  the  magician, 
acknowledging  him  as  her  child.  The  noble  sta 
tue  comes  forth  from  the  marble,  the  speaking  figure 
stands  out  from  the  canvas,  the  electric  chain  is 
struck  in  the  bosoms  of  his  fellows.  They  receive 
his  ideas,  respond  to  his  appeal,  and  reciprocate 
his  love. 

Constant  supplies  of  knowledge  to  the  intellect, 
and  the  exclusive  culture  of  reason  may,  indeed, 
make  a  pedant  and  logician ;  but  the  probability 
is,  these  benefits,  if  such  they  are,  will  be  gained 
at  the  expense  of  the  soul.  Sentiment,  in  its 
broadest  acceptation,  is  as  essential  to  the  true  en 
joyment  and  grace  of  life  as  mind.  Technical  in 
formation,  and  that  quickness  of  apprehension 
which  New  Englanders  call  smartness,  are  not  so 
valuable  to  a  human  being  as  sensibility  to  the 
beautiful,  and  a  spontaneous  appreciation  of  the 
divine  influences  which  fill  the  realms  of  vision 
and  of  sound,  and  the  world  of  action  and  feeling. 
The  tastes,  affections  and  sentiments,  are  more  ab 
solutely  the  man  than  his  talent  or  acquirements. 
And  yet  it  is  by  and  through  the  latter  that  we  are 
apt  to  estimate  character,  of  which  they  are  at  best 
but  fragmentary  evidences.  It  is  remarkable  that, 
in  the  New  Testament,  allusions  to  the  intellect 
are  so  rare,  while  the  "  heart"  and  the  "  spirit  we 
are  of"  are  ever  appealed  to.  Sympathy  is  the 
"  golden  key"  which  unlocks  the  treasures  of  wis 
dom  ;  and  this  depends  upon  vividness  and  warmth 
of  feeling.  It  is  therefore  that  Tranio  advises — 
"  In  brief,  sir,  study  what  you  most  affect."  A  code 
of  etiquette  may  refine  the  manners,  but  the  "heart 
of  courtesy,"  which,  through  the  world,  stamps 
the  natural  gentleman,  can  never  be  attained  but 
through  instinct;  and  in  the  same  manner,  those 
enriching  and  noble  sentiments  which  are  the  most 
beautiful  and  endearing  of  human  qualities,  no 
process  of  mental  training  will  create.  To  what 
end  is  society,  popular  education,  churches,  and  all 
the  machinery  of  culture,  if  no  living  truth  is  eli 
cited  which  fertilizes  as  well  as  enlightens  1  Shak- 
speare  undoubtedly  owed  his  marvellous  insight 
into  the  human  soul  to  his  profound  sympathy 
with  man.  He  might  have  conned  whole  libraries 
on  the  philosophy  of  the  passions ;  he  might  have 
coldly  observed  facts  for  years,  and  never  have  con 
ceived  of  jealousy  like  Othello's,  the  remorse  of 
Macbeth,  or  love  like  that  of  Juliet.  When  the 
native  sentiments  are  once  interested,  new  facts 
spring  to  light.  It  was  under  the  excitement  of 
wonder  and  love,  that  Byron,  tossed  on  the  lake  of 
Geneva,  thought  that  "Jura  answered  from  her 
misty  shroud,"  responsive  to  the  thunder  of  the 


HENRY    T.   TUCKERMAN. 


533 


Alps.  With  no  eye  of  mere  curiosity  did  Bryant 
follow  the  lonely  flight  of  the  waterfowl.  Vene 
ration  prompted  the  inquiry, 

li  Whither  'midst  falling  dew 

When  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far  through  their  rosy  depths  dost  thou  pursue 
Thy  solitary  way?" 

Sometimes,  in  musing  upon  genius  in  its  simpler 
manifestations,  it  seems  as  if  the  great  art  of  hu 
man  culture  consisted  chiefly  in  preserving  the 
glow  and  freshness  of  the  heart.  It  is  certain  that 
in  proportion  as  its  merely  mental  strength  and 
attainment  takes  the  place  of  natural  sentiment,  in 
proportion  as  we  acquire  the  habit  of  receiving  all 
impressions  through  the  reason,  the  teachings  of 
nature  grow  indistinct  and  cold,  however  it  may 
be  with  those  of  books.  That  this  is  the  tendency 
of  the  New  England  philosophy  of  life  and  educa 
tion,  I  think  can  scarcely  be  disputed.  I  have  re 
marked  that  some  of  our  most  intelligent  men  speak 
of  mastering  a  subject,  of  comprehending  a  book, 
of  settling  a  question,  as  if  these  processes  involved 
the  whole  idea  of  human  cultivation.  The  reverse 
of  all  this  is  chiefly  desirable.  It  is  when  we  are 
overcome,  and  the  pride  of  intellect  vanquished  be 
fore  the  truth  of  nature,  when,  instead  of  coming 
to  a  logical  decision,  we  are  led  to  bow  in  profound 
reverence^  before  the  mysteries  of  life,  when  we  are 
led  back  to  childhood,  or  up  to  God,  by  some  power 
ful  revelation  of  the  sage  or  minstrel,  it  is  then  our 
natures  grow.  To  this  end  is  all  art.  Exquisite 
vocalism,  beautiful  statuary  and  painting,  and  all 
true  literature,  have  not  for  their  great  object  to 
employ  the  ingenuity  of  prying  critics,  or  furnish 
the  world  with  a  set  of  new  ideas,  but  to  move  the 
whole  nature  by  the  perfection  and  truthfulness  of 
their  appeal.  There  is  a  certain  atmosphere  ex 
haled  from  the  inspired  page  of  genius,  which  gives 
•vitality  to  the  sentiments,  and  through  these  quick 
ens  the  mental  powers.  And  this  is  the  chief  good 
of  books.  Were  it  otherwise,  those  of  us  who  have 
bad  memories  might  despair  of  advancement.  I 
have  heard  educated  New  Englanders  boast  of  the 
quantity  of  poetry  they  have  read  in  a  given  time, 
as  if  rich  fancies  and  elevated  thoughts  are  to  be 
despatched  as  are  beefsteaks  on  board  our  steam 
boats.  Newspapers  are  estimated  by  their  num 
ber  of  square  feet,  as  if  this  had  any  thing  to  do 
with  the  quality  of  their  contents.  Journeys  of 
pleasure  are  frequently  deemed  delightful  in  pro 
portion  to  their  rapidity,  without  reference  to  the 
new  scenery  or  society  they  bring  into  view.  So 
cial  gatherings  are  not  seldom  accounted  brilliant 
in  the  same  degree  that  they  are  crowded.  Such 
would  not  be  the  case,  if  what  the  phrenologists 
call  the  affective  powers,  were  enough  considered; 
if  the  whole  soul,  instead  of  the  «  meddling  intel 
lect"  alone,  was  freely  developed  ;  if  we  realized 
the  truth  thus  expressed  by  a  powerful  writer — 
"  within  the  entire  circle  of  our  intellectual  consti 
tution,  we  value  nothing  but  emotion;  it  is  not  the 
powers,  but  the  fruit  of  those  powers,  in  so  much 
feeling  of  a  lofty  kind  as  they  will  yield." 

One  of  the  most  obvious  consequences  of  these 
traits  appears  in    social  intercourse.     Foreigners 


have  ridiculed  certain  external  habits  of  Americans, 
but  these  were  always  confined  to  the  few.  and 
where  most  prevalent  have  yielded  readily  to  cen 
sure.   There  are  incongruities  of  manners  still  more 
objectionable,  because  the  direct  exponents  of  cha 
racter  and  resulting  from  the  philosophy  of  life. 
Delicacy  and  self-respect  are  the  fruits,  not  so  much 
of  intellect  as  sensibility.     We  are  considerate  to 
wards  others  in  proportion  as  our  own  conscious 
ness  gives  *us  insight.     The  sympathies  are  the 
best  teachers  of  politeness ;   and  these  are  ever 
blunted   by  an  exclusive   reliance  on   perception. 
Nothing  is  more  common  than  to  find  educated 
New  Englanders  unconsciously  invading  the  pri 
vacy  of  others,  to  indulge  their  idle  curiosity,  or 
giving  a  personal  turn   to  conversation  in  a  way 
that  outrages  all  moral  refinement.     This  is  ob 
servable  in  society  professedly  intellectual.     It  is 
scarcely  deemed  rude  to  allude  to  one's  personal 
appearance,  health,  dress,  circumstances,  or  even 
most  sacred  feelings,  although  neither  intimacy  nor 
confidence  lend  the  slightest  authority  to  the  pro 
ceeding.     Such  violation  of  what  is  due  to  others, 
is  more  frequently  met  with  among  the  cultivated 
of  this  than  any  other  country.     It  is  comparative 
ly  rare  here  to  encounter  a  natural  gentleman.    A 
New  England  philosopher,  in  a  recent  work,*  be 
trays  no  little  fear  of  ''excess  of  fellowship."     In 
the  region  he  inhabits  there  is  ground  for  the  ap 
prehension.     No  standard  of  manners  will  correct 
the  evil.     The  peasantry  of  southern  Europe,  and 
the  most  ignorant  Irishwomen  often  excel  educated 
New   Englanders   in    genuine    courtesy.      Their 
richer  feelings  teach  them  how  to  deal  with  others. 
Reverence  and  tenderness  (not  self-possession  and 
intelligence)  are  the    hallowed  avenues   through 
which  alone  true  souls  come  together.     The  cool 
satisfaction  with  which  character  is  analyzed  and 
I  defined  in  New  England,  is  an  evidence  of  the 
superficial  test  which  observation  alone  affords.    A 
Yankee  dreams  not  of  the  world  which  is  revealed 
only  through  sentiment.     Men,  and  especially  wo 
men,  shrink  from  unfolding  the  depths  of  their  na 
tures  to  the  cold  and  prying  gaze  which  aims  to 
explore  them  only  as  an  intellectual  diversion.     It 
is  the  most  presumptuous  thing  in  the  world,  for 
an  unadulterated  New  Englander,  however  'cute 
and  studious,  to  pretend  to  know  another  human 
being,  if  nobly  endowed ;  for  he  is  the  last  person 
to  elicit  latent  and  cherished  emotions.     He  may 
read  mental  capacities  and  detect  moral  tendencies, 
but  no  familiarity  will  unveil  the  inner  temple  ; 
only  in  the  vestibule  will  his  prying  step  be  en 
dured. 

Another  effect  of  this  exaggerated  estimate  of 
intellect  is,  that  talent  and  character  are  often  re 
garded  as  identical.  This  is  a  fatal  but  very  pre 
valent  error.  A  gift  of  mind,  let  it  ever  be  remem 
bered,  is  not  a  grace  of  soul.  Training,  or  native 
skill,  will  enable  any  one  to  excel  in  the  machine 
ry  of  expression.  The  phrase — -artistical,  whether 
in  reference  to  statuary,  painting,  literature,  or 
manners,  implies  only  aptitude  and  dexterity. 

*  Emerson's  Essays,  second  series. 


534 


HENRY    T.   TUCKERMAN. 


Who  is  not  aware,  for  instance,  of  the  vast  differ 
ence  between  a  merely  scientific  knowledge  of  mu 
sic  and  that  enlistment  of  the  sympathies  in  the  art 
which  makes  it  the  eloquent  medium  of  passion, 
sentiment,  and  truth  1  And  in  literature,  how  often 
do  we  find  the  most  delicate  perception  of  beauty 
in  the  writer,  combined  with  a  total  want  of  genuine 
refinement  in  the  man  !  Art  is  essentially  imita 
tive  ;  and  its  value,  as  illustrative  of  character,  de 
pends  not  upon  the  mental  endowments,  but  upon 
the  moral  integrity  of  the  artist.  The  idea  of  ta 
lent  is  associated  more  or  less  with  the  idea  of  suc 
cess  ;  and  on  this  account,  the  lucrative  creed  of 
the  New  Englander  recognises  it  with  indiscrimi 
nate  admiration  ;  but  there  is  a  whole  armory  of 
weapons  in  the  human  bosom,  of  more  celestial 
temper.  It  is  a  nobler  and  a  happier  thing  to  be 
capable  of  self-devotion,  loyalty,  and  generous  sym 
pathies,  to  cherish  a  quick  sense  of  honour  and  find 
absolute  comfort  only  in  being  lost  in  another,  than 
to  have  an  eye  for  colour,  whereby  the  rainbow  can 
be  transferred  to  canvas,  or  a  felicity  of  diction  that 
can  embalm  the  truest  pictures  in  immortal  num 
bers.  Not  only  or  chiefly  in  what  he  does,  resides 
the  significance  of  a  human  being.  His  field  of 
action  and  the  availability  of  his  powers  depend 
upon  health,  education,  self-reliance,  position,  and 
a  thousand  other  agencies;  what  he  is  results  from 
the  instincts  of  his  soul,  and  for  these  alone  he  is 
truly  to  be  loved.  It  is  observable  among  New 
Englanders,  that  an  individual's  qualities  are  less 
frequently  referred  to  as  a  test  of  character  than 
his  performances.  It  is  very  common  for  them  to 
sacrifice  social  and  private  to  public  character, 
friendship  to  fame,  sympathy  to  opinion,  love  to 
ambition,  and  sentiment  to  propriety.  There  is  an 
obvious  disposition  among  them  to  appraise  men 
and  women  at  their  market  rather  than  their  in 
trinsic  value.  A  lucky  speculation,  a  profitable 
invention,  a  saleable  book,  an  effective  rhetorical 
effort,  or  a  sagacious  political  ruse — some  fact 
which  proves,  at  best,  only  adroitness  and  good 
fortune,  is  deemed  the  best  escutcheon  to  lend 
dignity  to  life,  or  hang  as  a  lasting  memorial  upon 
the  tomb.  Those  more  intimate  revelations  and 
ministries  which  deal  with  the  inmost  gifts  of  mind, 
and  warmest  emotions  of  the  heart,  and  through 
which  alone  love  and  truth  are  realized,  are  but 
seldom  dreamt  of  in  their  philosophy. 

There  is  yet  another  principle  which  seems  to 
me  but  faintly  recognised  in  the  New  England 
philosophy  of  life,  however  it  may  be  occasionally 
cultivated  as  a  department  of  literature;  and  yet 
it  is  one  which  we  should  deem  essentially  dear 
to  man,  a  glorious  endowment,  a  crowning  grace 
of  humanity.  It  is  that  principle  through  which 
we  commune  with  all  that  is  lovely  and  grand  in 
the  universe,  which  mellows  the  pictures  of  me 
mory  into  pensive  beauty,  and  irradiates  the  visions 
of  hope  with  unearthly  brightness;  which  elevates 
our  social  experience  by  the  glow  of  fancy,  and 
exhibits  scenes  of  perfection  to  the  soul  that  the 
senses  can  ne\  or  realize.  It  is  the  poetical  prin 
ciple.  If  this  precious  gift  could  be  wholly  anni 
hilated  amid  the  commonplace  and  the  actual,  we 


should  lose  the  interest  of  life.  The  dull  routine 
of  daily  experience,  the  tame  reality  of  things, 
would  weigh  like  a  heavy  and  permanent  cloud 
upon  our  hearts.  But  the  office  of  this  divine 
spirit  is  to  throw  a  redeeming  grace  around  the  ob 
jects  and  the  scenes  of  being.  It  is  the  breeze  that 
lifts  the  weeds  on  the  highway  of  time  and  brings 
to  view  the  violets  beneath.  It  is  the  holy  water 
which,  sprinkled  on  the  Mosaic  pavement  of  life, 
makes  vivid  its  brilliant  tints.  It  is  the  mystic 
harp  upon  whose  strings  the-  confused  murmur  of 
toil,  gladness  and  grief,  loses  itself  in  music.  But 
it  performs  a  yet  higher  function  than  that  of  con 
solation.  It  is  through  the  poetical  principle  that 
we  form  images  of  excellence,  a  notion  of  progress 
that  quickens  every  other  faculty  to  rich  endeavour. 
All  great  men  are  so,  chiefly  through  unceasing 
effort  to  realize  in  action,  or  imbody  in  art,  senti 
ments  of  deep  interest  or  ideas  of  beauty.  As  co 
lours  exist  in  rays  of  light,  so  does  the  ideal  in  the 
soul,  and  life  is  the  mighty  prism  which  refracts 
it.  Shelley  maintains  that  it  is  only  through  the 
imagination  that  we  can  overleap  the  barriers  of 
self  and  become  identified  with  the  universal  and 
the  distant,  and,  therefore,  that  this  principle  is 
the  true  fountain  of  benevolent  affections  and 
virtue.  I  know  it  is  sometimes  said  that  the  era 
of  romance  has  passed ;  that  with  the  pastoral, 
classic,  and  chivalrous  periods  of  the  world,  the 
poetic  element  died  out.  But  this  is  manifestly  a 
great  error.  The  forms  of  society  have  greatly 
changed,  and  the  methods  of  poetical  development 
are  much  modified,  but  the  principle  itself  is  essen 
tial  to  humanity.  No!  mechanical  as  is  the  spirit 
of  the  age,  and  wide  as  is  the  empire  of  utility,  as 
long  as  the  stars  appear  nightly  in  the  firmament, 
and  golden  clouds  gather  around  the  departing 
sun ;  as  long  as  we  can  greet  the  innocent  smile 
of  infancy  and  the  gentle  eye  of  woman;  as  long 
as  this  earth  is  visked  by  visions  of  glory  and  dreams 
of  love  and  hopes  of  heaven ;  while  life  is  encircled 
by  mystery,  brightened  by  affection,  and  solemnized 
by  death,  so  long  will  the  poetical  spirit  be  abroad, 
with  its  fervent  aspirations  and  deep  spells  of  en 
chantment.  Again,  it  is  often  urged  that  the  poeti 
cal  spirit  belongs  appropriately  to  a  certain  epoch 
of  life,  and  that  its  influence  naturally  ceases  with 
youth.  But  this  can  only  be  the  case  through  self- 
apostasy.  The  poetical  element  was  evidently  in 
tended  to  mingle  with  the  whole  of  human  ex 
perience;  not  only  to  glow  in  the  breast  of  youth, 
but  to  dignify  the  thought  of  manhood,  and  make 
venerable  the  aspect  of  age.  Its  purpose  clearly 
is  to  relieve  the  sternness  of  necessity,  to  lighten 
the  burden  of  toil,  and  throw  sacredness  arid  hope 
even  around  suffering — as  the  old  painters  were 
wont  to  depict  groups  of  cherubs  above  their  mar 
tyrdoms.  Nor  can  I  believe  that  the  agency  of 
this  principle  is  so  confined  and  temporary  as 
many  suppose.  It  is  true  our  contemplation  of 
the  beautiful  is  of  short  duration,  our  flights  into 
the  ideal  world  brief  and  occasional.  We  can  but 
bend  in  passing  at  the  altar  of  beauty,  and  pluck 
a  flower  hastily  by  the  way-side ; — 'but  may  there 
not  be  an  instinct  which  eagerly  appropriates  even 


HENRY    T.    TUCKERMAN. 


535 


these  transitory  associations'?  May  they  not  be 
unconsciously  absorbed  into  the  essence  of  our  life, 
and  gradually  refine  and  exalt  the  spirit  within  us? 
I  cannot  think  that  such  rich  provision  for  the 
poetic  sympathies  is  intended  for  any  casual  or  in 
different  end.  Rather  let  us  believe  there  is  a 
mystic  language  in  the  flowers,  and  a  deep  mean 
ing  in  the  stars,  that  the  transparency  of  the  win 
ter  air  and  the-  long,  sweetness  of  summer  twilight 
pass,  with  imperceptible  power,  over  the  soul ;  ra 
ther  let  us  cherish  the  thought  that  the  absorbing 
emotions  of  love,  the  sweet  excitement  of  adventure 
and  the  impassioned  solemnity  of  grief,  with  a  kind 
of  spiritual  chemistry,  combine  and  purify  the  in 
ward  elements  into  nobler  action  and  more  perfect 
results.  Of  the  poetical  principle,  the  philosophy 
of  life  in  New  England  makes  little  account.  Em 
blems  of  the  past  do  not  invite  our  gaze  down  the 
vistas  of  time.  Reverence  is  seldom  awakened  by 
any  object,  custom,  or  association.  The  new,  the 
.equal,  the  attainable,  constantly  deaden  our  faith 
in  infinite  possibilities.  Life  rarely  seems  miracu 
lous,  and  the  commonplace  abounds.  There  is 
much  to  excite,  and  little  to  chasten  and  awe. 
We  need  to  see  the  blessedness  of  a  rational  con 
servatism,  as  well  as  the  inspiring  call  for  reform. 
There  are  venerable  and  lovely  agencies  in  this 
existence  of  ours  which  it  is  sacrilege  to  scorn. 
The  wisdom  of  our  renowned  leaders  in  all  depart 
ments  is  too  restless  and  conscious  to  be  desirable ; 
and  it  would  be  better  for  our  boasted  "  march  of 
mind,"  if,  like  the  quaint  British  essayist,  a  few 
more  "  were  dragged  along  in  the  procession." 
An  extravagant  spirit  of  utility  invades  every  scene 
of  life  however  sequestered.  We  attempt  not  to 
brighten  the  grim  features  of  care,  or  relieve  the 
burdens  of  responsibility.  The  daughter  of  a  dis 
tinguished  law  professor  in  Europe  was  in  the  ha 
bit  of  lecturing  in  her  father's  absence.  To  guard 
against  the  fascination  of  her  charms,  which  it  was 
feared  would  divert  the  attention  of  the  students,  a 
curtain  was  drawn  before  the  fair  teacher,  from 
behind  which  she  imparted  her  instructions.  Thus 
do  we  carefully  keep  out  of  sight  the  poetical  and 
veil  the  spirit  of  beauty,  that  we  may  worship  un 
disturbed  at  the  shrine  of  the  practical.  We  ever 
seek  the  light^of  knowledge ;  but  are  content  that 
no  fertilizing  warmth  lend  vitality  to  its  beams. 

When  the  returning  pilgrim  approaches  the 
shores  of  the  new  world,  the  first  sign  of  the  vici 
nity  of  his  native  land  is  traced  in  hues  of  rare 
glory  on  the  western  sky.  The  sunsets  grow 
more  and  more  gorgeous  as  he  draws  near,  and 
while  he  leans  over  the  bulwarks  of  a  gallant  ves 
sel,  (whose  matchless  architecture  illustrates  the 
mechanical  skill  of  her  birth-place,)  and  watches 
their  shifting  brilliancy,  it  associates  itself  with  the 
fresh  promise  and  young  renown  of  his  native  land ; 
and  when  from  the  wide  solitude  of  the  Atlantic, 
he  plunges  once  more  amid  her  eager  crowds,  it 
is  with  the  earnest  and  I  must  think  patriotic  wish, 
that  with  her  prosperous  activity  might  mingle 
more  of  the  poetry  of  life  ! 

But  what  the  arrangements  of  society  fail  to 
provide,  the  individual  is  at  liberty  to  seek.  No 


where  are  natural  beauty  and  grandeur  more  la 
vishly  displayed  than  on  this  continent.  In  no 
part  of  the  world  are  there  such  noble  rivers,  beau 
tiful  lakes,  and  magnificent  forests.  The  ermine 
robe  of  winter  is,  in  no  land,  spread  with  more 
dazzling  effect,  nor  can  the  woodlands  of  any  clime 
present  a  more  varied  array  of  autumnal  tints. 
Nor  need  we  resort  to  the  glories  of  the  universe 
alone.  Domestic  life  exists  with  us  in  rare  per 
fection  ;  and  it  requires  but  the  heroism  of  sinceri 
ty  and  the  exercise  of  taste,  to  make  the  fireside  as 
rich  in  poetical  associations  as  the  terrace  and  ve 
randah  of  southern  lands.  Literature,  too,  opens 
a  rich  field.  We  can  wander  through  Eden  to 
the  music  of  the  blind  bard's  harp,  or  listen  in  the 
orange  groves  of  Verona,  beneath  the  quiet  moon 
light,  to  the  sweet  vows  of  Juliet.  Let  us,  then, 
bravely  obey  our  sympathies,  and  find  in  candid 
and  devoted  relations  with  others,  freedom  from 
the  constraints  of  prejudice  and  form.  Let  us 
foster  the  enthusiasm  which  exclusive  intellectual 
cultivation  would  extinguish.  Let  us  detach  our 
selves  sufficiently  from  the  social  machinery  to  re 
alize  that  we  are  not  integral  parts  of  it;  and  thus 
summon  into  the  horizon  of  destiny  those  hues  of 
beauty,  love  and  truth,  which  are  the  most  glorious 
reflections  of  the  soul ! 


LOVE. 

FROM  THOUGHTS  ON  THE  POETS. 


MAKT  live  and  die  knowing  nothing  of  love  ex 
cept  through  their  intellect.  Their  ideas  on  the 
subject  are  fanciful,  because  it  has  never  been  re 
vealed  by  consciousness.  Yet  it  were  to  question 
the  benignity  of  God,  to  believe  that  an  element  of 
our  being  so  operative  and  subtle,  arid  one  that 
abounds  chiefly  in  the  good  and  the  gifted,  is  of 
light  import  or  not  susceptible  of  being  explained 
by  reason,  justified  by  conscience,  and  hallowed  by 
religion,  and  thus  made  to  bear  a  harvest  not  only 
of  delight  but  of  virtue.  Love,  Petrarch  maintains, 
is  the  crowning  grace  of  humanity,  the  holiest  right 
of  the  soul,  the  golden  link  which  binds  us  to  duty 
and  truth,  the  redeeming  principle  that  chiefly  re 
conciles  the  heart  to  life,  and  is  prophetic  of  eter 
nal  good.  It  is  a  blessing  of  a  glorious  experience, 
according  to  the  soul  in  which  it  is  engendered. 
Let  us  endeavour  to  define  its  action  and  vindicate 
its  worth,  as  set  forth  in  the  sonnets  of  Petrarch. 

All  noble  beings  live  in  their  affections.  While 
this  important  fact  has  been  ever  illustrated  by 
poets,  it  is  seldom  fully  recognised  in  moral  systems 
or  popular  theology.  Yet  if  we  would  truly  dis 
cern  the  free,  genuine  elements  of  character,  the 
history  of  the  heart  affords  the  only  authentic 
ground  of  judgment.  Love  has  been,  and  is,  so 
mightily  abused,  that  in  the  view  of  superficial 
reasoners  it  becomes  identified  rather  with  feeble 
ness  than  strength.  Yet,  in  point  of  fact,  its  high 
est  significance  can  alone  be  realized  by  natures  ot 
singular  depth  and  exaltation.  To  the  unperverted 
soul,  instead  of  a  pastime  it  is  a  discipline.  Once 
elevated  from  a  blind  instinct  to  a  conscious  prin- 


536 


HENRY    T.   TUCKERMAN. 


ciple,  it  is  the  mighty  tide  which  sways  all  that  is 
solemn  and  eternal  in  life.  To  love,  in  one  sense, 
is,  indeed,  little  more  than  an  animal  necessity; 
but  to  love  nobly,  profoundly — to  love,  as  Madame 
de  Stael  expresses  it,  "  at  once  with  the  mind  and 
with  the  heart,"  to  dedicate  to  another  mature  sym 
pathies,  is  the  noblest  function  of  a  human  being. 
The  fever  of  passion,  the  ignoble  motives,  the  ca 
sual  impulses  which  belong  to  our  nature,  blend,  it 
is  true,  with  the  exercise  of  all  affection,  but  love, 
in  its  deepest  and  genuine  import,  is  the  highest 
and  most  profound  interest  of  existence.  This  is 
a  truth  but  imperfectly  understood ;  but  there  are 
few  spirits  so  utterly  bereft  of  celestial  affinities  as 
not  to  respond,  more  or  less  cordially,  to  every  sin 
cere  appeal  to  a  capacity  so  divine.  All  the  folly 
of  vain  imaginations,  all  the  coarseness  of  vulgar 
sensuality,  all  the  scorn  of  mental  hardihood,  while 
they  profane  the  name,  can  never  violate  the  sacred 
realities  of  love.  There  have  been,  and  there  ever 
will  be  earnest  arid  uncompromising  hearts,  who 
bravely  vindicate  a  faith  too  native  and  actuating 
ever  to  be  eradicated.  Such  natures  can  only  re 
alize  themselves  through  love,  and  in  proportion  to 
their  integrity  will  be  their  consciousness  of  the 
glory  of  this  attribute.  They  intuitively  anticipate 
its  pervading  influence  upon  their  character  and 
happiness.  They  feel  that  within  it  lies  the  vital 
points  of  their  destiny,  and  through  it  their  access 
to  truth.  The  world  may  long  present  but  glimpses 
of  what  they  ever  watch  to  decry.  Life  may  seem 
barren  of  a  good  never  absent  from  their  inward 
sense.  At  times,  from  very  weariness,  they  may 
be  half  inclined  to  believe  that  the  love  for  which 
they  pray  is  but  a  poetic  invention,  having  no  ac 
tual  type.  Witnessing  so  much  apparent  renun 
ciation,  they  may,  at  last,  regard  themselves  as  vain 
dreamers,  and  look  back  with  bitter  regret  upon 
years  of  self-delusion.  But,  the  great  want,  the 
haunting  vision,  the  prophetic  need,  assert  them 
selves  still;  and  when,  through  self-denial  and  fer 
vent  trust,  the  dawn  glimmers  upon  their  souls,  the 
lonely  vigil  and  restless  fears  of  the  night  are  for 
gotten  in  <i  a  peace  which  the  world  can  neither 
give  nor  take  away."  To  some  minds  it  may  ap 
pear  sacrilegious  thus  to  identify  love  with  re 
ligion,  but  the  sentiments  rightly  understood,  are 
too  intimately  allied  to  be  easily  divided.  It  is 
through  the  outward  universe  that  natural  theology 
points  us  to  a  Supreme  Intelligence;  and  it  is 
through  the  creature  that  spirits  of  lofty  mould 
most  nearly  approach  the  Creator.  Coleridge  de 
scribes  love  as  the  absorption  of  self  in  an  idea  dearer 
than  self.  This  is  doubtless  the  only  process  by 
which  the  problem  of  human  life  is  solved  to  ex 
alted  natures.  It  is  vain  that  you  bid  them  find 
content,  either  in  the  pleasures  of  sense  or  the  ab 
stractions  of  wisdom,  however  keen  their  percep 
tions,  or  ardent  their  passions.  They  know  them 
selves  born  to  find  completion  through  another.  A 
subtle  and  pleading  expectance  foretells  the  advent 
of  a  Messiah.  They  seek  not,  but  wait.  It  is  no 
romantic  vision,  no  extravagant  desire,  but  a  clear 
and  deep  conviction  that  speaks  in  their  bosoms. 
This  is  the  germ  of  the  sweetest  flower  that  shall 


adorn  their  being ;  this  is  their  innate  pledge  of 
immortality,  and  ceaselessly  invokes  them  to  self- 
respect  and  glory. 

There  is  something  essentially  shallow  in  the 
play  of  character,  until  feeling  gives  it  shape  and 
intensity.  The  office  of  love  is  to  induce  a  strong 
and  permanent  motive,  and  it  is  this  process  which 
concentrates  all  the  faculties  of  the  soul.  Hence 
the  satisfaction  which  follows ; — a  condition  wholly 
different  from  what  was  previously  regarded  as  en 
joyment.  Through  vanity  and  the  senses,  partial 
delight  may  have  been  obtained  ;  but  it  was  a  graft 
upon,  rather  than  a  product  of  the  heart.  The 
blessedness  of  true  love  springs  from  the  soul  itself, 
and  is  felt  to  be  its  legitimate  and  holiest  fruit. 
Thus,  and  thus  alone,  is  human  nature  richly  de 
veloped,  and  the  best  interests  of  life  wisely  em 
braced.  Shadows  give  way  to  substance,  vague 
wishes  to  permanent  aims,  indifferent  moods  to  en 
dearing  associations,  and  vain  desire  to  a  "  hope 
full  of  immgrtality."  Man  is  for  the  first  time  re 
vealed  to  himself,  and  absolutely  known  to  another; 
for  entire  sympathy,  not  friendly  observation,  is  the 
key  to  our  individual  natures;  and  when  this  has 
fairly  opened  the  sacred  portal,  we  are  alone  no 
more  for  ever ! 


AUTHORSHIP. 

FROM   THE    SAME. 

Ii*  we  look  narrowly  into  the  history  of  those  with 
whose  thoughts  and  feelings  literature  has  made  us 
most  intimate,  it  will  often  appear  that  in  them  there 
was  combined  a  degree  of  sensibility  and  reflection 
which  absolutely,  by  the  very  law  of  the  soul,  must 
find  a  voice,  and  that  it  was  the  pressure  of  some  out 
ward  necessity,  or  the  pain  of  some  inward  void  that 
made  that  voice — (fain  to  pour  itself  out  in  low  and 
earnest  tones) — audible  to  all  mankind.  Some  one 
has  said  that  fame  is  love  disguised.  The  points  of  a 
writer  are  usually  those  wherein  he  has  been  most 
alone;  and  they  owe  their  effect  to  the  vividness  of 
expression  which  always  results  from  conscious  self- 
reliance.  Literary  vanity  is  a  subject  of  frequent  ri 
dicule:  but  many  confound  a  thirst  for  recognition 
with  a  desire  for  praise.  The  former  is  a  manly  as 
well  as  a  natural  sentiment.  Indeed  there  is  some 
thing  noble  in  the  feeling  which  leads  an  ardent 
mind — looking  in  vain  for  a  response  to  its  oracles 
among  the  friends  amid  whom  its  lot  is  cast — to  ap 
peal  to  a  wider  circle  and  send  its  messages  abroad 
on  the  wings  of  the  press,  in  the  hope  and  faith  that 
some  heart  will  leap  at  the  tidings  and  accept  them 
as  his  own.  I  am  persuaded  that  this  truly  human 
craving  for  sympathy  and  intelligent  communion,  is 
frequently  mistaken  for  a  weaker  and  more  selfish 
appetite — the  morbid  love  of  fame.  High-toned  and 
sensitive  beings  invariably  find  their  most  native  ali 
ment  in  personal  associations.  They  are  sufficiently 
aware  that  notoriety  profanes,  that  the  nooks,  and 
not  the  arena  of  life  afford  the  best  refreshment.  It 
is  usually  because  poverty,  ill  health,  domestic  trial, 
political  tyranny,  or  misplaced  affection  has  deprived 
their  hearts  of  a  complete  sanctuary,  that  they  seek 
for  usefulness  and  honour  in  the  fields  of  the  world. 


MARGARET    FULLER    D'OSSOLI. 

[Born  1810.    Died  1850.] 


SARAH  MARGARET  FULLER,  by  marriage 
Marchioness  of  Ossoli,  was  born  in  Cam 
bridge,  Massachusetts,  May  23,  1810.  Her 
father,  Mr.  Timothy  Fuller,  was  a  lawyer, 
and  from  181*7  to  1825  a  representative  in 
Congress.  At  the  close  of  his  career  as  a 
legislator  he  retired  to  a  farm  near  Cam 
bridge,  where  he  died  soon  after,  leaving  a 
widow  and  six  children,  of  whom  Margaret 
was  the  eldest. 

At  a  very  early  age  she  exhibited  unusual 
abilities,  and  was  particularly  distinguished 
for  an  extraordinary  facility  in  acquiring 
languages.  Her  father,  proud  of  the  dis 
plays  of  her  intelligence,  prematurely  stimu 
lated  it  to  a  degree  that  was  ultimately  in 
jurious  to  her  physical  constitution.  In  her 
ninth  year  he  was  accustomed  to  require  of 
her  the  composition  of  a  number  of  Latin 
verses  everyday,  while  her  studies  in  philoso 
phy,  history,  general  science,  and  current 
literature  were  pressed  to  the  limit  of  her 
capacities.  When  he  first  went  to  Washing 
ton  he  was  accustomed  to  speak  of  her  as 
one  "  better  skilled  in  Greek  and  Latin  than 
half  of  the  professors  ;"  and  in  one  of  her  es.- 
says  she  herself  observes  that  in  childhood 
she  had  well-nigh  forgotten  her  English 
while  constantly  reading  in  other  tongues. 

Soon  after  the  death  of  her  father  she  ap 
plied  herself  to  teaching,  as  a  vocation,  first 
in  Boston,  then  in  Providence,  and  afterward 
in  Boston  again.  She  made  her  first  ap 
pearance  as  an  author,  in  a  translation  of 
Eckermann's  Conversations  with  Goethe,  in 
1839.  When  Mr.  Emerson,  the  next  year,  es 
tablished  The  Dial,  she  became  one  of  the  prin 
cipal  contributors  to  that  remarkable  periodi 
cal,  in  which  she  wrote  many  of  the  rnoststrik- 
ing  papers  on  literature,  art,  and  society.  In 
the  summer  of  1843,  she  made  a  journey  to 
the  Sault  St.  Marie,  and  in  the  next  spring 
published  in  Boston  reminiscences  of  her 
tour,  under  the  title  of  Summer  on  the 
Lakes.  The  Dial  having  been  discontinued, 
she  went  to  reside  in  New  York,  where  she 
had  charge  of  the  literary  department  of 
the  Tribune,  which  acquired  a  great  acces 


sion  of  reputation  from  her  critical  essays. 
Here,  in  1845,  she  published  Woman  in  the 
Nineteenth  Century,  an  eloquent  expression 
of  her  discontent  at  having  been  created  fe 
male  ;  and  in  1846,  Papers  on  Literature  and 
Art,  in  two  volumes,  consisting  of  essays  and 
reviews,  reprinted  from  periodicals. 

In  the  summer  of  1845,  she  accompanied 
the  family  of  a  friend  to  Europe,  visiting 
England,  Scotland,  and  France,  and  passing 
through  Italy  to  Rome,  where  they  spent  the 
ensuing  winter.  The  following  spring  she 
proceeded  with  her  friends  to  the  north  of 
Italy,  and  there  stopped,  spending  most  of 
the  summer  at  Florence,  and  returning,  at 
the  approach  of  winter,  to  Rome,  where  she 
was  soon  after  married  to  Giovanni,  Marquis 
d'Ossoli,  who  made  her  acquaintance  during 
her  first  winter  in  that  city.  They  resided 
in  the  Roman  states  until  the  summer  of 
1850,  when,  after  the  surrender  of  Rome  to 
the  French  army,  they  deemed  it  expedient 
to  go  to  Florence,  both  having  taken  an  ac 
tive  part  in  the  republican  movement.  They 
left  Florence  in  June,  and  at  Leghorn  em 
barked  in  the  ship  Elizabeth  for  New  York. 
The  passage  commenced  auspiciously,  but 
at  Gibraltar  the  master  of  the  ship  died  of 
small-pox,  and  they  were  detained  at  the  quar 
antine  there  some  time  in  consequence  of  this 
misfortune,  but  finally  set  sail  again  on  the 
eighth  of  June,  and  arrived  on  the  America *» 
coast  during  a  terrible  thunder-storm  or  the 
eighteenth  and  nineteenth  of  August,  when, 
in  the  midst  of  darkness,  rain,  and  a  terrific 
gale,  the  ship  was  hurled  on  the  breakers  off 
Fire  Island,  near  Long  Island,  and  in  a  few 
hours  Avas  broken  in  pieces.  Margaret  Fuller 
d'Ossoli,  the  Marquis  d'Ossoli,  and  their  son, 
with  several  others,  lost  their  lives. 

Madame  d'Ossoli  had  completed  for  the 
press  an  extended  work  on  The  Recent  Re 
volutions  in  Europe,  which  was  lost  in  the 
wreck.  She  also  wrote,  while  abroad,  a  series 
of  brilliant  Letters  for  the  Tribune,  under 
the  title  of  Scenes  and  Thoughts  in  Europe. 

Her  Woman  in  the  Nineteenth  Century  is 
one  of  the  most  brilliant  of  the  many  books 

537 


MARGARET    FULLER    D'OSSOLI. 


on  the  intellectual  and  social  position  of  wo 
man  that  has  been  published.  It  is  difficult, 
however,  to  understand  what  is  its  real  im 
port,  further  than  to  the  extent  that  the 
author  was  ill  satisfied  that  there  should  be 
difference  in  the  rank  and  opportunity  of  the 
sexes.  That  there  should  be  some  difference 
in  their  sphere  she  seemed  not  unwilling  to 
allow.  Like  the  rest  of  that  diverting  compa 
ny  of  women  who  have  contemplated  a  nullifi 
cation  of  certain  of  the  statutes  of  nature,  she 
would  but  have  choice  of  places  and  vocations. 
Summer  on  the  Lakes  evinces  considerable 
descriptive  power,  and  contains  some  good 
verses.  Her  remarks  in  this  work  upon  the 
Indians,  and  that  part  of  our  ethnological  lite 
rature  which  relates  to  them,  are  very  superfi 
cial  and  incautious.  She  says  of  Mr.  School- 
craft's  Algic  Researches,  that  "a  worse  book 
could  hardly  have  been  made  of  such  fine  ma 
terials  ;"  that  "  had  the  mythological  or  hunt 
ing  stories  of  the  Indians  been  written  down 
exactly  as  they  were  received  from  the  lips  of 
the  narrators,  the  collection  could  not  have 
been  surpassed  in  interest,"  but  that,  as  it 
is,  "  the  phraseology  in  which  they  were  ex 
pressed  has  been  entirely  set  aside,  and  the 
flimsy  graces  common  to  the  style  of  the 
annuals  and  souvenirs  substituted  for  the 
Spartan  brevity  and  sinewy  grasp  of  Indian 
speech."  Nothing  can  be  more  absurd  than 
this  characteristic  sentence.  The  phraseolo 
gy  of  the  tales  has  of  course  been  "set  aside" 
in  translating  them  into  a  language  radically 
different,  but  the  antique  simplicity  of  the  ori 
ginals  has  been  as  well  preserved  as  the  genius 
of  the  English  tongue  permitted.  The  wife 
of  the  learned  author  thus  assailed,  herself 
of  the  aboriginal  race,  and  distinguished  for 
whatever  is  peculiar  in  their  character,  wrote 
down  and  translated  many  of  these  myths 
and  traditions,  and  it  is  amusing  to  see  even 
her  part  of  the  work  ranked  on  the  score  of 
fidelity  below  the  few  stories  written  out  by 


Mrs.  Jameson,  who,  however  excellent  as  a 
critic  of  art,  was  here  quite  out  of  her  depth 
— almost  as  ignorant  as  Miss  Fuller  herself, 
who  when  this  was  composed  had  been  about 
one  week  west  of  Buffalo,  and  had  seen  per 
haps  a  dozen  vagabond  Indians  across  the 
streets  of  Detroit  and  Chicago. 

The  Papers  on  Literature  and  Art  contain 
a  short  essay  on  Critics,  in  which  she  gives 
a  brief  exposition  of  her  views  of  criticism. 
It  is  followed  by.  some  dozen  papers,  several 
of  which  are  admirable  in  their  way.  They 
are  all  forcible,  and  brilliant  in  a  degree; 
but  frequently  pointed  with  pique  or  prejudice. 

She  was  fond  of  epigram,  and  showed  every 
where  a  willingness  to  advance  any  opinion 
for  the. sake  of  making  a  point.  Thus,  in  a 
review  of  Mr.  Poe's  writings,  she  makes  the 
observation  that  "  no  form  of  literary  activity 
has  so  terribly  degenerated  among  us  as  the 
tale,"  because  it  gave  opportunity  to  remark 
"  that  everybody  who  wants  a  new  hat  or  bon 
net  takes  this  way  to  earn  one  from  the  maga 
zines  or  annuals."  But  no  fact  is  more  ge 
nerally  understood  by  those  who  have  paid 
any  attention  to  the  advancement  and  condi 
tion  of  letters  here,  than  that  the  exact  re 
verse  of  this  is  true.  She  rarely  attempted 
particular  or  analytical  criticism,  but  com 
mended  or  censured  all  books  with  about  an 
equal  degree  of  earnestness,  being  generally 
most  severe  upon  those  of  home  production, 
excepting  a  few  by  personal  friends. 

She  had  remarkable  quickness,  but  not 
much  subtlety  of  apprehension ;  general,  but 
not  solid  acquirements  ;  and  an  astonishing 
facility  in  the  use  of  her  intellectual  furni 
ture,  which  secured  her  the  reputation  of 
being  one  of  the  best  talkers  of  the  age. 
Her  written  style  is  generally  excellent, — 
various,  forcible,  and  picturesque,- -though 
sometimes  pedantic  and  careless, — very  much 
like  that  of  her  conversation,  and  probably  a 
result  of  but  the  same  degree  of  labour. 


NIAGARA. 

WE  have  not  been  fortunate  in  weather,  for  there 
t.annot  be  too  much,  or  too  warm  sunlight  for  this 
scene,  and  the  skies  have  been  lowering  with  cold, 
unkind  winds.  My  nerves,  too  much  braced  up  by 
such  an  atmosphere,  do  not  well  bear  the  continual 
stress  of  sight  and  sound.  For  here  there  is  no 


escape  from  the  weight  of  a  perpetual  creation  ;  all 
other  forms  and  motions  come  and  go,  the  tide  rises 
and  recedes,  the  wind,  at  its  mightiest,  moves  in 
gales  and  gusts,  but  here  is  really  an  incessant,  an 
indefatigable  motion.  Awake  or  asleep,  there  is 
no  escape,  still  this  rushing  round  you  and  through 
you  It  is  in  this  way  I  have  most  felt  the  gran 
deur — somewhat  eternal,  if  not  infinite. 


S.    MARGARET    FULLER. 


539 


At  times  a  secondary  music  rises;  the  cataract 
seems  to  seize  its  own  rhythm  and  sing  it  over  again, 
so  that  the  ear  and  soul  are  roused  by  a  double 
vibration.  This  is  some  effect  of  the  wind,  causing 
ecboes  to  the  thundering  anthem.  It  is  very  sub 
lime,  giving  the  effect  of  a  spiritual  repetition 
through  all  the  spheres. . . . 

All  great  expression,  which,  on  a  superficial  sur 
vey,  seems  so  easy  as  well  as  so  simple,  furnishes, 
after  a  while,  to  the  faithful  observer  its  own  stand 
ard  by  which  to  appreciate  it.  Daily  these  propor 
tions  widened  and  towered  more  and  more  upon 
my  sight,  and  I  got,  at  last,  a  proper  foreground 
for  these  sublime  distances.  Before  coming  away, 
I  think  I  really  saw  the  full  wonder  of  the  scene. 
After  awhile  it  so  drew  me  into  itself  as  to  inspire 
an  undefined  dread,  such  as  I  never  knew  before, 
such  as  may  be  felt  when  death  is  about  to  usher 
us  into  a  new  existence.  The  perpetual  trampling 
of  the  waters  seized  my  senses.  I  felt  that  no  other 
sound,  however  near,  could  be  heard,  and  would 
start  and  look  behind  me  for  a  foe.  I  realized  the 
identity  of  that  mood  of  nature  in  which  these  wa 
ters  were  poured  down  with  such  absorbing  force, 
with  that  in  which  the  Indian  was  shaped  on  the 
same  soil.  For  continually  upon  my  mind  came, 
unsought  and  unwelcome,  images,  such  as  never 
haunted  it  before,  of  naked  savages  stealing  behind 
me  with  uplifted  tomahawks;  again  and  again  this 
illusion  recurred,  and  even  after  I  had  thought  it 
over,  and  tried  to  shake  it  off,  I  could  not  help 
starting  and  looking  behind  me. . . . 

The  rapids  enchanted  me  far  beyond  what  I  ex 
pected  ;  they  are  so  swift  that  they  cease  to  seem  so ; 
you  can  think  only  of  their  beauty.  The  fountain 
beyond  the  Moss  Islands,  I  discovered  for  myself, 
and  thought  it  for  some  time  an  accidental  beauty 
which  it  would  not  do  to  leave,  lest  I  might  never 
see  it  again.  After  I  found  it  permanent,  I  returned 
many  times  to  watch  the  play  of  its  crest.  In  the 
little  waterfall  beyond,  nature  seems,  as  she  often 
does,  to  have  made  a  study  for  some  larger  design. 
She  delights  in  this, — a  sketch  within  a  sketch, 
a  dream  within  a  dream.  Wherever  we  see  it, 
the  lines  of  the  great  buttress  in  the  fragment  of 
stone,  the  hues  of  the  waterfall,  copied  in  the  flow 
ers  that  star  its  bordering  mosses,  we  are  delighted ; 
for  all  the  lineaments  become  fluent,  and  we  mould 
the  scene  in  congenial  thought  with  its  genius. . . . 

As  I  rode  up  to  the  neighbourhood  of  the  falls, 
a  solemn  awe  imperceptibly  stole  over  me,  and  the 
deep  sound  of  the  ever-hurrying  rapids  prepared 
my  mind  for  the  lofty  emotions  to  be  experienced. 
When  I  reached  the  hotel,  I  felt  a  strange  indiffer 
ence  about  seeing  the  aspiration  of  my  life's  hopes. 
I  lounged  about  the  rooms,  read  the  stage  bills  upon 
the  walls,  looked  over  the  register,  and,  finding  the 
name  of  an  acquaintance,  sent  to  see  if  he  was  still 
there.  What  this  hesitation  arose  from,  I  know  not ; 
perhaps  it  was  a  feeling  of  my  unworthiness  to  enter 
this  temple  which  nature  has  erected  to  its  God. 

At  last,  slowly  and  thoughtfully  I  walked  down  to 
the  bridge  leading  to  Goat  Island,  and  when  I  stood 


upon  this  frail  support,  and  saw  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
of  tumbling,  rushing  rapids,  and  heard  their  everlast 
ing  roar,  my  emotions  overpowered  me,  a  choking 
sensation  rose  to  my  throat,  a  thrill  rushed  through 
my  veins,  "  my  blood  ran  rippling  to  my  finger's 
'   ends."     This  was  the  climax  of  the  effect  which  the 
j   falls  produced  upon  me — neither  the  American  nor 
the  British  fall  moved  me  as  did  these  rapids.     For 
1   the  magnificence,  the  sublimity  of  the  latter  I  was 
j   prepared  by  descriptions  and  by  paintings.     When 
I   I  arrived  in  sight  of  them  I  merely  felt, "  ah,  yes,  here 
is  the  fall,  just  as  I  have  seen  it  in  picture."    When 
I  arrived  at  the  terrapin  bridge,  I  expected  to  be 
overwhelmed,  to  retire  trembling  from  this  giddy 
eminence,  and  gaze  with  unlimited  wonder  and  awe 
upon  the  immense  mass  rolling  on  and  on,  but,  some 
how  or  other,  I  thought  only  of  comparing  the  effect 
on  my  mind  with  what  I  had  read  and  heard.     I 
looked  for  a  short  time,  and  then  with  almost  a  feel 
ing  of  disappointment,  turned  to  go  to  the  other 
points  of  view  to  see  if  I  was  not  mistaken  in  not 
feeling  any  surpassing  emotion  at  this  sight.     But 
from  the  foot  of  Biddle's  stairs,  and  the  middle  of 
the  river,  and  from  below  the  table  rock,  it  was  still 
"  barren,  barren  all."     And,  provoked  with  my  stu 
pidity  in  feeling  most  moved  in  the  wrong  place,  I 
turned  away  to  the  hotel,  determined  to  set  off  for 
Buffalo  that  afternoon.     But  the  slage  did  not  go, 
and,  after  nightfall,  as  there  was  a  splendid  moon,  I 
went  down  to  the  bridge,  and  leaned  over  the  para 
pet,  where  the  boiling  rapids  came  down  in  their 
might.     It  was  grand,  and  it  was  also  gorgeous ;  the 
yellow  rays  of  the  moon  made  the  broken  waves 
appear  like  auburn  tresses  twining  around  the  black 
rocks.     But  they  did  not  inspire  me  as  before.     I 
felt  a  foreboding  of  a  mightier  emotion  to  rise  up 
and  swallow  all  others,  and  I  passed  on  to  the  ter 
rapin  bridge.     Every  thing  was  changed,  the  misty 
apparition  had  taken  oft'  its  many-coloured  crown 
which  k  had  worn  by  day,  and  a  bow  of  silvery 
white  spanned  its  summit.     The  moonlight  gave  a 
poetical  indefiniteness  to  the  distant  parts  of  the 
waters,  and  while  the  rapids  were  glancing  in  her 
beams,  the  river  below  the  falls  was  black  as  night, 
save  where  the  reflection  of  the  sky  gave  it  the  ap 
pearance  of  a  shield  of  blued  steel.     No  gaping 
tourists  loitered,  eyeing  with  their  glasses,  or  sketch- 
i  ing  on  cards  the  hoary  locks  of  the  ancient  river  god. 
|   All  tended  to  harmonize  with  the  natural  grandeur 
|   of  the  scene.     I  gazed  long.     I  saw  how  here  muta- 
!  bility-  and  unchangeableness  were  united.     I  sur- 
j  veyed  the  conspiring  waters  rushing  against  the 
rocky  ledge  to  overthrow  it  at  one  mad  plunge,  till, 
like  toppling  ambition,  o'erleaping  themselves,  they 
i  fall  on  t'other  side,  expanding  into  foam  ere  they 
i  reach  the  deep  channel  where  they  creep  submis- 
I  sively  away. 

Then  arose  in  my  breast  a  genuine  admiration, 
and  an  humble  adoration  of  the  Being  who  was  the 
architect  of  this  and  of  all.  Happy  were  the  first 
discoverers  of  Niagara,  those  who  could  come  un 
awares  upon  this  view  and  upon  that,  whose  feelings 
were  entirely  their  own. 


J.  T.  HEADLEY. 


[Born  1814.] 


THE  first  American  ancestor  of  Mr.  HEAD- 
LEY  was  the  eldest  son  of  an  English  baronet, 
who  came  to  this  country  in  consequence  of  a 
domestic  quarrel,  and  ultimately  refused  the 
family  estate,  which  is  now  held  by  Sir  Fran 
cis  Headley,  the  author  of  a  work  of  some 
note  on  chemistry.  Mr.  Headley  was  born  on 
the  thirtieth  of  December,  1814,  at  Walton,  in 
New  York,  where  his  father  was  settled  as  a 
clergyman.  It  is  a  wild  and  romantic  spot,  on 
the  banks  of  the  Delaware,  and  his  early  fami 
liarity  with  its  scenery  doubtless  occasioned 
much  of  his  love  of  mountain  climbing,  and 
indeed  his  descriptive  power.  He  commenced 
his  studies  with  the  law  in  view,  but  changed 
his  plan,  and  after  graduating,  at  Union  Col 
lege,  became  a  student  of  theology,  at  Auburn. 
He  was  licensed  in  New  York,  and  a  church 
was  offered  him  in  that  city,  but  his  health  was 
feeble,  and  his  physician  dissuaded  him  from 
attempting  to  preach.  Unwilling,  however, 
to  abandon  his  profession  without  an  effort, 
he  took  charge  of  a  small  church  in  Stock- 
bridge,  in  Massachusetts,  where  he  thought  he 
could  give  himself  the  most  favourable  trial, 
but  after  two  years  and  a  half,  broke  down 
completely,  and  planned  a  European  tour  and 
residence  for  his  recovery.  He  went  to  Italy 
in  the  summer  of  1842,  intending  to  spend  the 
winter  there,  the  summer  in  Switzerland,  and 
the  next  winter  in  the  East.  The  state  of  his 
nealth,  however,  led  to  some  modification  of 
his  design :  he  remained  in  Italy  only  about 
eight  months,  travelled  some  time  in  Switzer 
land,  passed  through  Germany  and  the  Nether 
lands,  went  into  Belgium,  thence  to  France, 
then  over  England  and  Wales,  and  finally  home, 
having  been  absent  less  than  two  years.  His 
health  being  worse  than  when  he  went  abroad, 
he  gave  up  all  idea  of  following  his  profes 
sion,  and  turned  his  attention  to  literature. 

His  first  publication  was  a  translation  from 
the  German,  which  appeared  anonymously, 
in  1844.  In  the  following  year  he  gave  to 
the  press  Letters  from  Italy  and  the  Alps  and 
the  Rhine,  and  in  1846,  Napoleon  and  his 
Marshals,  and  The  Sacred  Mountains. 

540 


Mr.  Headley  is  one  of  the  most  promising  ot 
the  youthful  writers  of  this  country.  He  has 
shown  his  capacity  to  write  an  agreeable  book, 
and  to  write  a  popular  one.  His  Letters  from 
Italy  is  a  work  upon  which  a  man  of  taste  \ 
will  be  gratified  to  linger.  It  possesses  the 
unfatigiiing  charms  of  perfect  simplicity  and 
truth.  It  exhibits  a  thousand  lively  traits,  of 
an  ingenuous  nature,  which,  formed  in  a  sin 
cere  and  unsophisticated  society,  and  then 
brought  into  the  midst  of  the  old  world,  retains 
all  its  freshness  and  distinctiveness,  and  ob 
serves  with  native  intelligence  every  thing 
that  is  striking  in  the  life  and  manners  and 
scenery  around  it.  There  is  a  graceful  frank 
ness  pervades  the  composition,  which  engages 
the  interest  of  the  reader  in  the  author  as  well 
as  in  the  subject.  WTe  meet,  everywhere,  the 
evidences  of  manly  feeling,  pure  sympathies, 
and  an  honourable  temper.  In  many  of  the 
passages  there  is  a  quiet  and  almost  uncon 
scious  humour,  which  reminds  us  of  the  deli 
cate  raillery  of  The  Spectator.  The  style  is 
delightfully  free  from  every  thing  bookish  and 
commonplace ;  it  is  natural,  familiar,  and  idio 
matic.  It  approaches,  as  a  work  of  that  de 
sign  ought  to  do,  the  animation,  variety,  and 
ease,  of  spoken  language. 

The  work  called  Napoleon  and  his  Marshals 
was  written  to  be  popular.  The  author  obvi 
ously  contemplated  nothing  but  effect.  In  that 
point  of  view,  it  displays  remarkable  talent  for 
accomplishing  a  proposed  object.  The  figures 
and  scenes  are  delineated  with  that  freedom 
and  breadth  of  outline,  and  in  that  vivid  and 
strongly  contrasted  style  of  colouring,  which 
are  well  calculated  to  attract  and  delight  the 
people.  If  it  were  regarded  as  a  work  written  to 
satisfy  his  own  ideas  of  excellence,  and  as  the 
measure  of  his  best  abilities,  it  could  not  be 
considered  as  adding  any  thing  to  his  reputa 
tion.  He  has  taken  the  subject  up  with  ar 
dour,  but  with  little  previous  preparation  :  the 
work  therefore  indicates  imperfect  information, 
immature  views  of  character,  and  many  hasty 
and  unconsiclered  opinions.  The  style  has 
the  same  melodramatic  exaggeration  which 


J.  T.    HEADLEY. 


541 


the  whole  design  of  the  work  exhibits.  Yet 
unouestionably  there  is  power  manifested  even 
in  the  faults  of  these  brlliiant  sketches.  There 
is  that  exuberant  copiousness  of  imagination 
and  passion,  which,  if  it  he  not  admirable  in 
itself,  is  interesting  as  the  excess  of  youthful 
genius.  We  accept  it  as  a  promise,  but  are 
not  satisfied  with  it  as  a  production.  If  it  be 
true,  however,  as  has  been  stated,  that  some 
five  thousand  copies  of  this  book  have  been 
disposed  of  in  the  few  months  that  have 
elapsed  since  its  publication,  Mr.  Headley 
has  many  motives  to  disregard  the  warnings 
which  may  be  mingled  with  his  triumph. 

1  am  unwilling  to  trust  myself  in  a  detailed 
criticism  of  Mr.  Headley's  latest  work, — The 
Sacred  Mountains.  He  may  readily  be  ac 
quitted  of  intentional  irreverence  ;  but  he  has 
displayed  a  most  unfortunate  want  of  judg 
ment,  and  a  singular  insensibility  to  the  cha 
racter  of  the  subjects  which  he  undertook  to 
handle.  The  attempt  to  approximate  and  fami 
liarize  the  incidents  of  the  Deluge,  to  illustrate 
the  Transfiguration  by  historical  contrasts,  and 
to  heighten  the  agony  and  awe  of  the  Cruci 
fixion  by  the  extravagancies  of  rhetoric,  has 
produced  an  effect  that  is  purely  displeasing. 
As  events  in  the  annals  of  the  world,  those 
august  occurrences  "  stand  solitary  and  sub 
lime,"  and  are  only  to  be  viewed  through  the 
passionless  ether  of  the  inspired  narrative. 
As  mysteries  of  faith,  and  symbols  of  a  truth 
before  which  our  nature  bows  down,  they  re 
cede  into  the  infinite  distance  of  sanctity  and 
worship.  In  a  literary  point  of  view  Mr. 
Headley's  design  has  much  the  same  success 
that  would  attend  an  effort  to  represent  the 
stars  of  heaven,  the  horror  of  an  eclipse,  or  the 
roseate  beauty  of  an  evening  sky,  by  the  whiz 
and  crackle  of  artificial  fireworks. 

We  think  so  highly  of  Mr.  Headley's  natu 
ral  powers,  that  we  feel  a  concern  in  their 
proper  direction  and  development.  The  fasci 
nation  of  strong  writing,  the  love  of  rhetorical 
effect,  have  proved  the  "torva  voluptas"  by 
which  American  genius  has  often  been  be 
trayed  and  sacrificed.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that 
Mr.  Headley  will  recover  in  time  from  the 
dangerous  intoxication.  He  should  remein^ 
ber  that  the  spirit  of  literary  art  is  essentially 
natural,  simple,  and  calm  ;  that  it  is  advanced, 
not  by  sympathy  with  the  passions  of  the  mul 
titude,  but  by  lonely  communion  with  that  high 
idea  of  excellence,  which  is  pure,  permanent, 
and  sacred  ;  that  it  dwells  not  in  excitement,  ' 


and  the  fervent  endeavour  after  an  outward  re 
sult,  but  in  the  quiet  yet  earnest  development 
of  those  inward  instincts  of  grace  and  beauty 
which  are  the  creative  energy  of  genius.  Mr. 
Headley's  first  move  in  literature  was  a  com 
mendable  and  successful  ojne,  and  he  could  not 
do  better  for  his  true  fame  than  to  retrace  his 
steps,  and  recover  the  line  of  his  earliest  efforts. 

— Besides  the  works  above  mentioned  Mr. 
Headley  has  published  several  orations  and 
many  able  articles  in  the  reviews. 

The  extraordinary  sale  of  Napoleon  and  his 
Marshals,  stamped  Mr.  Headley  as  one  of  the 
most  popular  of  American  authors,  and  he  in 
the  next  year  followed  it  up  with  a  similar  work 
on  "Washington  and  his  Generals,  a  series  of 
very  spirited  biographical  sketches,  but  which 
did  not  meet  with  the  same  measure  of  success 
as  the  Napoleon.  This  was  followed  in  1848 
by  Oliver  Cromwell,  a  life,  based  mainly  upon 
Carlyle's  researches  ;  and  in  1851,  by  the  Im 
perial  Guard  of  Napoleon,  founded  upon  a 
popular  French  history  by  St.  Hilaire.  In 
1852.  appeared  Lives  of  Gens.  Scott  and  Jack 
son;  in  1853,  a  History  of  the  War  of  1812  ; 
and  in  1854,  a  Pictorial  Life  of  Washington, 
first  written  for  Graham's  magazine. 

His  Adirondack;  or,  Life  in  the  "Woods, 
whither  he  went  for  his  health  in  1848,  is  a 
spirited  volume  of  travelling  sketches,  the  re 
sult  of  his  summer  excursion,  and  of  which  a 
new  edition,  enlarged  by  material  gained  by 
several  later  trips,  was  republished  in  1869. 
It  is  decidedly,  so  far,  the  most  agreeable  and 
informing  book  on  the  subject,  though  not 
possessing  the  romancing  tendencies  of  Rev. 
Mr.  Murray's  book. 

Besides  those  mentioned  above,  he  has 
written  Sacred  Scenes  and  Characters,  a  com 
panion  to  his  Sacred  Mountains ;  and  a  volume 
of  Miscellanies,  Sketches,  and  Rambles;  a  Life 
of  Gen.  Havelock,  written  at  the  time  so  much 
iaterest  was  excited  by  the  India  "War,  in  1859; 
The  Chaplains  and  Clergy  of  the  Revolution, 
1861 ;  and  Grant  and  Sherman,  their  Campaigns 
and  Generals. 

Mr.  Headley  was  for  some  years  the  Repre 
sentative  of  his  district  in  the  Legislature  of 
New  York,  and  in  1855,  was  chosen  Secretary 
of  the  State.  His  popularity  as  an  author  was 
owing  to  his  tact  in  selecting  subjects  of  ab 
sorbing  interest  to  the  people,  to  the  vigor 
of  his  pen,  and  his  power  of  grouping  his  scenes 
and  representing  them  in  brilliant  and  daz- 
aling  language  to  the  reader. 


542 


J.  T.   HEADLEY. 


NAPLES. 

FROM  LETTERS  FROM  ITAL1. 


TO-NIGHT  we  arrived  from  Castellamare.  Our 
road  wound  along  the  bay — near  Pompeii,  through 
Torre  del  Greco,  into  the  city.  The  sky  was 
darkly  overcast — the  wind  was  high  and  angry, 
and  the  usually  quiet  bay  threw  its  aroused  and 
rapid  swell  on  the  beach.  Along  the  horizon,  be 
tween  the  sea  and  sky,  hung  a  storm-cloud  blacker 
than  the  water.  Here  and  there  was  a  small  sail 
ing-craft,  or  fisherman's  boat,  pulling  for  the  shore, 
while  those  on  the  beach  were  dragging  their  boats 
still  farther  up  on  the  sand,  in  preparation  for  the 
rapidly-gathering  storm.  There  is  always  some 
thing  fearful  in  this  bustling  preparation  for  a  tem 
pest  It  was  peculiarly  so  here.  The  roar  of  the 
surge  was  on  one  side ;  on  the  other  lay  a  buried 
city — a  smoking  mountain ;  while  our  very  road 
was  walled  with  lava  that  cooled  on  the  spot  where 
it  stood.  The  column  of  smoke  that  Vesuvius 
usually  sent  so  calmly  into  the  sky,  now  lay  on  a 
level  with  the  summit,  and  rolled  rapidly  inland, 
before  the  fierce  sea-blast.  It  might  have  been 
fancy ;  but,  amid  such  elements  of  strength,  and 
such  memories  and  monuments  of  their  fury,  it 
did  seem  as  if  it  wanted  but  a  single  touch  to  send 
valley,  towns,  mountain,  and  all,  like  a  fired  maga 
zine  into  the  air.  Clouds  of  dust  rolled  over  us, 
blotting  out  even  the  road  from  our  view ;  while 
the  dull  report  of  cannon  from  Naples,  coming  at 
intervals  on  our  ears,  added  to  the  confusion  and 
loneliness  of  the  scene.  As  we  entered  the  city 
and  rode  along  the  port,  the  wild  tossing  of  the 
tall  masts  as  the  heavy  hulls  rocked  on  the  waves, 
the  creaking  of  the  timbers,  and  the  muffled  shouts 
of  seamen,  as  they  threw  their  fastenings,  added 
to  the  gloom  of  the  evening ;  and  I  went  to  my 
room,  feeling  that  I  should  not  be  surprised  to  find 
myself  aroused  at  any  moment  by  the  rocking  of 
an  earthquake  under  me.  The  night  did  not  dis 
appoint  the  day,  and  set  in  with  a  wildness  and 
fury,  that  these  fire-countries  alone  exhibit  My 
room  overlooked  the  bay  and  Vesuvius.  The  door 
opened  upon  a  large  balcony.  As  I  stood  on  this, 
and  heard  the  groaning  of  the  vessels  below,  reel 
ing  in  the  darkness,  and  the  sullen  sound  of  the 
surge,  as  it  fell  on  the  beach,  while  the  heavy  thun 
der  rolled  over  the  sea,  arid  shook  the  city  on  its 
foundations, — I  felt  I  would  not  live  in  Naples. 
Ever  and  anon  a  vivid  flash  of  lightning  would 
throw  distant  Vesuvius  in  bold  relief  against  the 
sky,  with  his  forehead  completely  wrapped  in 
clouds  that  moved  not  to  the  blast,  but  clung  there, 
as  if  in  solemn  consultation  wi4h  the  mountain 
upon  the  night.  Overhead  the  clouds  were  driven 
in  every  direction,  and  nature  seemed  bestirring  her 
self  for  some  wild  work.  At  length  the  heavy  rain 
drops  began  to  fall,  one  by  one,  as  if  pressed  from 
the  clouds ;  and  I  turned  to  my  room,  feeling  that 
the  storm  would  weep  itself  away. 


THE  MISERERE  AT  ROME. 

FKOM   THE  SAME. 

THE  night  on  which  our  Saviour  is  supposed  to 
have  died  is  selected  for  this  service.  The  Sistine 
Chapel  is  dimly  lighted,  to  correspond  with  the 
gloom  of  the  scene  shadowed  forth. . . .  The  cere 
monies  commenced  with  the  chanting  of  the  La 
mentations.  Thirteen  candles,  in  the  form  of  an 
I  erect  triangle,  were  lighted  up  in  the  beginning, 
representing  the  different  moral  lights  of  the  an 
cient  church  of  Israel.  One  after  another  was  ex 
tinguished  as  the  chant  proceeded,  until  the  last 
and  brightest  one  at  the  top,  representing  Christ, 
was  put  out.  As  they  one  by  one  slowly  disap 
peared  in  the  deepening  gloom,  a  blacker  night 
seemed  gathering  over  the  hopes  and  fate  of  man, 
and  the  lamentation  grew  wilder  and  deeper.  But 
as  the  Prophet  of  prophets,  the  Light,  the  Hope  of 
the  world,  disappeared,  the  lament  suddenly  ceased. 
Not  a  sound  was  heard  amid  the  deepening  gloom. 
The  catastrophe  was  too  awful,  and  the  shock  too 
great  to  admit  of  speech.  He  who  had  been  pour 
ing  his  sorrowful  notes  over  the  departure  of  the 
good  and  great  seemed  struck  suddenly  dumb  at 
this  greatest  wo.  Stunned  and  stupified,  he  could 
not  contemplate  the  mighty  disaster.  I  never  felt 
a  heavier  pressure  on  my  heart  than  at  this  mo 
ment.  The  chapel  was  packed  in  every  inch  of  it, 
even  out  of  the  door  far  back  into  the  ample  hall, 
and  yet  not  a  sound  was  heard.  I  could  hear  the 
breathing  of  the  mighty  multitude,  and  amid  it  the 
suppressed  half-drawn  sigh.  Like  the  chanter,  each 
man  seemed  to  say, "  Christ  is  gone,  we  are  orphans 
— all  orphans !"  The  silence  at  length  became  too 
painful.  I  thought  I  should  shriek  out  in  agony, 
when  suddenly  a  low  wail,  so  desolate  and  yet  so 
sweet,  so  despairing  and  yet  so  tender,  like  the  last 
strain  of  a  broken  heart,  stole  slowly  out  from  the 
distant  darkness  and  swelled  over  the  throng,  that 
the  tears  rushed  unbidden  to  my  eyes,  and  I  could 
have  wept  like  a  child  in  sympathy.  It  then  died 
away  as  if  the  grief  were  too  great  for  the  strain. 
Fainter  and  fainter,  like  the  dying  tone  of  a  lute, 
it  sunk  away  as  if  the  last  sigh  of  sorrow  was  ended, 
when  suddenly  there  burst  through  the  arches  a 
cry  so  piercing  and  shrill  that  it  seemed  not  the 
voice  of  song,  but  the  language  of  a  wounded  and 
dying  heart  in  its  last  agonizing  throb.  The  mul 
titude  swayed  to  it  like  the  forest  to  the  blast. 
Again  it  ceased,  and  broken  sobs  of  exhausted 
grief  alone  were  heard.  In  a  moment  the  whole 
choir  joined  their  lament  and  seemed  to  weep  with 
the  weeper.  After  a  few  notes  they  paused  again, 
and  that  sweet,  melancholy  voice  mourned  on  alone. 
Its  note  is  still  in  my  ear.  I  wanted  to  see  the 
singer.  It  seemed  as  if  such  sounds  could  come 
from  nothing  but  a  broken  heart.  Oh  !  how  un 
like  the  joyful,  the  triumphant  anthem  that  swept 
through  the  same  chapel  on  the  morning  that  sym 
bolized  the  resurrection. 


CORNELIUS  MATHEWS. 


[Born  1817.J 


MR.  MATHEWS  was  born  in  New  York  in 
1817,  and  was  graduated  at  the  university  of 
that  city  when  about  twenty  years  of  age.  He 
soon  after  entered  upon  the  study  of  the  law, 
and  in  due  time  was  admitted  to  practise  as 
an  attorney  and  counsellor.  His  attention, 
however,  has  been  mainly  given  to  literature, 
and  probably  no  one  of  our  younger  authors 
has  written  more  largely.  From  1835  to  1838 
he  was  a  contributor  to  the  Knickerbocker 
and  American  Monthly  magazines,  in  which 
appeared  some  of  his  best  sketches  of  life  and 
manners.  In  1838  he  published  The  Mot 
ley  Book,  a  series  of  tales  and  sketches,  of 
a  humorous  character.  In  1839  he  delivered 
an  Address  on  the  True  Aims  of  Life,  before 
the  alumni  of  the  New  York  University;  and 
in  the  same  year  appeared  his  Behemoth,  a 
Legend  of  the  Mound  Builders,  in  which  he 
endeavoured  to  make  the  gigantic  relics  which 
have  been  discovered  in  the  central  parts  of 
the  continent  subservient  to  the  purposes  of 
the  imagination.  The  conception  was  a  fine 
one,  but  the  execution,  although  the  work  em 
braces  some  good  passages,  was  generally  bad, 
evincing  a  want  of  both  taste  and  power.  In 
1840  he  gave  the  public  The  Politicians,  a 
Comedy,  in  five  acts,  designed  to  exhibit  the 
various  humours  attending  the  election  of  an 
alderman  in  the  city  of  New  York,  and  in  the 
same  year,  with  his  friend  Mr.  E.  A.  Duyck- 
inck,  a  man  of  much  cultivation  and  an  agreea 
ble  style  of  writing,  he  commenced  Arcturus, 
a  monthly  magazine,  which  was  continued  a 
year  and  a  half.  In  its  pages  appeared  his 
Wakondah,  the  Master  of  Life,  a  poetical  frag 
ment  founded  upon  an  Indian  tradition ;  and 
The  Career  of  Purler  Hopkins,  a  novel,  of 
which  three  or  four  editions  have  since  been 
issued.  In  184*2  he  published  several  pamph 
lets  on  International  Copyright,  and  in  the  j 
following  year,  Poems  on  Man,  in  the  Ame 
rican  Republic,  which,  though  unfinished  and 
rough,  are  terse,  and  evince  reflection  and  man 
ly  feeling.  In  1843  also  appeared  a  complete 
edition  of  his  various  writings,  up  to  that  pe-  j 
riod.  His  last  work,  Big  Abel  and  the  Little 


Manhattan,  was  published  in  Wiley  and  Put 
nam's  Library  of  American  Books,  in  1845. 

The  longest,  mostambitious,  and  best  known 
of  the  works  of  Mr.  Mathews,  is  The  Career  of 
Puffer  Hopkins.  The  object  appears  to  be  to 
illustrate  the  every-day  life  of  the  middling 
and  lower  classes  in  New  York.  The  main 
story  is  that  of  the  public  advancement  of  a 
vulgar  politician ;  but  it  is  interrupted  by  many 
scenes  and  incidents  that  in  no  way  assist  in 
arriving  at  the  conclusion,  in  which  are  intro 
duced  the  inhabitants  and  frequenters  of  the 
dens  of  crime  and  wretchedness  in  the  city. 
The  book  has  some  merits.  The  characters 
are  drawn  with  considerable  vigour  and  dis 
tinctness,  and  they  are  very  well  sustained,  in 
dialogue  and  action.  But  Puffer  Hopkins  is 
no  more  a  representative  of  life  in  New  York 
than  it  is  of  life  in  Dublin.  From,  beginning 
to  end  it  has  scarcely  a  gleam  of  vraisemblance. 
Its  whole  spirit  is  low  and  base,  and  as  untrue 
as  it  is  revolting.  If,  as  the  author  intimates 
in  his  preface,  it  was  his  hope  to  produce  a 
book  "•  characteristic  and  national  in  its  fea 
tures,"  surely  no  hope  was  ever  more  com 
pletely  disappointed. 

Big  Abel  and  the  Little  Manhattan  is  a 
suggestive  parallel  between  the  present  and 
primitive  condition  of  New  York.  A  great- 
grandson  of  the  navigator  Hudson,  and  the 
heir  of  the  last  chief  of  the  Mannahatoes,  are 
supposed  to  have  in  contemplation  a  suit 
against  the  corporation  of  the  city,  for  the 
whole  of  its  territory,  and  are  represented  as 
wandering  about  its  streets  and  squares,  agree 
ing  upon  a  division  of  the  property  they  expect 
to  acquire. 

The  style  of  Mr.  Mathews  is  unnatural,  and 
in  many  places  indicates  a  mind  accustomed  to 
the  contemplation  of  vulgar  depravity.  Who 
would  think  of  finding  such  names  as  "  Hob- 
bleshank,"  "  Greasy  Peterson,"  "  Fishblatt," 
or  "  Flab,"  in  Washington  Irving  or  Natha 
niel  Hawthorne]  but  they  are  characteristic 
of  Puffer  Hopkins.  His  language  is  some 
times  affectedly  quaint,  and  when  more  natu 
ral,  though  comparatively  fresh,  it  is  rude  and 

549 


544 


CORNELIUS    MATHEWS. 


uncouth.  Some  writers  are  said  to  advance 
on  stilts ;  our  author  may  be  said  to  proceed 
difficultly,  strainingly,  jerkingly  through  mire. 
The  charge  of  a  want  of  nationality  is  some 
what  stale,  but  as  copies  of  the  works  of  Mr. 
Mathews  have  gone  abroad,  it  is  proper  to 
say  that  nothing  has  ever  been  printed  in  this 
country  that  exhibits  less  the  national  charac 
ter.  It  is  not  intended  here  to  say  that  The 
Politicians  and  Puffer  Hopkins  are  German, 
French,  or  English,  but  merely  that  they  are 
not  in  any  kind  or  degree  American.  The 
most  servile  of  all  our  copyists  have  thus  far 
been  those  who  have  talked  most  of  originali 
ty,  as  if  to  divert  attention  from  their  felt  defi 
ciencies  in  this  respect.  Our  "Young  Ame 
rica"  had  not  wit  enough  to  coin  for  itself  a 
name,  but  must  parody  one  used  in  England; 
and  in  its  pronunciamento  in  favour  of  a  fresh 
and  vigorous  literature,  it  adopts  a  quaint 
phraseology,  that  so  far  from  having  been  born 
here,  or  even  naturalized,  was  never  known 
among  us,  except  to  the  readers  of  very  old 
books  and  the  Address  of  the  Copyright  Club. 
In  all  its  reviews  of  literature  and  art,  the 
standards  are  English,  which  would  be  well 


I  enough,  perhaps,  if  they  were  English  stan 
dards,  but  they  are  the  fifth  rate  men  with 
whose  writings  only  their  own  can  be  com 
pared.  Their  very  clamor  about  Americanism 
is  borrowed  from  the  most  worthless  foreign 

j  scribblers,  and  has  reference  chiefly  to  the  com 
paratively  unimportant  matter  of  style.  Of 

I  genuine  nationality  they  seem  to  have  no  just 
apprehension.  It  has  little  to  do  with  any 
peculiar  collocation  of  words,  but  is  the  per 
vading  feeling  and  opinion  of  a  country,  lea 
vening  all  its  written  thought.  And  the  prime 
argument  in  favour  of  an  international  recog 
nition  of  copyright  (aside  from  that  of  justice 
to  the  pillaged  author)  arises  from  the  fact  that 
under  the  present  system  the  real  education 
of  the  popular  heart  is  yielded  too  exclusively 
to  men  taught  by  a  different  experience  and 
under  different  institutions.  The  absurdest  of 
all  schemes  is  that  of  creating  a  national  lite 
rature  by  inventing  tricks  of  speech,  or  by  any 
sort  of  forced  originality.  Of  which,  proof 
enough  may  be  found  in  the  writings  of  Mr. 
Mathews,  who  wrote  very  good  English  and 
very  good  sense  until  he  was  infected  with 
the  disease  of  building  up  a  national  literature. 


THE  MISSION  OF  HOBBLESHANK. 

FROM  PUFFER  HOPKINS. 

THERE  was  one  that  toiled  in  Puffer's  behalf 
more  like  a  spirit  than  a  man ;  a  little  shrunken 
figure,  that  was  everywhere,  for  days  before  the 
canvas ;  a  universal  presence,  breathing  in  every 
ear  the  name  of  Puffer.  There  was  not  a  tap 
room  that  he  did  not  haunt;  no  obscure  alley  into 
which  he  did  not  penetrate,  and  make  its  reeking 
atmosphere  vocal  with  his  praises.  Wherever  a 
group  of  talkers  or  citizens  were  gathered,  the  little 
old  man  glided  in  and  dropped  a  word  that  might 
bear  fruit  at  the  bailot-box.  At  nightfall  he  would 
mix  with  crowds  of  shipwrights'  prentices  and  la 
bourers,  and  kindle  their  rugged  hearts  with  the 
thought  of  the  young  candidate. 

He  stopped  not  with  grown  men  and  voters,  but 
seizing  moments  when  he  could,  he  whispered  the 
name  in  children's  ears,  that,  being  borne  to  parents 
by  gentle  lips,  it  might  be  mixed  with'  kindly  re 
collections,  and  so  be  made  triumphant. 

It  was  given  out  that  the  Blinkerites  had  esta 
blished  or  discovered,  in  some  under-ground  tene 
ments  that  never  saw  light  of  day,  a  great  warren 
of  voters.  When  the  toilsome  old  man  learned  of 
this  burrow  that  was  to  be  sprung  against  his  fa 
vourite,  he  looked  about  for  an  equal  mine,  whence 
voters  might  be  dug  in  scores,  at  a  moment's  no 
tice,  should  occasion  demand.  With  this  in  view, 


one  afternoon,  he  entered  Water  street,  at  Peck 
slip,  like  a  skilful  miner,  as  though  a  great  shaft 
had  been  sunk  just  there. 

A  strange  climate  it  was  that  he  was  entering ; 
one  where  the  reek  and  soil  are  so  thick  and  fer 
tile,  that  they  seem  to  breed  endless  flights  of  great 
white  overcoats,  and  red-breasted  shirts,  and  flying 
blue  trowsers,  that  swarm  in  the  air,  and  fix,  like 
so  many  bats,  against  the  house  sides. 

Tropical  too,  for  there's  not  a  gaudy  colour, 
green,  or  red,  or  orange-yellow,  that  the  sun,  shin 
ing  through  the  smoky  atmosphere,  does  not  bring 
out  upon  the  house  fronts ;  and  for  inhabitants  of 
the  region,  there  are  countless  broad-backed  gen 
tlemen,  who,  plucking  from  some  one  of  the  neigh 
bouring  depositories  a  cloth  roundabout,  and  a  black 
tarpaulin,  sit  in  the  doorways  launching  their  ci 
gars  upon  the  street,  or  gather  within. 

Hobbleshank,  a  resident  of  the  inland  quarter  of 
the  city,  certainly  came  upon  these,  with  his  frock 
and  eye-glass,  as  a  traveller  and  landsman  from  far 
in  the  interior ;  and  when  he  first  made  his  ap 
pearance  in  their  thoroughfare,  looking  hard  about 
with  his  single  eye,  it  could  not  be  cause  of  sur 
prise  that  they  wondered  aloud  as  he  passed,  where 
the  little  old  blubber  had  come  from 

But  when,  as  he  got  accustomed  to  the  place,  he 
accosted  them  with  a  gentle  voice,  said  a  compli 
mentary  word  for  their  sign-board,  with  its  full- 
length  sailor's  lass — Hope  upon  her  anchor,  or 


CORNELIUS    MATHEWS. 


545 


sturdy  Strength,  standing  square  upon  his  pins — 
they  began  at  once  to  have  a  fancy  for  the  old  man. 

lie  passed  from  house  to  house,  making  friends 
in  each.  Sometimes  he  made  his  way  into  the 
bar-room,  where,  seated  against  the  wall,  on  benches 
all  around  the  sanded  floor,  with  dusty  bamboo 
rods,  alligator  skins",  outlandish  eggs,  and  sea-weeds 
plucked  among  the  Caribees  or  the  Pacific  islands, 
or  some  far-off  shore,  he  would  linger  by  the  hour, 
listening  with  all  the  wondering  patience  of  a 
child,  to  their  ocean-talk.  And  when  they  were 
through,  he  would  draw  a  homely  similitude 
between  their  story — the  perils  their  ship  had 
crossed — with  the  good  ship  of  state ;  and  then  tell 
them  of  a  young  friend  of  his,  who  was  on  trial 
before  the  ship's  crew  for  a  master's  place.  Be 
fore  he  left,  in  nine  cases  of  ten,  they  gave  their 
hands  for  Puffer,  sometimes  even  rising  and  con 
firming  it  with  a  cheer  that  shook  the  house,  and 
brought  their  messmates  thronging  in  from  the 
neighbourhood,  when  the  story  would  be  recited  to 
them  by  a  dozen  voices,  and  new  recruits  to  Puf 
fer's  side  enrolled. 

Then,  again,  he  would  be  told  of  an  old  sick 
sailor  in  an  upper  chamber — tied  there  by  racking 
pains  in  his  joints,  answering,  they  would  say, 
each  wrench  to  the  trials  his  old  ship's  timbers 
were  passing  through  on  the  voyage  she  was  now 
out  upon — and  mounting  up,  he  would  find  him 
busy  in  his  painful  leisure,  building  a  seventy-six, 
razeed  to  the  size  of  a  cock-boat,  for  the  landlord's 
mantle.  Gaining  upon  him  by  degrees,  Hobble- 
shank  would  sit  at  his  side ;  and  by-and-by,  when 
he  saw  it  would  be  kindly  taken,  gathering  up  a 
thread  of  twine  or  two,  aud  helping  to  form  a 
length  of  cable  or  rigging.  By  the  time  a  dozen 
ropes  were  fashioned,  he  would  have  a  promise 
from  the  old  sea-dog  that  he  would  show  his  teeth 
at  the  polls  when  roll-call  came. 

There  were  some,  too,  engaged  in  boisterous 
mirth  and  jollity  in  back  parlors,  just  behind  the 
bar ;  where  a  plump  little  fellow,  in  his  hlue  round 
about,  duck  trowsers  supported  by  the  hips,  and 
tarpaulin  hat,  with  a  flying  riband  that  touched  the 
floor  and  shortened  him  in  appearance  by  a  foot, 
broke  down  in  a  hornpipe  to  the  sound  of  an  an 
cient  fiddle,  that  broke  down  quite  as  fast  as  he 
did.  In  the  enthusiasm  that  held  him,  Hobble- 
shank  even  joined  in,  and  with  some  comic  mo 
tions  and  strange  contortions  of  the  visage,  carried 
the  day  so  well  that  he  won  the  back  parlor's  heart 
at  once ;  and  they  promised  him  whatever  he  asked. 

The  little  old  man — true  to  the  interest  he  had 
first  shown — -bent  himself  with  such  hearty  good 
will  to  his  task,  that  when,  after  many  days'  la 
bour,  he  left  Water  street,  at  its  other  extremity, 
there  was  not  a  ripe  old  salt  that  was  not  gathered, 
nor  a  tall  young  sailor  that  was  not  harvested,  for 
the  cause.  And  so  he  pursued  the  task  he  had  set 
to  himself  without  faltering,  without  a  moment's 
pause.  For  days  before  the  contest  came  on,  he 
was  out  at  sunrise,  moving  about  wherever  a  vote 


could  be  found ;  nursing  and  maturing  it  for  the 
polling  day,  as  a  gardener  would  a  tender  plant ; 
watching  and  tending  many  out-of-the-way  places, 
and  by  a  skilful  discourse,  a  chance  word,  an  apt 
story,  ripening  it  against  the  time  when  it  was  to 
be  gathered. 

Late  at  night,  when  others,  who  might  have  been 
expected  to  be  stirring  and  making  interest  for 
themselves,  slumbered,  Hobbleshank  taking  his 
rounds  through  the  city  with  the  watchmen,  with 
more  than  the  pains  of  an  industrious  clear-starcher, 
smoothed  the  placards  on  the  fences ;  jumping  up 
where  they  were  beyond  his  height,  as  was  often 
the  case,  and  brushing  them  down,  both  ways, 
with  out-spread  hands,  so  that  they  should  read 
plain  and  free  to  the  simplest  passer-by.  Was 
there  ever  one  that  toiled  so,  with  the  faith  and 
heart  of  an  angel,  in  the  dusty  road  that  time-serv 
ers  use  to  travel! 


THE  MOUND  BUILDERS. 

FROM    BEHEMOTH. 

UPON  the  summit  of  a  mountain  which  beetled 
in  the  remote  west  over  the  dwellings  and  defences 
of  a  race  long  since  vanished,  stood,  at  the  close  of 
a  midsummer's  day,  a  gigantic  shape  whose  vast- 
ness  darkened  the  whole  vale  beneath.  The  sun 
set  purpled  the  mountain-top,  and  crimsoned  with 
its  deep,  gorgeous  tints  the  broad  Occident ;  and  as 
the  huge  figure  leaned  against  it,  it  seemed  like  a  , 
mighty  image  cut  from  the  solid  peak  itself,  and 
framed  against  the  sky.  Below,  in  a  thousand 
grpups  were  gathered,  in  their  usual  evening  wor 
ship,  a  strange  people,  who  have  left  upon  hills  and 
prairies  so  many  monuments  of  their  power,  and 
who  yet,  by  some  mighty  accident,  have  taken  the 
trumpet  out  of  the  hand  of  Fame,  and  closed  for 
ever,  as  regards  their  historical  and  domestic  cha 
racter,  the  busy  lips  of  tradition.  Still  we  can  ga 
ther  vaguely,  that  the  mound  builders  accomplished 
a  career  in  the  west,  corresponding,  though  less 
severe  and  imposing,  with  that  which  the  Greeks 
and  Romans  accomplished,  in  what  is  styled  by 
courtesy  the  old  world.  The  hour  has  been  when 
our  own  west  was  thronged  with  empires.  Over 
that  archipelago  of  nations  the  Dead  Sea  of  time 
has  swept  obliviously,  and  subsiding,  has  left  their 
graves  only  the  greener  for  a  new  people  in  this 
after  age  to  build  their  homes  thereon.  But  at  the 
present  time,  living  thousands  and  ten  thousands 
of  the  ancient  people  were  paying  homage  to  their 
deity ;  and  as  they  turned  their  eyes  together  to 
bid  their  customary  solemn  adieu  to  the  departing 
sun,  they  beheld  the  huge  shape  blotting  it  from 
sight.  The  first  feeling  which  sprang  in  their  bo 
soms  as  they  looked  upon  the  vision  was,  that  this 
was  some  monstrous  prodigy,  exhibited  by  the 
powers  of  the  air  or  the  powers  of  darkness  to  as 
tonish  and  awe  them. 


Mr.  Matthews  has  also  written  Witchcraft,  a  Tragedy;  Jacob  Leisler,  a  Play;  Moneypenny,  or 
the  Heart  of  the  World,  a  Romance  ;  Chanticleer,  a  Thanksgiving  story  of  the  Peabody  family 
and  a  Pen-and-ink  Panorama  of  New  York  City,  18mo.,  1853. 


T.  B.  THORPE. 


[Born  1815.J 


WE  have  promise  of  a  rich  and  peculiar 
literature  in  the  south-west  and  south.  The 
excellent  story  of  Mike  Fink,  the  last  of  the 
Boatmen,  by  the  late  Mr.  Morgan  Neville,  of 
Cincinnati,  has  been  followed  by  many  others 
of  a  similar  character,  from  the  Valley  of  the 
Mississippi,  which  have  given  a  raciness,  all 
their  own,  to  two  or  three  of  our  periodicals. 
The  first  collection  of  these  appeared  in  Phila 
delphia  in  1835,  under  the  title  of  The  Big 
Bear  of  Arkansas  by  T.  B.  Thorpe,  and  other 
Tales  by  Various  Authors,  edited  by  Mr.  Wil 
liam  T.  Porter,  the  well-known  conductor  of 
the  New  York  Spirit  of  the  Times.  It  was 
followed,  in  1846,  by  The  Mysteries  of  the 
Backwoods,  entirely  by  Mr.  Thorpe,  and  Cap 
tain  Simon  Suggs,  late  of  the  Talapoosa  Volun 
teers,  together  with  Taking  the  Census,  and 
other  Alabama  Sketches,  by  Mr.  Johnson  J. 
Hooper ;  and  A  Quarter  Race  in  Kentucky, 
with  other  Tales,  chiefly  from  contributions 
to  the  Spirit  of  the  Times, — all  of  which  con 
tain  passages  of  bold,  original  and  indigenous, 
though  sometimes  not  very  delicate  humour.* 

Mr.  Thorpe  (the  son  of  a  clergyman  who 
died  with  a  brilliant  reputation  at  the  early  age 
of  twenty-six)  was  born  in  Westfield,  Massa 
chusetts,  in  1815.  While  he  was  an  infant 
his  parents  removed  to  New  York,  where  he 
resided  until  he  left  the  north  to  settle  in 
Louisiana.  He  early  exhibited  a  taste  for  the 
fine  arts,  and  chose  historical  painting  as  a 
profession.  When  but  seventeen  years  of  age 
his  picture  of  the  Bold  Dragoonf  was  exhibited 
at  the  New  York  Academy  of  Fine  Arts,  and 
was  very  highly  praised  by  the  late  Colonel 
Trumbull,  for  its  original  design  and  happily 
told  story.  Circumstances  led  to  the  abandon 
ment  of  his  pencil,  and  he  entered  the  Wes- 
leyan  University  at  Middletown,  in  Connecti 
cut,  where  he  spent  three  years  ;  and  when  he 

*  These  volumes  are  illustrated  by  Mr.  F.  O.  C.  Barley, 
of  Philadelphia,  a  young  artist  who  in  his  line,  I  believe, 
has  now  no  superior.  His  drawings  are  remarkably 
spirited  and  life-like,  and  are  perfect  reproductions  of 
ihe  characters  and  scenes  of  his  authors. 

f  Now  in  possession  of  Mr.  Washington  Irving. 
546 


was  twenty-one  years  of  age,  his  health  being 
somewhat  impaired,  he  sought  a  more  con 
genial  climate  in  Louisiana,  in  which  state  he 
resided  until  1853.  The  characteristics  of 
her  scenery  and  population,  and  the  romance 
of  her  history,  he  has  exhibited  with  singular 
felicity  in  some  of  his  writings. 

The  last  book  of  Mr.  Thorpe,  Our  Army  on 
the  Rio  Grande,  was  published  in  the  summer 
of  1846,  and  contained  a  record  of  the  observa 
tions  of  the  author  while  accompanying  the 
forces  under  General  Taylor  into  the  territory 
of  Mexico,  illustrated  with  engravings  from 
drawings  made  by  himself. 

In  1853,  Mr.  Thorpe  removed  to  New  York, 
and  published  a  collection  of  his  sketches,  en 
titled  The  Hive  of  the  Bee-Hunter.  He  has  since 
contributed  sketches  to  Harper's  magazine. 

Mr.  Thorpe  may  serve  as  a  type  of  the  class 
of  writers  that  has  been  referred  to.*  He  has 
a  genuine  relish  for  the  sports  and  pastimes 
of  southern  frontier  life,  and  describes  them 
with  remarkable  freshness  and  skill  of  light 
and  shade.  No  one  enters  more  heartily  into 
all  the  whims  and  grotesque  humours  of  the 
backwoodsman,  or  brings  him  more  actually 
and  clearly  before  us.  He  has  fixed  upon  his 
pages  one  of  the  evanescent  phases  of  Ame 
rican  life,  with  a  distinctness  and  fidelity  that 
will  make  his  books  equally  interesting  as 
works  of  art  or  history. 

Mr.  Thorpe's  style  is  simple,  animated  and 
picturesque,  but  has  marks  of  carelessness, 
which,  perhaps,  result  from  mistakes  of  the 
printers,  as  he  has  never  been  able  to  superin 
tend  the  passage  of  any  of  his  writings  through 
the  press. 


*  The  limits  of  this  volume  are  so  nearly  filled  that 
I  shall  be  unable  to  give  the  space  I  had  intended  to 
Judge  Longstreet,  author  of  the  amusing  volume  entitled 
Georgia  Scenes;  to  Mr  Briggs,  who  has  evinced  both 
wit  and  humour  of  a  high  order  in  his  Harry  Franco, 
and  other  novels  and  sketches;  to  the  late  William  P. 
Hawes,  whose  Sporting  Scenes,  edited  by  a  congenial 
spirit,  Henry  W.  Herbert,  have  been  praised  by  all  who 
have  read  them ;  and  to  several  others  who  have  ap 
peared  as  witnesses  of  the  fact  that  there  is  humour  of 
the  richest  description  in  the  country. 


T.   B.   THORPE. 


547 


TOM  OWEN,  THE  BEE-HUNTER. 

FROM   MYSTERIES  OF  THE   BACKWOODS. 

As  a  country  becomes  cleared  up  and  settled, 
bee-hunters  disappear ;  consequently  they  are  sel 
dom  if  ever  noticed  in  literature.  Among  this 
backwoods  fraternity  have  flourished  men  of  ge 
nius,  in  their  way.  who  have  died  unwept  and 
unsung,  while  the  heroes  of  the  turf  and  of  the 
chase  have  been  lauded  to  the  skies  for  every  trivial 
superiority  they  have  displayed  in  their  respective 
pursuits.  To  chronicle  the  exploits  of  sportsmen 
is  commendable :  the  custom  began  as  early  as  the 
days  of  the  antediluvians,  for  we  read  that  "  Nim- 
rod  was  a  mighty  hunter  before  the  Lord."  Fa 
miliar,  however,  as  Nimrod's  name  may  be,  or  even 
Davy  Crockett's,  what  does  it  amount  to,  when  we 
reflect  that  TOM  OWEX,  the  bee-hunter,  is  com 
paratively  unknown  1 

Yes,  the  "  mighty"  Tom  Owen  has  hunted  from 
the  time  he  could  stand  alone,  until  the  present, 
and  not  a  pen  has  inked  paper  to  record  his  ex 
ploits.  "  Solitary  and  alone"  has  he  traced  his  game 
through  the  mazy  labyrinth  of  ether,  marked,  / 
hunted,  I  found,  I  conquered,  upon  the  carcasses  of 
his  victims,  and  then  marched  homeward  with  his 
spoils,  quietly  and  satisfiedly  sweetening  his  path 
through  life,  and  by  its  very  obscurity  adding  the 
principal  element  of  the  sublime. 

It  was  on  a  beautiful  southern  October  morning, 
at  the  hospitable  mansion  of  a  friend,  where  I  was 
staying  to  drown  dull  care,  that  I  first  had  the  plea 
sure  of  seeing  Tom  Owen.  He  was  straggling,  on 
this  occasion,  up  the  rising  ground  that  led  to  the 
hospitable  mansion  of  mine  host,  and  the  difference 
between  him  and  ordinary  men  was  visible  at  a 
glance.  Perhaps  it  showed  itself  as  much  in  the 
perfect  contempt  of  fashion  he  displayed  in  the 
adornment  of  his  outward  man,  as  it  did  in  the 
more  elevated  qualities  of  his  mind  that  were  visible 
in  his  face.  His  head  was  adorned  with  an  out 
landish  pattern  of  a  hat ;  and  his  nether  limbs  were 
ensconced  in  a  pair  of  inexpressibles,  beautifully 
fringed  by  the  brier-bushes  through  which  they 
were  often  drawn.  Coats  and  vests  he  considered 
as  superfluities.  Hanging  upon  his  back  were  a 
couple  of  pails  ;  and  he  had  an  axe  in  his  right 
hand.  Such  were  the  varieties  that  characterized 
the  corpus  of  Tom  Owen.  As  is  usual  with  great 
men,  he  had  his  partisans,  and  with  a  courtier-like 
humility  they  depended  upon  the  expression  of  his 
face  for  all  their  hopes  of  success.  The  common 
salutations  of  meeting  were  sufficient  to  draw  me 
within  the  circle  of  his  influence,  and  I  at  once 
became  one  of  his  most  ready  followers.  "  See 
yonder!"  said  Tom,  stretching  his  long  arm  into 
the  air ;  "  Soe  yonder — there's  a  bee."  We  all 
looked  in  the  direction  he  indicated,  but  that  was 
the  extent  of  our  observation.  "  It  was  a  fine  l>ee," 
continued  Tom,  "  black  body,  yellow  legs,  and  into 
that  tree," — pointing  to  a  towering  oak,  blue  in  the 
distance.  "  In  a  clear  day  I  can  see  a  bee  over  a 
mile,  easy  !"  When  did  Coleridge  « talk"  like 
that  ]  And  yet  Tom  Owen  uttered  such  a  saying 
with  perfect  ease. 


After  a  variety  of  meanderings  through  the  thick 
woods,  and  clambering  over  fences,  we  came  to  our 

place  of  destination  as  pointed  out  by  Tom 

The  felling  of  a  great  tree  is  a  sight  that  calls  up 
a  variety  of  emotions ;  and  Tom's  game  was  lodged 
in  one  of  the  finest  in  the  forest.  But  "  the  axe 
was  laid  at  the  root  of  the  tree,"  which,  in  his 
mind,  was  made  expressly  for  bees  to  build  their 
nests  in,  that  he  might  cut  it  down,  and  obtain 
possession  of  the  honey.  The  sharp  sounds  of  the 
axe  as  it  played  in  the  hands  of  Tom,  was  replied 
to  by  a  stout  negro  from  the  opposite  side ;  and  by 
the  rapidity  of  their  strokes  they  fast  gained  upon 
the  heart  of  the  lordly  sacrifice.  There  was  a 
little  poetry  in  the  thought,  that  long  before  this 
mighty  empire  of  states  was  formed,  Tom  Owen's 
"  bee-hive"  had  stretched  its  brawny  arms  to  the 
winter's  blast,  and  grown  green  in  the  summer's 
sun.  Yet  such  was  the  case;  and  how  long  I  might 
have  moralized  I  know  not,  had  not  the  enraged 
buzzing  about  my  ears  convinced  me  that  the  occu 
pants  of  the  tree  were  not  going  to  give  up  their 
home  and  treasure  without  showing  considerable 
practical  fight.  No  sooner  had  the  little  insects 
satisfied  themselves  that  they  were  about  to  be  at- 
i  tacked,  than  they  began  one  after  another  to  de 
scend  from  their  airy  abode,  and  fiercely  pitch  into 
our  faces ;  anon  a  small  company,  headed  by  an 
old  veteran,  would  charge  with  its  entire  force  upon 
all  parts  of  our  body  at  once.  It  need  not  be  said 
that  the  better  part  of  valour  was  displayed  by  a 
precipitate  retreat  from  such  attacks. 

In  the  midst  of  this  warfare,  the  tree  began  to 
tremble  with  the  fast-repeated  strokes  of  the  axe, 
arid  then  might  have  been  seen  a  hive  of  stingers 
precipitating  themselves  from  above  on  the  unfortu 
nate  hunter  beneath.  Now  it  was  that  Tom  shone 
in  his  glory. 

His  partisans,  like  many  hangers-on  about  great 
men,  began  to  desert  him  .on  the  first  symptoms  of 
danger ;  and  when  the  trouble  thickened,  they  one 
and  all  took  to  their  heels,  and  left  only  our  hero 
and  Sambo  to  fight  their  adversaries.  Sambo  how 
ever  soon  dropped  his  axe,  and  fell  into  all  kinds 
of  contortions ;  first  he  would  seize  the  back  of  his 
neck  with  his  hands,  then  his  shins,  and  yell  with 
pain.  "  Don't  holler,  nigger,  till  you  get  out  of 
the  woods,"  said  the  sublime  Tom,  consolingly ; 
but  writhe  he  did,  until  he  broke,  and  left  Tom 
"  alone  in  his  glory." 

Cut-thwack !  sounded  through  the  confused  hum 
at  the  foot  of  the  tree,  marvellously  reminding  me 
of  the  interruptions  that  occasionally  broke  in  upon 
the  otherwise  monotonous  hours  of  my  school  days. 
A  sharp  cracking  finally  told  me  the  chopping  was 
done ;  and  looking  aloft,  I  saw  the  mighty  tree 
balancing  in  the  air.  Slowly  and  majestically  it 
bowed  for  the  first  time  towards  its  mother  earth, 
gaining  velocity  as  it  descended,  shivering  the  trees 
that  interrupted  its  course,  and  falling  with  thun 
dering  sound,  splintering  its  gigantic  limbs,  and 
burying  them  deeply  in  the  ground. 

The  sun,  for  the  first  time  in  at  least  two  centu 
ries,  broke  uninterruptedly  through  the  chasm 
made  in  the  forest,  and  shone  with  splendour  upon 


548 


T.   B.   THORPE. 


the  magnificent  Tom  standing,  a  conqueror,  among 
his  spoils. 

As  might  have  been  expected,  the  bees  were 
very  much  astonished  and  confused,  and  by  their 
united  voices  they  would  have  proclaimed  death, 
had  it  been  in  their  power,  to  all  their  foes,  not,  of 
course,  excepting  Tom  Owen  himself.  But  the 
wary  hunter  was  up  to  the  tricks  of  his  trade,  and, 
like  a  politician,  he  knew  how  easily  an  enraged 
mob  could  be  quelled  with  smoke ;  and  smoke  he 
tried  until  his  enemies  were  completely  destroyed. 
We,  Tom's  Kangers-ori,  now  approached  his  trea 
sure.  It  was  r*  rare  one,  and,  as  he  observed,  "  con 
tained  a  rich  chance  of  plunder."  Nine  feet,  by 
measurement,  of  the  hollow  of  the  tree  was  full, 
and  this  afforded  many  pails  of  pure  honey.  Tom 
was  liberal,  and  supplied  us  all  with  more  than  we 
wanted,  and  "  toted,"  by  the  assistance  of  Sambo, 
his  share  to  his  own  home,  soon  to  be  devoured, 
and  replaced  by  the  destruction  of  another  tree  and 
another  nation  of  bees. 

Thus  Tom  exhibited  within  himself  an  uncon 
querable  genius  which  would  have  immortalized 
him,  had  he  directed  it  in  following  the  sports  of 
Long  Island  or  New-Market. 

We  ha»e  seen  Colonel  Bingaman,  the  Napoleon 
of  the  southern  turf,  glorying  amid  the  victories 
of  his  favourite  sport ;  we  have  heard  the  great 
Crockett  detail  the  soul-stirring  adventures  of  a 
bear-hunt  f  we  have  listened,  with  almost  suffocat 
ing  interest,  to  the  tale  of  a  Nantucket  seaman, 
while  he  portrayed  the  death  of  the  whale ;  and 
we  have  also  seen  Tom  Owen,  triumphantly  en 
gaged  in  A  bee-hunt.  We  beheld  and  wondered 
at  the  sports  of  the  turf,  the  field,  and  the  sea,  be 
cause  the  objects  acted  on  by  man  were  terrible 
indeed  when  their  instincts  were  aroused ;  hut  in 
the  bee-hunt  of  Tom  Owen  and  its  consummation, 
the  grandeur  visible  was  imparted  by  the  mighty 
mind  of  Tom  Owen  himself. 

FAT  GAME. 

FROM    THE    BIG    BEAR  OF   ARKANSAS. 


fThe  narrator  is  supposed  to  be  in  a  cabin  of  one  of  the 
splendid  steamers  on  the  Mississippi.  After  the  boat  has 
left  the  wharf,  the  "Big  Bear  of  Arkansas"  enters,  takes 
a  chair,  puts  his  feet  on  the  stove,  and  looking  back  over 
his  shoulder  passes  the  general  and  familiar  salute  of 
••  Strangers,  how  are  you?"  avowing  himself  as  much  at 
home  as  if  he  had  been  at  "  the  Forks  of  Cypress,"  and 
"prehaps  a  little  more  so."  Some  of  the  company  at  this 
familiarity  look  a  little  angry,  and  some  astonished;  but 
in  a  moment  every  fact-  is  wreathed  in  a  smile.  There  is 
Home  thing  about  the  intruder  that  wins  the  heart  on  sight. 
Me  appears  to  be  a  man  enjoying  perfect  health  and  con 
tentment;  his  eyes  are  as  sparkling  as  diamonds,  and 
good-natured  to  simplicity.  Then  his  perfect  confidence 
in  himself  is  irresistibly  droll.  He  relates  that  he  has 
been  to  New  Orleans  for  the  first  time,  and  has  been  in 
quired  of  by  some  of  the  -'perlite  chaps"  respecting  the 
game  in  his  part  of  the  country.] 

"GAME,  indeed!  that's  what  city  folks  call  it; 
mavbe  such  trash  live  in  my  diggins,  but  I  arn't 
noticed  them  yet:  a  bird  any  way  is  too  trifling. 
I  never  did  shoot  at  but  one,  and  I'd  never  forgiven 
myself  for  that,  had  it  weighed  less  than  forty 
pounds.  I  wouldn't  draw  a  rifle  on  any  thing 
less  than  that ;  and  when  I  meet  with  another  wild 
turkey  of  the  same  weight,  I  will  drap  him.'' 


"  A  wild  turkey  weighing  forty  pounds  !"  ex 
claimed  twenty  voices  in  the  cabin  at  once. 

"Yes,  strangers,  and  wasn't  it  a  whopper  1  You 
see,  the  thing  was  so  fat  that  it  couldn't  fly  far ; 
and  when  he  fell  out  of  the  tree,  after  I  shot  him, 
on  striking  the  ground  he  bust  open  behind,  and 
the  way  the  pound  gobs  of  tallow  rolled  out  of  the 
opening  was  perfectly  beautiful." 

"Where  did  all  that  happen1"  asked  a  cynical- 
looking  Hoosier. 

"  Happen  !  happened  in  Arkansaw :  where  else 
could  it  have  happened,  but  in  the  creation  state, 
the  finishing-up  country — a  state  where  the  sile 
runs  down  to  the  centre  of  the  'arth,  and  govern 
ment  gives  you  a  title  to  every  inch  of  it?  Then 
its  airs — -just  breathe  them,  and  they  will  make 
you  snort  like  a  horse.  It's  a  state  without  a  fault, 
it  is."...- 

"  What  season  of  the  year  do  your  hunts  take 
place1?"  inquired  a  gentlemanly  foreigner,  who, 
from  some  peculiarities  of  his  baggage,  I  suspected 
to  be  an  Englishman,  on  some  hunting  expedition, 
probably  at  the  foot  of  the  Rocky  Mountains. 

"  The  season  for  bar  hunting,  stranger,"  said  the 
man  of  Arkansaw,  "  is  generally  all  the  year  round, 
and  the  hunts  take  place  about  as  regular.  I  read 
in  history  that  varmints  have  their  fat  season,  and 
their  lean  season.  That  is  not  the  case  in  Arkan 
saw,  feeding  as  they  do  upon  the  sponlcnarious 
productions  of  the  sile,  they  have  one  continued 
fat  season  the  year  round  :  though  in  winter  things 
in  this  way  is  rather  more  greasy  than  in  summer, 
I  must  admit.  For  that  reason  bar  with  us  run  in 
warm  weather,  but  in  winter  they  only  waddle. 
Fat,  fat !  it's  an  enemy  to  speed ;  it  tames  every 
thing  that  has  plenty  of  it.  I  have  seen  wild  tur 
keys,  from  its  influence,  as  gentle  as  chickens. 
Run  a  bar  in  this  fat  condition,  and  the  way  it  im 
proves  the  critter  for  eating  is  amazing;  it  sort  ot 
mixes  the  ile  up  with  the  meat,  until  you  can't  tell 
t'other  from  which.  I've  done  this  often.  I  recol 
lect  one  perty  morning  in  particular,  of  putting  an 
old  he  fellow  on  the  stretch,  and  considering  the 
weight  he  carried,  he  run  well.  But  the  dogs  soon 
tired  him  down ;  and  when  I  came  up  with  him 
wasn't  he  in  a  beautiful  sweat — I  might  say  fever  ; 
and  then  to  see  his  tongue  sticking  out  of  his  mouth 
a  feet,  and  his  sides  sinking  and  opening  like  a 
bellows,  and  his  cheeks  so  fat  he  couldn't  look  cross. 
In  this  fix  I  blazed  at  him,  and  pitch  me  naked  into 
a  briar  patch  if  the  steam  didn't  come  out  of  the 
bullet-hole  ten  foot  in  a  straight  line.  The  fellow, 
I  reckon,  was  made  on  the  high-pressure  system, 
and  the  lead  sort  of  bust  his  biler." 

"  That  column  of  steam  was  rather  curious,  or 
else  the  bear  must  have  been  warm,""  observed  the 
foreigner,  with  a  laugh. 

"  Stranger,  as  you  observe,  that  bar  was  WARM, 
and  the  blowing  off  of  the  steam  showed  it,  and 
also  how  hard  the  varmint  had  been  run.  I  have 
no  doubt  if  he  had  kept  on  two  miles  farther,  his 
insides  would  have  been  stewed ;  and  I  expect  to 
meet  with  a  varmint  yet  of  extra  bottom,  who  will 
run  himself  into  a  skin-full  of  bar's  grease :  it  is 
le  ;  much  onlikelier  things  have  happened." 


T.   B.  THORPE. 


54U 


DOGS  AND   GUNS. 

FROM  THE   SAME. 


A  TIMID  little  man  near  me  inquired  if  the  bear   j 
in  Arkansaw  ever  attacked  the  settlers  in  numbers. 

"  No,"  said  our  hero,  warming  with  the  subject ; 
"  no,  stranger,  for  you  see  it  ain't  the  natur  of  bar 
to  go  in  droves;  but  the  way  they  squander  about 
in  pairs  and  single  ones  is  edifying.     And  then 
the  way  I  hunt  them — the  old  black  rascals  know 
the  crack  of  my  gun  as  well  as  they  know  a  pig's   I 
squealing.    They  grow  thin  in  our  parts, — it  fright-  I 
ens  them  so,  and  they  do  take  the  noise  dreadfully, 
poor  things.     That  gun  of  mine  is  a  perfect  epi 
demic  among  bar:  if  not  watched  closely,  it  will  go   j 
off  as  quick  on  a  warm  scent  as  my  dog  Bowie- 
knife  will :  and   then  that  dog — whew !  why  the 
fellow  thinks  that  the  world  is  full  of  bar,  he  finds 
them  so  easy.     It's  lucky  he  don't  talk  as  well  as 
think  ;  for  with  his  natural  modesty,  if  he  should    ' 
suddenly  learn   how  much   he  is  acknowledged  to 
be  ahead  of  all  other  dogs  in  the  universe,  he  would    | 
be  astonished  to  death  in  two  minutes.     Strangers,   i 
that  dog  knows  a  bar's  way  as?  well  as  a  horse-   J 
jockey  knows  a  woman's :  he  always  barks  at  the   j 
right  time,  bites  at  the  exact  place,  and  whips  with 
out  getting  a  scratch.     I  never  could  tell  whether 
he  was  made  expressly  to  hunt  bar,  or  whether  bar 
was  made  expressly  for  him  to  hunt :  any  way,  I 
believe  they  were  ordained  to  go  together  as  natu 
rally  as  Squire  Jones  says  a  man  and  woman  is, 
when  he  moralizes  in  marrying  a  couple.     In  fact,   i 
Jones  once  said,  said  he,  '  Marriage  according  to   [ 
law  is  a  civil  contract  of  divine  origin  ;  it's  common 
to  all  countries  as  well  as  Arkansaw,  and  people 
take  to  it  as  naturally  as  Jim  Doggett's  Bowie- 
knife  takes  to  bar.' " 

A  FARM  IN  ARKANSAS. 

FROM  THE   SAME. 


JUST  stop  with  me,  stranger,  a  month  or  two,  or 
a  year  if  you  like, — and  you  will  appreciate  my 
place.  I  can  give  you  plenty  to  eat ;  for  beside  hog 
and  hominy,  you  can  have  bar-ham,  and  bar-sau 
sages,  and  a  mattress  of  bar-skins  to  sleep  on,  and 
a  wildcat-skin,  pulled  off  hull,  stuffed  with  corn- 
shucks,  for  a  pillow.  That  bed  would  put  you  to 
sleep  if  you  had  the  rheumatics  in  every  joint  in 
your  body.  I  call  that  ar  bed  a  quietits.  Then 
look  at  my  land — the  government  ain't  got  another 
such  a  piece  to  dispose  of.  Such  timber,  and  such 
bottom  land !  why  you  can't  preserve  any  thing 
natural  you  plant  in  it  unless  you  pick  it  young, 
things  thar  will  grow  out  of  shape  so  quick.  I 
once  planted  in  those  diggins  a  few  potatoes  and 
beets :  they  took  a  fine  start,  and  after  that  an  ox- 
team  couldn't  have  kept  them  from  growing,  j 
About  that  time  I  went  off  to  old  Kentuck  on  bisi-  j 
ness,  and  did  not  hear  from  them  things  in  three  j 
months,  when  I  accidentally  stumbled  on  a  fellow 
who  had  stopped  at  my  place,  with  an  idea  of  buy 
ing  me  out.  "How  did  you  like  things]"  said  I. 
"  Pretty  well !"  said  he  ;  "  the  cabin  is  convenient, 
and  the  timber  land  is  good  ;  but  that  bottom  land 
ain't  worth  the  first  red  cent."  «  Why1?"  said  I.  j 


"'Cause,"  said  he.  "'Cause  what?"  said  I. 
"  'Cause  it's  full  of  cedar  stumps  and  Indian 
mounds,"  said  he,  "and  it  can't  be  cleared!" 
"  Lord  !"  said  I ;  "  them  ar  <  cedar  stumps'  is  beets, 
and  them  ar  <  Indian  mounds'  ar  tater  hills."  As 
I  expected,  the  crop  was  overgrown  and  useless : 
the  sile  is  too  rich,  and  planting  in  Arkansaw  is 
dangerous.  I  had  a  good-sized  sow  killed  in  that 
same  bottom  land.  The  old  thief  stole  an  ear  of 
corn,  and  took  it  down  where  she  slept  at  night  to 
eat.  Well,  she  left  a  grain  or  two  on  the  ground, 
and  lay  down  on  them ;  before  morning  the  corn 
shot  up,  and  the  percussion  killed  her  dead.  I  don't 
plant  any  more:  natur  intended  Arkansaw  for  a 
hunting-ground,  and  I  go  according  to  natur. 


DEATH  OF  THE  BIG  BEAR. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

I  TOLD  my  neighboui's,  that  on  Monday  morning 
— naming  the  day — I  would  start  THAT  BAR,  and 
bring  him  home  with  me,  or  they  might  divide  my 
settlement  among  them,  the  owner  having  disap 
peared.  Well,  stranger,  on  the  morning  previous 
to  the  great  day  of  my  hunting  expedition,  I  went 
into  the  woods  near  my  house,  taking  my  gun  s>nd 
Bowie-knife  along,  just  from  habit,  and  there  sit 
ting  down  also  from  habit,  what  should  I  see,  get 
ting  over  my  fence,  but  the  bar!  Yes,  the  old 
varmint  was  within  a  hundred  yards  of  me,  and 
the  way  he  walked  over  that  fence — stranger,  he 
loomed  up  like  a  black  mist,  he  seemed  so  laige, 
and  he  walked  right  towards  me.  I  raised  myself, 
took  deliberate  aim,  and  fired.  Instantly  the  var 
mint  wheeled,  gave  a  yell,  and  walked  through  the 
fence  like  a  falling  tree  would  through  a  cobweb. 
I  started  after,  but  was  tripped  up  by  my  inexpres 
sibles,  which  either  from  habit,  or  the  excitement 
of  the  moment,  were  about  my  heels ;  and  before 
I  had  really  gathered  myself  up,  I  heard  the  old 
varmint  groaning  in  a  thicket  near  by,  like  a  thou 
sand  sinners,  and  by  the  time  I  reached  him  he 
was  a  corpse.  Stranger,  it  took  five  niggers  and 
myself  to  put  that  carcase  on  a  irmle's  back,  and 
old  long-ears  waddled  under  his  load,  as  if  he  was 
foundered  in  every  leg  of  his  body  ;  and  with  a 
common  whopper  of  a  bar,  he  would  have  trotted 
oft',  and  enjoyed  himself.  'Twould  astonish  you 
to  know  how  big  he  was :  I  made  a  bed-spread  of 
his  skin,  and  the  way  it  used  to  cover  my  bar-mat 
tress,  and  leave  several  feet  on  each  side  to  tuck 
up,  would  have  delighted  you.  It  was  in  fact  a 
creation  bar,  and  if  it  had  lived  in  Samson's  time, 
and  had  met  him,  in  a  fair  fight,  it  would  have 
licked  him  in  the  twinkling  of  a  dice-box.  But, 
stranger,  I  never  liked  the  way  I  hunted  him,  and 
missed  him.  There  is  something  curious  about  it, 
I  could  never  understand, — and  I  never  was  satis 
fied  at  his  giving  in  so  easy  at  last.  Prehaps,  he 
had  heard  of  my  preparations  to  hunt  him  the  next 
day,  so  he  just  come  in,  like  Capt.  Scott's  coon,  to 
save  his  wind  to  grunt  with  in  dying ;  but  that 
ain't  likely.  My  private  opinion  is,  that  that  bar 
was  an  unhuntable  bar,  and  died  when  his  time  come 


E.   P.  WHIPPLE, 


[Born  1819.] 


THE  youngest  and  last  of  the  authors  I  shall 
notice  in  this  volume  is  Mr.  E.  P.  WHIPPLE, 
who  has  exhibited  remarkable  powers,  both 
discriminating  and  comprehensive,  in  many 
critical  essays  which  have  appeared  in  the  re 
views  and  magazines,  and  gives  promise  of  oc 
cupying  a  higher  rank  than  has  been  attained 
by  any  other  American  in  this  department.  Mr. 
Whipple  was  born  in  Gloucester,  Massachu 
setts,  on  the  eighth  of  March,  1819.  When  he 
was  four  years  of  age  his  family  removed  to 
Salem,  where  he  attended  various  schools  un 
til  he  was  fifteen,  when  he  entered  The  Bank 
of  General  Interest  in  that  city  as  a  clerk.  In 
1837,  being  then  in  his  eighteenth  year,  he 
went  to  Boston,  where  he  has  ever  since  re 
sided,  occupied  mainly  with  commercial  pur 
suits. 

Although  from  the  age  of  fourteen  Mr. 
Whipple  has  been  a  writer  for  the  press,  occa 
sionally  producing  articles  which  evinced  an 
extraordinary  fulness  of  information,  maturity 
of  judgment  and  command  of  language,  it  was 
not  until  1843,  when  he  published  in  the  Bos 
ton  Miscellany  a  paper  on  Macaulay,  rivalling 
in  analysis  and  reflection  and  richness  of  dic 
tion  the  best  productions  of  tbat  brilliant  es 
sayist,  that  he  became  individually  known  as 
a  writer  to  any  but  his  few  associates  and  con 
fidants.  He  has  since  published  in  the  North 
American  Review  articles  on  the  Puritans,  the 
American  Poets,  Daniel  Webster  as  an  Author, 
the  Old  English  Dramatists,  the  British  Cri 
tics,  South's  Sermons,  Byron,  Wordsworth, 
Talfourd,  James  the  Novelist,  Sydney  Smith, 
and  other  subjects ;  in  the  American  Review 
on  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  English  Poets  of 
the  Nineteenth  Century,  and  Coleridge  as  a 
Philosophical  Critic;  and  in  other  periodicals 
ewsays  and  reviewals  sufficient  to  form  several 
volumes,  some  of  the  most  striking  of  which 
are  on  Words,  Egotism  in  Greatand  Little  Men, 
the  Ludicrous  Side  of  Life,  and  the  Literature 
of  the  Present  Day. 

Criticism  in  this  age  has  been  made  an  art, 
and  many  of  the  best  writers  of  this  and  other 
nations  bave  chiefly  employed  themselves  in 
examining  into  and  discovering  the  worth  of 


what  has  previously  been  accomplished.  There 
is  danger  that  this  fascinating  pursuit  will  be 
made  too  exclusive,  and  leave  us  without  such 
imbodied  evidences  of  the  power  and  greatness 
of  our  own  generation  as  can  be  produced  only 
by  a  loving  and  long  continued  devotion  to  a 
single  object.  It  cannot  be  denied  however  that 
among  its  fruits  is  much  of  the  most  agreea 
ble  and  some  of  the  most  brilliant  literature  in 
our  language. 

The  scope  of  Mr.  Whipple's  studies  is 
in  some  degree  indicated  by  the  titles  of  his 
articles.  His  favourite  authors  appear  to  be 
those  of  the  golden  age  of  English  literature. 
His  style  is  sensuous,  flowing,  and  idiomatic, 
abounding  in  unforced  antitheses,  apt  illustra 
tions,  and  natural  graces.  Though  he  is  no 
copyist,  some  of  his  articles  suggest  a  fusion 
of  the  strength  of  the  Areopagitica  with  the 
ease  and  liveliness  of  The  Spectator.  The 
characteristics  of  his  criticism  are  its  genu 
ine  insight  and  catholic  liberality.  He  enters 
deeply  into  the  spirit  of  the  work  he  examines, 
is  peculiarly  sensitive  to  its  beauties  and  ex 
cellencies,  and  writes  of  them  with  keen  dis 
crimination,  cheerful  confidence,  and  unhesi 
tating  freedom.  His  apprehension  is  both 
quick  and  profound,  and  none  of  our  critics  is 
more  successful  in  illustrating  truth  or  produc 
ing  a  fair  and  distinct  impression  of  an  author. 

Since  the  above  was  written,  Mr.  Whipple 
has  been  prominently  before  the  public  as  a 
critic  and  lecturer,  in  the  leading  journals,  and 
at  the  chief  halls  in  the  country.  He  has  pub 
lished,  Lectures  on  Subjects  connected  with 
Literature  and  Life ;  Essays  and  Reviews,  2 
vols. ;  Washington  and  the  Revolution  ;  Char- 
acter  and  Characteristic  Men  ;  and  the  Litera 
ture  of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth.  His  lectures  are 
philosophical  in  their  texture,  marked  by  nice 
discrimination,  occasionally  pushing  a  favorite 
theory  to  the  verge  of  paradox  ;  and  when  the 
reasoning  faculties  of  his  audience  are  ex 
hausted,  relieving  the  discussion  by  frequent 
picked  anecdotes,  and  pointed  thrusts  of  wit 
and  satire.  His  friends  and  admirers  had  hoped 
with  his  abilities,  for  some  work  of  permanent 
value  from  his  pen. 


E.    P.    WH1PPLE. 


551 


THE  POWER  OF  WORDS. 

FROM   AN    ESSAY    ON   WORDS. 

WORDS  are  most  effective  when  arranged  in  that 
order  which  is  called  style.  The  great  secret  of  a 
good  style,  we  are  told,  is  to  have  proper  words  in 
proper  places.  To  marshal  one's  verbal  battalions 
in  such  order  that  they  may  bear  at  once  upon  all 
quarters  of  a  subject,  is  certainly  a  great  art.  This 
is  done  in  different  way  s.  Swift,  Temple,  Addison, 
Hume,  Gibbon,  Johnson,  Burke,  are  all  great  gene 
rals  in  the  discipline  of  their  verbal  armies,  and  the 
conduct  of  their  paper  wars.  Each  has  a  system  of 
tactics  of  his  own,  and  excels  in  the  use  of  some  par 
ticular  weapon.  The  tread  of  Johnson's  style  is 
heavy  and  sonorous,  resembling  that  of  an  elephant 
or  a  mail-clad  warrior.  He  is  fond  of  levelling  an 
obstacle  by  a  polysyllabic  battering-ram.  Burke's 
words  are  continually  practising  the  broad-sword 
exercise,  and  sweeping  down  adversaries  with  every 
stroke.  Arbuthnot "  plays  his  weapon  like  a  tongue 
of  flame."  Addison  draws  up  his  light  infantry  in 
orderly  array,  and  marches  through  sentence  after 
sentence,  without  having  his  ranks  disordered  or  his 
line  broken.  Luther  is  different.  His  words  are 
"  half  battle  ;"  "  his  smiting  idiomatic  phrases  seem 
to  cleave  into  the  very  secret  of  the  matter."  Gib 
bon's  legions  are  heavily  armed,  and  march  with  pre 
cision  and  dignity  to  the  music  of  their  own  tramp. 
They  are  splendidly  equipped,  but  a  nice  eye  can  dis 
cern  a  little  rust  beneath  their  fine  apparel,  and  there 
are  suttlers  in  his  camp  who  lie,  cog,  and  talk  gross 
obscenity.  Macaulay,  brisk,  lively,  keen  and  ener 
getic,  runs  his  thoughts  rapidly  through  his  sen 
tence,  and  kicks  out  of  the  way  every  word  which 
obstructs  his  passage.  He  reins  in  his  steed  only 
when  he  has  reached  his  goal,  and  then  does  it  with 
such  celerity  that  he  is  nearly  thrown  backwards  by 
the  suddenness  of  his  stoppage.  Giffbrd's  words  are 
moss-troopers,  that  waylay  innocent  travellers  and 
murder  them  for  hire.  Jeffrey  is  a  fine  "lance," 
with  a  sort  of  Arab  swiftness  in  his  movement,  and 
runs  an  iron-clad  horseman  through  the  eye  before 
he  has  had  time  to  close  his  helmet.  John  Wil 
son's  camp  is  a  disorganized  mass,  who  might  do  : 
effectual  service  under  better  discipline,  but  who  un-  ! 
der  his  lead  are  suffered  to  carry  on  a  rambling  and  j 
predatory  warfare,  and  disgrace  their  general  by  fla-  I 
gitious  excesses.  Sometimes  they  steal,  sometimes  j 
swear,  sometimes  drink  and  sometimes  pray.  Swift's 
words  are  porcupine's  quills,  which  he  throws  with  j 
unerring  aim  at  whoever  approaches  his  lair.  All 
of  Ebenezer  Elliot's  words  are  gifted  with  huge  fists,  ! 
to  pummel  and  bruise.  Chatham  and  Mirabeau 
throw  hot  shot  into  their  opponents'  magazines. 
Talfourd's  forces  are  orderly  and  disciplined,  and 
march  to  the  music  of  the  Dorian  flute ;  those  of 
Keats  keep  time  to  the  tones  of  the  pipe  of  Phoe 
bus;  and  the  hard,  harsh-featured  battalions  of  Ma- 
ginn,  are  always  preceded  by  a  brass  band.  Hal- 
lam's  word-infantry  can  do  much  execution,  when 
they  are  not  in  each  other's  way.  Pope's  phrases 
are  either  daggers  or  rapiers.  Willis's  words  are 
often  tipsy  with  the  champaign  of  the  fancy,  but 
even  when  they  reel  and  stagger  they  keep  the  line 


of  grace  and  beauty,  and  though  scattered  at  first 
by  a  fierce  onset  from  graver  cohorts,  soon  reunite 
without  wound  or  loss.  John  Neal's  forces  are 
multitudinous  and  fire  briskly  at  every  thing.  They 
occupy  all  the  provinces  of  letters,  and  are  nearly 
useless  from  being  spread  over  too  much  ground. 
Everett's  weapons  are  ever  kept  in  good  order,  and 
shine  well  in  the  sun,  but  they  are  little  calculated 
for  warfare,  and  rarely  kill  when  they  strike.  Web 
ster's  words  are  thunder-bolts,  which  sometimes 
miss  the  Titans  at  whom  they  are  hurled,  but  al 
ways  leave  enduring  marks  when  they  strike. 
Hazlitt's  verbal  army  is  sometimes  drunk  and  sur 
ly,  sometimes  foaming  with  passion,  sometimes  cool 
and  malignant,  but  drunk  or  sober  are  ever  danger 
ous  to  cope  with.  Some  of  Tom  Moore's  words 
are  shining  dirt,  which  he  flings  with  excellent  aim. 
This  list  might  be  indefinitely  extended,  and  ar 
ranged  with  more  regard  to  merit  and  chronology. 
My  own  words,  in  this  connection,  might  be  com 
pared  to  ragged,  undisciplined  militia,  which  could 
be  easily  rooted  by  a  charge  of  horse,  and  which 
are  apt  to  fire  into  each  other's  faces. 


THE  POETRY  OF  HOLMES. 

FROM  A  REVIEWAL  OF  THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  AMERICA. 

To  write  good  comic  verse  is  a  different  thing 
from  writing  good  comic  poetry.  A  jest  or  a  sharp 
saying  may  be  easily  made  to  rhyme  ;  but  to  blend 
ludicrous  ideas  with  fancy  and  imagination,  and  dis 
play  in  their  conception  and  expression  the  same 
poetic  qualities  usually  exercised  in  serious  compo 
sition,  is  a  rare  distinction.  Among  American 
poets,  we  know  of  none  who  excels  Holmes  in  this 
difficult  branch  of  the  art.  Many  of  his  pleasant 
lyrics  seem  not  so  much  the  offspring  of  wit,  as  of 
fancy  and  sentiment  turned  in  a  humorous  direc 
tion.  His  manner  of  satirizing  the  foibles,  follies, 
vanities,  and  affectations  of  conventional  life  is  al 
together  peculiar  and  original.  He  looks  at  folly 
and  pretension  from  the  highest  pinnacle  of  scorn. 
They  never  provoke  his  indignation,  for  to  him 
they  are  too  mean  to  justify  anger,  and  hardly  wor 
thy  of  petulance.  His  light,  glancing  irony  and 
fleering  sarcasm  are  the  more  effective,  from  the 
impertinence  of  his  benevolent  sympathies.  He 
wonders,  hopes,  wishes,  titters,  and  cries  with  his 
victims.  He  practises  on  them  the  legerdemain  of 
contempt.  He  kills  with  a  sly  stab,  and  proceeds 
on  his  way  as  if  «  nothing  in  particular"  had  hap 
pened.  He  picks  his  teeth  with  cool  unconcern, 
while  looking  down  on  the  captives  of  his  wit,  as 
if  their  destruction  conferred  no  honour  upon  him 
self,  and  was  unimportant  to  the  rest  of  mankind. 
He  makes  them  ridicule  themselves,  by  giving  a 
voice  to  their  motions  and  manners.  He  translates 
the  conceited  smirk  of  the  coxcomb  into  felicitous 
words.  The  vacant  look  and  trite  talk  of  the  bore 
he  links  with  subtle  analogies.  He  justifies  the 
egotist  unto  himself  by  a  series  of  mocking  so 
phisms.  He  expresses  the  voiceless  folly  and  af 
fectation  of  the  ignorant  and  brainless  by  cunninglv 


552 


E.     P.    WHIPPLE. 


contrived  phrases  and  apt  imagery.  He  idealizes 
nonsense,  pertness,  and  aspiring  dulness.  The 
movement  of  his  wit  is  so  swift,  that  its  presence 
is  known  only  when  it  strikes.  He  will  sometimes, 
as  it  were,  blind  the  eyes  of  his  victims  with  dia 
mond  dust,  and  then  pelt  them  pitilessly  with  scoffing 
compliments.  He  passes  from  the  sharp,  stinging 
gibe  to  the  most  grotesque  exaggerations  of  drolle 
ry,  with  a  bewildering  rapidity. 

Holmes  is  also  a  poet  of  sentiment  and  passion. 
«  Old  Ironsides,"  «  The  Steamboat,"  "  Qui  Vive," 
and  numerous  passages  of  «  Poetry,"  display  a  ly 
rical  fire  and  inspiration  which  should  not  be  al 
lowed  to  decay  for  want  of  care  and  fuel.  In  those 
poems  of  fancy  and  sentiment,  where  the  exceed 
ing  richness  and  softness  of  his  diction  seem  trem 
bling  on  the  verge  of  meretricious  ornament,  he 
is  preserved  from  slipping  into  Delia  Cruscanism 
by  the  manly  energy  of  his  nature  and  his  keen  per 
ception  of  the  ridiculous.  Those  who  know  him 
only  as  a  comic  lyrist,  as  the  libellous  laureat  of 
chirping  folly  and  presumptuous  egotism,  would  be 
surprised  at  the  clear  sweetness  arid  skylark  thrill 
of  his  serious  and  sentimental  compositions. 


THE  PURITANS. 

FROM    A    REVIEWAL.   OF    NEAL'S    HISTORY. 

THE  Puritans — there  is  a  charm  in  that  word 
which  will  never  be  lost  on  a  New  England  ear. 
It  is  closely  associated  with  all  that  is  great  in  New  j 
England  history.  It  is  hallowed  by  a  thousand  | 
memories  of  obstacles  overthrown,  of  dangers  nobly  i 
braved,  of  sufferings  unshrinkingly  borne,  in  the  j 
service  of  freedom  and  religion.  It  kindles  at  once  j 
the  pride  of  ancestry,  and  inspires  the  deepest  feel-  | 
ings  of  national  veneration.  It  points  to  examples 
of  valour  in  all  its  modes  of  manifestation,-  in  the 
hall  of  debate,  on  the  field  of  battle,  before  the  tri 
bunal  of  power,  at  the  martyr's  stake.  It  is  a  name 
which  will  never  die  out  of  New  England  hearts. 
Wherever  virtue  resists  temptation,  wherever  men 
meet  death  for  religion's  sake,  wherever  the  gilded 
baseness  of  the  world  stands  abashed  before  con 
scientious  principle,  there  will  be  the  spirit  of  the 
Puritans.  They  have  left  deep  and  broad  marks 
of  their  influence  on  human  society.  Their  chil 
dren,  in  all  times,  will  rise  up  and  call  them  blessed. 
A  thousand  witnesses  of  their  courage,  their  indus 
try,  their  sagacity,  their  invincible  perseverance  in 
well-doing,  their  love  of  free  institutions,  their  re 
spect  for  justice,  their  hatred  of  wrong,  are  all 
around  us,  and  bear  grateful  evidence  daily  to  their 
memory.  We  cannot  forget  them,  even  if  we  had 
sufficient  baseness  to  wish  it.  Every  spot  of  New 
England  earth  has  a  story  to  tell  of  them;  every 
cherished  institution  of  New  England  society  bears 
the  print  of  their  minds.  The  strongest  element 
of  New  England  character  has  been  transmitted 
with  their  blood.  So  intense  is  our  sense  of  affilia 
tion  with  their  nature,  that  we  speak  of  them  uni-  i 


versally  as  our  "  fathers."  And  though  their  fame 
everywhere  else  were  weighed  down  with  calumny 
and  hatred,  though  the  principles  for  which  they 
contended,  and  the  noble  deeds  they  performed, 
should  become  the  scoff  of  sycophants  and  oppres 
sors,  and  be  blackened  by  the  smooth  falsehoods  of 
the  selfish  and  the  cold,  there  never  will  be  want 
ing  hearts  in  New  England  to  kindle  at  their  vir 
tues,  nor  tongues  and  pens  to  vindicate  their  name. 


NEED  OF  A  NATIONAL  LITERATURE. 

FROM    AN  ARTICLE   ON   THE   AMERICAN   POETS. 

I?f  order  that  America  may  take  its  due  rank  in 
the  commonwealth  of  nations,  a  literature  is  needed 
which  shall  be  the  exponent  of  its  higher  life.  We 
live  in  times  of  turbulence  and  change.  There  is 
a  general  dissatisfaction;  manifesting  itself  often  in 
rude  contests  and  ruder  speech,  with  the  gulf  which 
separates  principles  from  actions.  Men  are  strug 
gling  to  realize  dim  ideals  of  right  and  truth,  and 
each  failure  adds  to  the  desperate  earnestness  of 
their  efforts.  Beneath  all  the  shrewdness  and  self 
ishness  of  the  American  character,  there  is  a  smoul 
dering  enthusiasm  which  flames  out  at  the  first  touch 
of  fire, — sometimes  at  the  hot  and  hasty  words  of 
party, and  sometimes  at  the  bidding  of  great  thoughts 
and  unselfish  principles.  The  heart  of  the  nation 
is  easily  stirred  to  its  depths ;  hut  those  who  rouse 
its  fiery  impulses  into  action  are  often  men  com 
pounded  of  ignorance  and  wickedness,  arid  wholly 
unfitted  to  guide  the  passions  which  they  are  able 
to  excite.  There  is  no  country  in  the  world  which 
has  nobler  ideas  imbodied  in  more  worthless  shapes. 
All  our  factions,  fanaticisms,  reforms,  parties,  creeds, 
ridiculous  or  dangerous  though  they  often  appear, 
are  founded  on  some  aspiration  or  reality  which 
deserves  a  better  form. and  expression.  There  is  a 
mighty  power  in  great  speech.  If  the  sources  of 
what  we  call  our  fooleries  and  faults  were  rightly 
addressed,  they  would  echo  more  majestic  and 
kindling  truths.  We  want  a  poetry  which  shall 
speak  in  clear,  loud  tones  to  the  people;  a  poetry 
which  shall  make  us  more  in  love  with  our  native 
land,  by  converting  its  ennobling  scenery  into  the 
images  of  lofty  thoughts;  which  shall  give  visible 
forjn  and  life  to  the  abstract  ideas  of  our  written 
constitutions ;  which  shall  confer  upon  virtue  all 
the  strength  of  principle  and  all  the  energy  of  pas 
sion  ;  which  shall  disentangle  freedom  from  cant 
and  senseless  hyperbole,  and  render  it  a  thing  of 
such  loveliness  and  grandeur  as  to  justify  all  self- 
sacrifice  ;  which  shall  make  us  love  man  by  the 
new  consecrations  it  sheds  on  his  life  and  destiny ; 
which  shall  force  through  the  thin  partitions  of  con 
ventionalism  and  expediency  ;  vindicate  the  majesty 
of  reason ;  give  new  power  to  the  voice  of  con 
science,  and  new  vitality  to  human  affection  ;  soften 
and  elevate  passion ;  guide  enthusiasm  in  a  right 
direction ;  and  speak  out  in  the  high  language  of 
men  to  a  nation  of  men. 


FROM  JW JOfBROTTPE  WHEW? 


B7A-B.WALTER 


SUPPLEMENT. 

1870. 


Entered,  acc'irding  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1870,  by 

PORTER  &  COAXES, 
in  Hie  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


HEARS  *  DUSENRRRY,  STRRKOTVPKRS.  SHERMAN  *  CO.,  PRI,\TKR8. 


SUPPLEMENT 
TO   THE  PRECEDING  SKETCH. 


SINCE  the  preceding  sketch  of  American  Literature  was  written  in  1846, 
nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century  has  passed  by.  The  author,  RUFUS  WILMOT 
GRISWOLD,  died  in  New  York  in  1857,  aged  forty-two  years.  After  travel 
ling  extensively  in  his  own  country  and  Europe,  he  studied  theology 
and  became  a  preacher  in  the  Baptist  denomination.  He  was  soon  favor 
ably  known  as  interested  in  literature,  having  connected  himself  editorially 
with  the  New  Yorker,  the  Brother  Jonathan,  the  New  World,  and  other 
journals.  In  1842,  he  was  the  editor  of  Graham '«  Magazine.  In  1852,  he 
projected,  and  conducted  till  1852,  the  International  Monthly  Magazine. 
Besides  these  services  of  encouragement  to  American  literature,  six  or 
eight  works  on  history  and  biography  partly  written  by  himself,  a  novel, 
"seven  discourses  on  historical  and  philosophical  subjects, and  contributions 
to  magazines  and  newspapers  sufficient  to  fill  a  dozen  octavo  volumes,"  he 
produced  a  numerous  series  of  books,  most  of  them  connected  prominently 
and  very  usefully  with  American  authorship.  We  condense  a  list  found  in 
Allibone's  valuable  "  Dictionary  of  Authors,"  namely: — 1.  Poems,  1841. 
—2.  Sermons,  1841.— 3.  The  Biographical  Annual  for  1842.— 4.  Curiosi 
ties  of  American  Literature.  (Published  as  an  appendix  to  an  American 
edition  of  D'Israeli's  Curiosities  of  Literature). — 5.  The  Poets  and  Poetry 
of  America,  1842.  A  highly  commended  work,  which  has  passed  through 
sixteen  editions.. — 6.  The  Prose  Writers  of  America,  1846.  Of  the  last  two 
named  works,  Duyckinck  says,  "  they  were  the  first  comprehensive  illustra 
tions  of  the  literature  of  the  country r  and  have  exerted  an  important 
influence  through  their  criticisms,  on  the  reputation  of  the  numerous  authors 
included,  in  their  reception  at  home  and  abroad."  It  was  also  warmly  com 
mended  by  Prescott,  Bryant,  Tuckerman,  Poe,  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine, 
and  Horace  Binney  Wallace ;  the  last  named  of  whom,  in  his  Literary  Criti 
cisms,  thus  said  : — "  He  has  done  a  useful  work,  and  he  has  done  it  well. 
The  book  now  before  us  is  more  than  respectable :  it  is  executed  ably  and  in 

557 


558  SUPPLEMENT. 


many  parts  brilliantly.  In  some  respects  it  is  an  extraordinary  work ;  such 
as  few  men  in  America  perhaps,  besides  its  author,  could  have  produced,  and 
he  only  after  years  of  sedulous  investigation,  and  under  many  advantages  of 
circumstance  or  accident.  He  has  shown  himself  to  be  of  Cicero's  mind : 
'  Mihi  quidem  nulli  satis  eruditi  videntur  quibus  nostra  ignota  sunt.'  The  dis 
tribution  of  the  various  orders  into  their  classes,  and  the  selection  of  repre 
sentatives  of  each  class  or  type,  exhibit  much  skill.  Many  passages  present 
fine  specimens  of  acute,  original,  and  just  criticism.  We  diifer  from  Mr. 
Griswold  sometimes,  but  never  without  feeling  that  we  owe  it  to  the  public  in 
all  cases  to  give  a  reason  why  we  do  not  assent  to  the  conclusions  of  so  can 
did  and  discriminating  a  judge." — 7.  The  Female  Poets  of  America,  1848. 
— 8.  The  Prose  Works  of  John  Milton,  with  a  Critical  Memoir,  1845. — 9. 
Washington  and  the  Generals  of  the  American  Revolution,  1847,  (edited 
and  partly  written  by  Griswold). — 10.  Napoleon  and  the  Marshals  of  the 
Empire,  1847,  (in  conjunction  with  H.  B.  Wallace.) — 11.  Scenes  in  the 
Life  of  the  Saviour,  by  Poets  and  Painters  (edited). — 12.  The  Sacred  Poets 
of  England  and  America,  (edited)  1849.— 13.  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of 
England  in  the  Nineteenth  Century. — 14.  Memoir  of  Edgar  A.  Poe,  in  an 
edition  of  his  works,  1856. — 15.  The  Republican  Court;  or,  American 
Society  in  the  days  of  Washington,  with  twenty-one  portraits  of  distin 
guished  women. 

It  remains  for  us,  following  the  order  in  which  our  author  has  reviewed 
the  departments  of  American  literature,  to  give  a  sketch  of  the  losses 
by  death,  and  of  the  new  names  which  have  filled  and  are  filling  their 
places  in  our  literary  ranks. 

Of  Theological  and  Religious  writers  who  were  named  as  Griswold's 
cotemporaries,  Archibald,  James  Waddel,  and  Joseph  Addison  Alexander ; 
George  Bush,  John  Henry  Hopkins,  Samuel  Farmer  Jarvis,  Andrews 
Norton,  Edward  Robinson,  Moses  Stuart,  Leonard  Woods,  and  James 
Marsh  are  no  longer  among  the  living.  Other  distinguished  names  of  those 
who  have  passed  away,  may  now  be  added,  as  Lyman  Beecher,  some  of 
whose  sermons  and  addresses  are'of  extraordinary  ability  and  eloquence; 
John  McClintock,  whose  name,  made  prominent  heretofore  by  his  useful 
religious  and  philological  writings,  is  now  likely  to  be  long  regarded 
with  high  esteem  and  gratitude  for  his  labors  in  that  excellent  work, 
McClintock  and  Strong's  Cyclopaedia  of  Biblical  Literature,  a  great  library 
in  a  compact  form ;  Theodore  Parker,  whose  extraordinary  genius,  learning, 


SUPPLEMENT.  559 


and  destructive  free-thinking,  made  him  the  most  eminent  of  American 
rationalists,  so-called ;  George  W.  Bethune,  shown  to  be  of  rare  scholarship, 
eloquence,  and  vigor  of  thought,  by  his  various  discourses.  Among  his 
larger  works,  his  "Expository  Lectures  on  the  Heidelberg  Catechism/' 
have  gained  him,  perhaps,  a  permanent  distinction  as  a  doctrinal  writer. — 
Robert  Baird,"  the  international  preacher,"  whose  earnest  writings,  as  well 
as  other  labors,  have  been  widely  spread  over  Europe  and  America  ;  George 
W.  Burnap,  Lyman  H.  Atwater,  Prof.  B.  B.  Edwards,  Samuel  H.  Turner, 
Hubbard  Winslow,  Nathaniel  West,  Hiram  Mattison, —  on  all  whose 
names,  of  good  esteem  in  literature,  it  would  be  worth  while  to  linger  longer 
than  is  here  allowed.  There  remain  to  us  Albert  Barnes,  the  most  popular 
of  modern  commentators ;  George  P.  Fisher,  whose  able  essays  on  the  Su 
pernatural  Origin  of  Christianity  stand  well  in  scholarship  and  philosophy; 
William  G.  T.  Shedd,  a  writer  of  valuable  essays  and  treatises,  among 
which  his  History  of  Christian  Doctrine  is  in  deservedly  high  reputation ; 
Philip  Schaif,  who  has  eminently  fulfilled  the  prediction  of  his  teacher, 
Neander,  in  the  fame  of  profound  learning,  evinced  in  many  important 
works,  among  which  his  great  History  of  the  Christian  Church  deserves 
especial  mention  ;  Andrew  P.  Peabody,  whose  beautiful,  impressive,  and 
vigorous  style  worthily  clothes  earnest,  clear,  and  abundant  thought;  James 
Walker,  whose  writings,  though  few  of  them  have  yet  come  into  print,  are 
widely  respected  in  appreciation  of  the  lucid,  impressive,  simple  language 
of  deeply  penetrating  thought,  and,  as  it  were,  oracular  wisdom ;  Henry 
Ward  Beecher,  a  wonderfully  fruitful  worker  and  writer,  whose  sermons, 
now  for  several  years  past  published  every  week,  and  read  by  thousands,  to 
say  nothing  of  his  essays,  lectures,  and  other  works,  make  his  genius  too 
well  knowrn  to  be  dwelt  upon  here ;  Henry  A.  Boardman,  a  writer  of  many 
eloquent,  vigorous,  clear,  and  interesting  discourses  and  books;  Horace 
Bu-shnell,  whose  productions  have  commanded  remarkable  attention  for 
power,  originality,  ingenuity,  and  masterly  style;  William  R.  Alger,  the 
chief  of  whose  learned  works,  a  "  Critical  History  of  the  Doctrine  of  a  Fu 
ture  Life,"  is  well  pronounced  "a  monument  of  learned  industry";  besides 
others,  whose  literary  eminence  calls  for  more  especial  mention  than 
our  space  allows ;  as,  Charles  Hodge,  Joseph  P.  Thompson,  James  Free 
man  Clarke,  Gardiner  Spring,  Austin  Phelps,  Howard  Malcom,  Richard  S. 
Storrs,  Cyrus  A.  Bartol,  Edmund  H.  Sears,  Robert  J.  Breckenridge, 


p 
SUPPLEMENT. 


Frederick   Hedge,  Leonard  Bacon,  Edwards  A.  Park,  Stephen  H.  Tyng,* 
B.  F.  Crocker. 

Of  all  the  eminent  Historians  named  in  the  preceding  sketch,  but  one  re 
mains  alive — George  Bancroft.  Prescott  added  his  "  Conquest  of  Peru," 
"  Philip  the  Second/7  "  Charles  the  Fifth,"  and  "  Biographical  and  Critical 
Miscellanies";  Sparks  his  "Correspondence  of  the  American  Revolution  ": 
Cooper,  Wheaton,  and  Irving,  wrote  no  more  histories  before  their  lamented 
departure* — Other  historical  writers  who  have  passed  away,  having  come 
into  grateful  public  notice  within  recent  years,  are  Richard  Hildreth,  who 
wrote  an  elaborate  History  of  the  United  States,  in  six  volumes,  admir 
ably  free  from  irrelevant  matter,  being  clearly,  honestly,  and  usefully 
told  ;  George  Tucker,  author  of  an  able  Political  History  of  the  United 
States.  Thomas  H.  Ben  ton  industriously  wrought  noble  records  of  Ameri 
can  Constitutional  History;  Richard  Rush  left  some  valuable  miscellaneous 
contributions  to  historical  and  diplomatic  literature.  Samuel  M.  Sch mucker, 
numerous  works  enjoying  much  popular  favor.  Dr.  John  W.  Francis,  in 
his  "Old  New  York,"  and  other  pleasing  essays  in  the  interest  of  American 
history  and  literature,  justified  the  high  esteem  in  which  he  was  regarded 
as  a  man  of  letters.  Amos  Dean  has  left  a  voluminous  "  History  of  Civili 
zation,"  now  in  process  of  publication,  the  fruit  of  long  industry,  and 
believed  to  be  a  work  of  much  merit  and  usefulness.  David  O.  Allen  con 
tributed  "  India,  Ancient  and  Modern."  Harvey  Newcomb  wrote  one 
hundred  and  five  volumes,  of  which  several  are  historical,  his  "Cyclopedia 
of  Missions"  being  especially  valuable.  Samuel  G.  Goodrich,  the  popular 
"author  and  editor  of  about  one  hundred  and  seventy  volumes — one  hun- 


*  It  is  important  to  add  also  some  mention  of  writers  on  Morals,  or  subjects  connected  with  the 
second  commandment,  and  the  list  would  properly  include  a  great  number  of  writers  on  political,  so 
cial,  and  educational  reform.  We  may  here  name  Joseph  Alden,  Leonard  Bacon,  Henry  B.  Bascom, 
J.  Bascom,  H.  W.  Bellows,  Francis  Bowen,  Elihu  Burritt,  Henry  Ward  Beecher,  William  Ellery 
Channing,  J.  T.  Chauiplin,  Caroline  H.  Dall,  Orville  Dewey,  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  R.  G.  Hazard, 
J.  G.  Holland,  Mark  Hopkins,  Francis  Lieber,  Margaret  Fuller  Ossoli,  Thomas  C.  Upham,  James 
Walker,  Francis  Wayland.  Hubbard  Winslow.  Valuable  writers  in  the  cause  of  Education  have  been 
Horace  Mann,  some  of  whose  remarkable  writings  deserve  a  permanent  place  in  literature;  Warren 
Burton,  J.  S.  Hart,  Stephen  Olin,  J.  P.  Wickersham,  and  many  others. 

To  this  mention  of  Ethics  we  may  append  an  allusion  to  American  Metaphysics,  if  only  for  the 
sake  of  naming  Noah  Porter's  great  treatise  on  the  "Human  Intellect,"  which  is  an  honor  to  the 
country.  Haven,  Wayland,  and  Upham  have  written  well  concerning  Mental  Philosophy.  Logic 
also  has  found  able  expositors  in  Francis  Bowen,  Charles  C.  Everett,  H.  N.  Day,  and,  if  we  may  now 
proudly  claim  him  as  made  over  to  America,  James  MoCosh. 


SUPPLEMENT.  501 


dred  and  sixteen  bearing  the  name  of  Peter  Parley,"  wrote  more  than  twenty 
historical  books. — Among  the  living  there  is  at  least  one  great  historian, 
namely,  John  Lothrop  Motley,  who,  in  Everett's  esteem,  is  placed  "  by  the 
side  of  oar  great  American  historical  trio — Bancroft,  Irving  and  Prescott." 
The  latter,  whose  own  historic  field  Motley's  path  crossed,  bore  his  distin 
guished  "testimony  to  the  extent  of  Motley's  researches,  and  the  accuracy 
with  which  he  had  given  the  results  of  them  to  the  public."  His  Rise  of 
the  Dutch  Republic,  and  History  of  the  United  Netherlands,  came  before 
the  public  view  like  a  fair  cosmos  all  at  once  produced  out  of  a  stupendous 
labyrinth  of  rude  and  chaotic  material,  as  if  a  tangled  forest  of  records  were, 
through  masterly  industry,  judgment,  and  love,  laid  out  into  a  rich  garden 
of  history  in  charming  order  under  the  sun,  so  that  the  general  reader  may 
run  or  linger  with  delight :  and  explorers  the  most  thoroughly  conversant 
with  Motley's  chosen  field,  continually  admire  fruits  of  historic  erudition 
undiscovered  before. — John  G.  Palfrey  has  gratefully  (whatever  we  may 
feel  on  a  few  minor  points,)  revived  "  the  image  of  the  eminent  virtue  of 
New  England  "  in  one  of  the  most  important  and  extensive  of  his  valuable 
works,  "  The  History  of  New  England/'  written  with  great  devotion  and 
painstaking  in  a  style  of  considerable  vigor  and  vivacity.  Francis  Park- 
man's  highly  interesting,  attractive,  and  valuable  works  on  early  American 
history  in  its  connection  with  Indians  of  the  West,  do  great  credit  to  the 
recent  literary  talent  of  America.  Henry  C.  Lea  has  lately  taken  the  first 
rank  among  ecclesiastical  historians.  "Very  great  learning  and  admir 
able  impartiality  "  has  lately  been  acknowledged  by  Lecky,  in  his  History 
of  European  Morals,  as  manifest  in  " '  Lea's  History  of  Sacerdotal  Celibacy,' 
which  is  certainly,"  he  continues,  "  one  of  the  most  valuable  works  that 
America  has  produced.  Since  the  great  history  of  Dean  Milman,  I  know 
no-work  in  English  which  has  thrown  more  light  on  the  moral  condition 
of  the  Middle  Ages,  and  none  which  is  more  fitted  to  dispel  the  gross  illu 
sions  concerning  that  period  which  Positive  writers,  and  writers  of  a  certain 
ecclesiastical  school,  have  conspired  to  sustain."  Samuel  Hopkins,  in  his 
graphic  account  of  the  Puritans  in  the  Reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  has  skil 
fully  bedecked  a  substantial  framework  of  history  with  the  drapery  of 
romance.  Samuel  Eliot  has  produced  a  valuable  "  History  of  Liberty," 
and  other  works.  Henry  B.  Smith's  "  History  of  the  Church  of  Christ  in 
Chronological  Tables "  is  an  admirably  arranged  and  a  most  useful  con 
densation  of  an  immense  amount  of  ecclesiastical  history  for  convenient 

71 


562  SUPPLEMENT. 


reference.  Edward  McPherson  has  produced  a  good  compend  of  the  Politi 
cal  History  of  the  Rebellion.  Many  other  histories  of  the  recent  civil  war 
in  the  United  States  have  been  written,  of  which  we  may  name,  as  among 
the  most  important  of  them,  Horace  Greeley's  "  Great  American  Conflict," 
which  has  had  a  large  circulation;  Frank  Moore's  "Rebellion  Record," 
published  in  frequent  numbers  during  the  war,  and  now  making  twelve 
octavo  volumes,  containing  every  important  item,  document,  or  account 
which  could  be  gathered  at  the  time,  that  might  serve  to  aid  the  future  his 
torian  of  that  great  crisis  in  civilization ;  Alexander  H.  Stephens'  "  Consti 
tutional  View  of  the  Late  War  between  the  States ";  John  W.  Draper's 
"  History  of  the  American  Civil  War,"  the  first  considerable  attempt  at  an 
elaborate,  philosophical  history  of  that  event,  and  written  with  great 
ability,  clearness,  and  vigor,  though  in  some  points  rather  to  be  called 
theoretical  than  philosophical.  His  other  works,  as  the  "  History  of  the 
Intellectual  Development  of  Europe,"  and  "  Thoughts  on  the  Future  Civil 
Policy  of  America,"  the  former  of  which  has  been  translated  into  several 
European  languages,  are  remarkable  for  much  vigor,  breadth,  and  depth  of 
thought.  Though,  as  must  be  expected  of  a  philosopher,  his  productions 
are  read  with  various  degrees  of  approbation  on  the  part  of  thinking  men, 
yet  they  generally  secure  a  very  attentive  examination.  But  we  have  not 
space  to  mention  what  our  many  other  valuable  writers  of  history  have  well 
done ;  as,  Abel  Stevens,  an  eminent  historian  of  American  Methodism ;  J. 
H.  Kurtz,  estimable  in  church  history ;  Benson  J.  Lossing,  the  successful 
artist-historian ;  George  W.  Greene,  author  of  "  Historical  View  of  the 
American  Revolution,"  "History  and  Geography  of  the  Middle  Ages," 
"  Historical  Studies,"  and  various  essays ;  B.  F.  De  Costa,  an  inquirer  into 
the  Pre-Columbian  Discovery  of  America;  Henry  B.  Dawson,  Lorenzo 
Sabine,  John  W.  Thornton,  John  Russell  Bartlett,  John  R.  Brodhead, 
James  Savage ;  Charles  Guyarre*,  who  has  produced  an  excellent  history  of 
Louisiana ;  Samuel  G.  Drake,  of  learned  diligence  in  early  New  England 
history ;  Parke  Godwin,  who  has  published  a  volume  of  a  "  History  of 
France  "  which  promises  to  be  a  valuable  work. 

Historical  Biography  has  lost  (of  authors  not  already  named  as  deceased) 
Marshall,  Tudor,  Wirt,  Wheaton,  Josiah  Quincy,  and  Richard  Biddle. 
Additional  names  of  biographers  who  also  have  departed  are  Calvin  Colton, 
writer  of  a  Life  of  Henry  Clay;  William  Gilmore  Simms,  who  wrote  lives 
of  Putnam,  Greene,  Marion,  and  Smith ;  Matthew  L.  Davis,  writer  of  Me- 


SUPPLEMENT.  563 


moirs  of  Aaron  Burr ;  John  L.  Blake,  favorably  known  for  his  useful 
Biographical  Dictionary ;  Henry  J.  Raymond,  who  wrote  a  life  of  Abraham 
Lincoln,  but  was  best  made  known  as  one  of  the  greatest  of  American 
journalists. 

Perhaps  the  greatest  work  on  p  general  biography  for  comprehensiveness, 
indefatigable  industry,  and  encyclopedic  and  accurate  learning  which  the 
English  language  can  boast,  is  Dr.  Joseph  Thomas's  "  Universal  Pronoun 
cing  Dictionary  of  Biography  and  Mythology,"  now  issuing  from  the  press, 
and  received  with  almost  the  warmest  and  highest  praise  by  even  the  most 
exacting  critics.  Another  monument  of  stupendous  industry  and  research, 
and  a  most  valuable  boon  to  the  literary  world,  is  Allibone's  great  and  ex 
cellent  Dictionary  of  British  and  American  Authors,  all  but  the  third 
volume  of  which  is  now  published.  Regarded  with  similar  admiration  is 
William  B.  Sprague's  "Annals  of  the  American  Pulpit ;  or,  Commemorative 
Notices  of  Distinguished  American  Clergymen  of  Various  Denominations, 
from  the  early  settlement  of  the  country  to  the  close  of  the  year  1805 ;  with 
Historical  Introductions."  Another  product  of  wonderful  industry  (twenty 
years')  is  James  Savage's  Genealogical  Dictionary  of  the  First  Settlers  of 
New  England. 

James  Parton,  as  a  biographical  author,  stands  clearly  the  first  among 
American,  and,  so  far  as  we  know,  among  living  writers,  in  genius  to  depict 
a  seemingly  animate  portrait  of  the  course  of  a  life  which  had  passed  out  of 
sight.  And  this  he  does,  not  altogether  by  vivid  imagination  and  that 
lively  sympathy  by  which  he  enters  into  the  life  which  he  describes,  and 
speaks  from  within  it  as  if  it  were  his  own  for  the  time,  but  also  by  virtue 
of  unwearied  industry  in  searching  out  facts  and  circumstances.  The  in 
teresting  material  thus  diligently  rescued  from  oblivion,  and  constructed 
into  a  biography  now  reproduced  in  letters,  from  the  original  once  written 
on  fleeting  time,  is  clothed  in  a  style  pleasing,  lively,  and  of  sufficiently 
warm  coloring.  Important  biographies  also  have  been  written  as  follows : 
that  of  Jefferson,  by  Henry  S.  Randall — also  one  by  Hamilton  W.  Pierson, 
and  one  by  George  Tucker ;  Lyman  Beecher's  by  his  son  Charles,  Wirt's 
by  John  P.  Kennedy,  Judge  Story's  by  his  son  William  W.  Story,  who  has 
also  gained  celebrity  as  a  sculptor,  essayist,  and  writer  of  legal  treatises ; 
William  EUery  Channing's  by  his  nephew  Wm.  Henry  Channing,  General 
Greene's  by  George  W.  Greene,  that  of  Chief  Justice  Parsons  by  his  son 
Theophilus  Parsons,  Governor  Winthrop's  by  Robert  C.  Winthrop,  Theo- 


564  SUPPLEMENT. 


dore  Parker's  by  John  Weiss,  Washington  Irving's  by  Pierre  M.  Irving, 
his  nephew ;  Margaret  Fuller  Ossoli's  by  R.  W.  Emerson,  Wm.  H.  Chan- 
ning,  and  J.  F.  Clarke ;  Martin  Van  Buren's  by  William  Allen  Butler, 
Edward  Irving's  by  Margaret  Oliphant,  Edward  Livingstone's  by  Charles 
H.  Hunt,  Madison's  by  Wm.  C.  Rives,  Dr.  Wayland's  by  his  sons  F.  and 
H.  L.  Wayland,  Josiah  Quincy's  by  his  son  Edmund  Quincy,  Rufus 
Choate's  by  Samuel  Gil  man  Brown,  Washington's  by  Irving. 

All  those  who  were  named  as  distinguished  orators — Webster,  Clay, 
Calhoun,  John  Quincy  Adams,  Everett,  Legare',  and  Burgess — have  since 
died.  Perhaps  no  great  orator  has  passed  away  who  was  endowed  with 
more  eminent  and  varied  powers  of  eloquence  than  Rufus  Choate,  though, 
like  Pinckney's,  a  great  part  of  the  triumphant  efforts  of  his  brilliant  genius, 
masterly  reason,  ornate  learning,  impressive  and  thrilling  delivery,  have 
escaped  public  observation  and  permanent  literature,  by  being  heard  only 
at  the  Bar.  Yet  much  remains  imperishable  in  American  letters,  delivered 
by  him  ou  literary,  historical,  and  legal  occasions,  some  of  which,  as  his 
oration  on  Webster,  is  considered  "  worthy  to  be  compared  with  the  con 
summate  masterpieces  of  Greek  and  Latin  eloquence."  Others  who  knew 
how  to  make  the  people  hear  as  well  as  read,  whether  as  orators,  public 
speakers,  or  rhetoricians,  were  Justice  Story,  Chancellor  Kent,  Francis 
Wayland,  Dr.  John  W.  Francis,  Josiah  Quincy,  Alexander  H.  Everett, 
James  A.  Hillhouse,  George  W.  Bethune,  Sargent  S.  Prentiss,  Thomas  H. 
Benton,  Gulian  C.  Yerplanck. 

Of  the  modern  political  history  of  the  United  States,  the  speeches  of 
Charles  Sumner,  soon  to  be  re-printed  in  ten  large  volumes,  which  will 
comprise  his  published  literary  works,  are  likely  to  be  looked  upon  and 
studied  by  posterity  as  an  inseparable  part.  While  a  life  so  devoted  to  re 
deeming  the  promises  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence  must  have  the 
most  enduring  monument  in  the  downfall  of  American  slavery,  yet  it  will 
have  also  a  lasting  literary  monument  in  "  the  power  and  splendor  of  his 
speeches,  the  dignity  of  their  tone,  their  affluence  in  learning,  the  lucidness 
and  force  of  their  logic,  the  artistic  unity  of  each,  their  uniform  correctness 
and  magnificence  of  diction."  Of  perhaps  a  more  uniformly  terse  and 
pointed  diction,  as  less  encumbered  by  occasional  exuberance  of  learning,  is 
the  forcible  and  accomplished  oratory  of  Wendell  Phillips,  by  which  poK 
ished  arrows  not  only  of  wit  and  sarcasm,  but  of  earnest  conviction  also,  are 
sent  straight  to  their  mark.  Not  ornate,  but  earnest,  vigorous,  and  effi- 


SUPPLEMENT.  565 


cient,  have  been  the  many  public  speeches  of  Henry  Wilson,  in  the  same 
cause  of  freedom.  Those  of  William  H.  Seward  are  likely  also  to  occupy 
an  important  place  in  the  history  of  that  to  which  he  gave  the  appellation, 
"  irrepressible  conflict."  The  eulogist  of  Sumner,  above  quoted,  has  ob 
served  also,  (yet  we  do  not  adopt  the  somewhat  ungenerous  assertion,  except 
for  the  general  comparison  suggested)  that  not  one  of  his  contemporaries  in 
the  Senate,  except  Seward,  "  has  left  a  solitary  speech  which  can  now  be 
read  through  without  languor  and  reluctance."  Richard  H.  Dana,  Jr.,  a 
patriot  learned  in  law  and  accomplished  in  letters,  has  made  valuable  and 
eloquent  public  speeches.  Robert  C.  Winthrop  has  given  several  noble  his 
torical  and  literary  orations.  Horace  Bushnell,  Orville  Dewey,  Peleg 
Sprague,  Horace  Binney,  E.  P.  Whipple,  and  George  S.  Hillard,  like  many 
others  eminent  also  in  unspoken  literature,  have  given  public  addresses, 
much  to  general  admiration  and  profit. 

The  great  masters  of  Political  Philosophy  before  named  have  been 
gathered  to  the  other  fathers  of  a  grateful  country.  And  though  a  genuine 
statesman  may  here  or  there  be  sifted  out  of  the  mass  of  our  politicians, 
though  admired  writers  on  constitutional  jurisprudence  are  still  left  to  this 
generation ;  it  is  for  history,  and  not  for  us,  to  add  any  modern  name  to  the 
list  of  political  sages  who  could  give  to  the  country  a  Constitution  and  a 
Federalist. 

Political  Economy  has  lost  from  its  roll  of  living  writers  Gallatin, 
Raguet,  Thomas  Cooper,  Clay,  Webster,  Hamilton,  Madison,  Calhoun, 
Matthew  Carey,  A.  H.  Everett,  Clement  Biddle,  Legget,  Professors  Dew, 
Vethake,  Wayland,  Colton,  Raymond.  While  Greeley,  Amasa  Walker, 
and  Henry  C.  Carey  have  continued  to  write  on  this  subject.  Carey  is  said 
to  be  "  considered  throughout  Europe  as  the  only  person  who  has  mastered, 
and  therefore  who  has  been  able  clearly  to  explain,  the  principles  of  Politi 
cal  Economy."  There  are  a  great  number  of  able  writers  of  essays  for 
reviews  and  other  periodicals  on  subjects  connected  with  Political  Economy. 
Of  those  who  have  written  considerable  treatises  we  have  the  names  of 
Bascom,  Colwell,  Dr.  Wm.  Elder,  Professors  Bowen  and  Perry.  Professor 
Bowen's  recent  work  forcibly  and  clearly  discusses  those  phases  of  the  sub 
ject  which  have  now  become  most  interesting  to  Americans. 

All  those  eminent  writers  on  Jurisprudence  who  have  been  named,  are 
gone  from  this  life,  except  the  venerable  Horace  Binney.  It  was  lately 
acknowledged  by  eminent  British  authority,  that  on  several  important 


566  SUPPLEMENT. 


points  of  Jurisprudence  no  satisfactory  treatises  had  been  written  except  in 
America.  Edmund  Burke  also  said  of  the  American  Colonies,  in  hia 
speech  on  Conciliation  with  America :  "  In  no  country  in  the  world,  per 
haps,  is  the  law  so  general  a  study ;  the  greater  number  of  the  deputies  sent 
to  Congress  were  lawyers ;  but  all  who  read,  and  most  do  read,  endeavor  to 
retain  some  smattering  of  that  science.  I  have  been  told  by  an  eminent 
bookseller,  that  in  no  branch  of  his  business,  after  treatises  on  popular  sci 
ence,  were  so  many  books  as  those  on  law  exported  to  the  plantations ;  the 
Colonists  have  now  fallen  into  their  way  of  printing  them  for  their  own 
use.  I  hear  that  they  have  sold  nearly  as  many  of  '  Blackstone's  Commen 
taries  '  in  America  as  in  England."  Kent's  Commentaries,  as  a  juridical 
classic  of  admired  wisdom  and  masterly  learning,  are  regarded,  in  the 
opinion  of  English  as  well  as  American  jurists,  as  a  rival  and  almost  a  sub 
stitute  for  Blackstone's.  Lord  Campbell  has  said  :  "  I  really  hardly  know 
any  name  which  we  can  so  much  boast  of  as  the  Americans  may  of  that  of 
Professor  Story,  and  Chancellor  Kent,  and  others  of  very  great  distinction." 
Francis  Lieber's  works  have  received  the  highest  eulogies  from  men  emi 
nent  in  jurisprudence  in  Europe  and  America.  John  Bouvier,  George  T. 
Curtis,  Theodore  Woolsey,  William  Whiting,  J.  N.  Pomeroy,  Timothy 
Walker,  and  several  others  at  least  as  profoundly  learned  and  of  as  high 
authority  in  law,  but  whose  treatises  are  chiefly  professional,  rather  than 
national,  have  produced  legal  works  of  great  merit. 

Of  before-named  writers  in  Biblical  Criticism,  we  miss  J.  A.  Alexander, 
George  Bush,  Andrews  Norton,  Edward  Robinson,  Moses  Stuart.  In  ad 
dition  we  have  lost  at  least  two  excellent  Hebraists,  George  R.  Noyes  and 
Isaac  Leeser.  Several  other  Biblical  scholars  have  risen  to  the  first  rank, 
as  Horatio  B.  Hackett ;  Ezra  Abbot,  whose  learning  is  said  to  be  almost 
without  superior  in  matters  of  Bibliography  and  Textual  Criticism ;  Thomas 
J.  Conant,  Taylor  Lewis,  Wm.  Henry  Greene,  Philip  Schaff. 

Classical  scholars  have  lost  from  their  number  Felton,*  Robinson,  An- 
thon ;  and,  not  before  named,  E.  A.  Andrews,  Peter  Bullions,  and  John  J. 

*  As  a  Greek  scholar,  Felton  is  said  to  have  been  "  unsurpassed  by  any  other  in  the  country.  He 
had  a  love  of  art  which  was  cultivated  by  his  devotion  to  a  language  and  literature  so  calculated  to 
improve  and  perfect  the  taste.  He  was  deeply  interested  in  everything  that  concerned  Greece,  her 
poets,  orators,  historians,  and  philosophers,  but  especially  her  monuments  of  art,  and  whatever  re 
minded  him  of  her  ancient  glory,  or  enabled  him  to  understand  more  fully  the  meaning  of  her 
ancient  writers.  His  works  are  numerous  and  of  great  value."  Over  fifty  articles  in  the  North 
American  Review,  and  several  in  the  New  American  Cyclopaedia,  are  from  his  pen. 


SUPPLEMENT.  $67 


Owen.  It  appears  safe  to  say  that  Americans  have,  among  them,  no  more 
profoundly  learned  Grecian,  by  scholarship  as  well  as  by  nation,  than  E.  A. 
Sophocles,  the  writer  of  several  works  of  highest  authority,  and  now  lately 
again  benefactor  to  Greek  learning  by  his  "  Greek  Lexicon  of  the  Roman 
and  Byzantine  Periods" — a  work  which  stands  alone  on  the  ground  it 
covers,  a  treasure  of  ripe  scholarship,  great  patriotic  learning,  and  withal 
good  sense.  The  following  have  published  excellent  works  which  bear  tes 
timony  to  high  attainments  in  Greek  or  Latin  scholarship:  Professors 
Boise,  Champlin,  Chase,  Crosby,  Drisler,  Feuling,  Frieze,  Goodwin, 
Hackett,  Hadley,  Harkness,  Johnson,  Lewis,  Lincoln,  Short,  Tyler,  E.  R. 
Humphreys  and  Samuel  H.  Taylor. 

In  more  general  Philology,  we  have  names  worthy  to  be  compared  with 
any  in  the  English  language :  William  D.  Whitney,  the  author  of  "  Lan 
guage  and  the  Study  of  Language,"  and  (more  especially  in  English  Phil 
ology)  George  P.  Marsh,  who  has  done  as  much  as  any  other  master-scholar 
to  throw  light  on  the  history  and  nature  of  our  own  language ;  to  whom  we 
may  now  add  Francis  A.  March,  for  his  very  scholarly  Comparative  Gram 
mar  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  Language,  and  his  excellent  Method  of  Philologi 
cal  Study  of  the  English  Language.  Francis  J.  Child  and  Hiram  Corson 
have  labored  with  distinguished  learning  and  merit  in  a  similar  field. 
Schele  de  Vere's  interesting  Studies  in  English,  together  with  other  linguistic 
productions,  and  William  C.  Fowler's  and  Benjamin  W.  Dwight's  meritori 
ous  works  evince  accomplished  scholarship.  "You  Americans,"  said  a 
distinguished  foreign  scholar,  quoted  in  W.  C.  Fowler's  excellent  work  on 
the  English  language,  "  have  a  taste  and  talent  for  language.  Your  dic 
tionaries,  and  grammars,  and  exegetical  works  do  great  credit  to  your 
national  literature."  William  Henry  Greene  has  made  useful  contributions 
to  the  study  of  Hebrew.  E.  G.  Squier  appears  alone .  among  our  learned 
writers  on  the  native  languages  of  South  and  Central  America — for  we 
know  not  whether  Porter  C.  Bliss  has  published  much  of  his  knowledge  in 
that  department.  For  evidences  of  rare  acquaintance  with  North  American 
Indian  languages,  we  may  record  the  names  of  J.  H.  Trumbull,  said  to  be 
the  only  man  who  can  read  Eliot's  Indian  Bible ;  Thomas  Hurlburt,  who 
has  preached  in  the  Cree  and  Ojibway  languages  for  thirty  years — and,  for 
that  matter,  many  missionaries  to  the  Indians  might  perhaps  be  named,  yet 
irrelevantly,  here ;  and  S.  S.  Haldeman,  a  writer  on  languages  and  eth 
nology  of  North  American  Indians.  We  have  to  record  the  death  of  Josiah 


568  SUPPLEMENT. 


W.  Gibbs,  a  useful  contributor  to  the  study  of  comparative  philology ;  of 
Goold  Brown,  the  estimable  author  of  a  "Grammar  of  English  Grammars"; 
of  William  W.  Turner,  who  contributed  much  to  Hebrew  and  Oriental 
learning,  as  well  as  to  the  study  of  American  Indian  languages ;  of  Nathan 
L.  Lindsay,  Miron  Winslow,  Levi  Janvier,  and  Isador  Lowenthal. 

In  addition  to  our  great  Lexicographers,  Webster  and  Pickering,  Wor 
cester  is  also  among  the  eminent  departed.  John  Russell  Bartlett  has 
given  us  a  valuable  Dictionary  of  Americanisms.  Several  good  linguistic 
and  other  dictionaries  have  been  made  by  certain  above-mentioned  authors, 
in  their  respective  departments  of  study,  and  by  others.  Ripley  and  Dana 
have  ably  edited  that  colossal  and  excellent  literary  enterprise,  Appleton's 
American  Cyclopaedia,  completed  in  sixteen  volumes. 

In  Mathematics  many  new  names  have  arisen,  from  whom  are  departed 
H.  N.  Robinson,  William  M.  Gillespie,  John  Gummere,  A.  D.  Bache,  Ben 
jamin  Greenleaf.  Benjamin  Peirce  has  produced  great  fruits  of  the  pro- 
foundest  mathematical  gifts.  Other  distinguished  names  are  Davies, 
Loomis,  Chauvenet,  Mahan,  Maury — and,  indeed,  we  know  not  where  to 
end  our  list  of  them. 

Astronomy  has  parted  with  George  P.  Bond,  William  C.  Bond,  O.  M. 
Mitchell,  and  Olmstead.  Well  known  writers  in  this  science  are  Hannah 
M.  Bouvier,  W.  A.  Norton,  B.  A.  Gould,  and  C.  H.  Davis.  Bache,  New 
ton,  Maury,  Wilkes,  Blodget,  and  Loomis  have  also  rendered  distinguished 
service  to  Meteorology,  which  has  lost  that  of  Redfield,  Espy,  and  Dr.  Hare. 
In  Natural  Philosophy,  eminent  names  are  Olmstead,  Snell,  Ewbank,  Ren- 
wick  (deceased).  The  chief  ranks  of  noted  names  in  Chemistry  before  given 
have  been  refilled  by  Cooke,  Storer,  Eliot,  Hosford,  You  mans,  Rogers, 
Knapp,  Biddle,  Porter,  Wells.  The  last  named  was,  until  recently,  the 
highly  competent  editor  of  the  "Annual  of  Scientific  Discovery."  His  able 
successors  are  Samuel  Kneeland  and  John  Trowbridge.  Professor  Dana  is 
still  left,  the  Nestor  of  American  Mineralogists  and  Geologists.  Overman, 
Shepard,  Hitell,  and  Alger  (deceased),  have  also  added  greatly  to  the 
knowledge  of  Mineralogy.  Geology  has  lost  the  following  master-laborers 
Hitchcock,  Silliman,  Emmons,  Vanuxem,  Rogers,  Woost,  Maclure,  Hough- 
ton,  Cotting;  and  has  happily  gained,  besides  Dana,  a  Whitney,  Hall, 
Owen,  Percival,  Jackson,  Mather,  Adams,  Foster,  Isaac  Lea,  Loomis, 
Lynch,  Trask,  Blake,  Norwood,  Lieber,  Winchell,  Hayden,  and  many 
more.  Gray  has  continued  making  admirable  additions  to  the  literature  of 


SUPPLEMENT.  569 


Botany.  Wood's  botanical  treatises  are  also  widely  useful.  Nuttall, 
Leaven  worth,  and  others  have  contributed  valuable  knowledge  of  this 
"amiable  science."  Zoology  can  now  hardly  be*  thought  of  without  the 
great  name  of  Agassiz ;  and  a  noble  company  of  other  zoologists  have  highly 
exalted  American  science,  among  whom  are  Gould,  Leidy,  Cope,  Hagan, 
Stimpson,  Hall,  Clark,  Lea,  Walter,  Harvey,  Holmes,  Kneeland,  Conrad, 
Morse,  Orton,  Hart,  De  Kay.*  Alexander  Wilson,  the  great  Ornithologist, 
and  his  successors,  Bonaparte,  Audubon,  Nuttall,  and  Cassin,  are  gone; 
Elliot  and  Spencer  Baird  remain.  Excellent  works  on  Entomology  have 
been  written  by  Harris,*  Packard,  Trimble,  and  Verrill.  Baird  and  Gill 
are  noted  in  Ichthyology  ;  Adams,  Binney,  and  Bland  in  Conchology.  Eth 
nology  has  lost  Schoolcraft,  Gallatin,  and  Morton.  Other  contributors 
thereto  are  J.  R.  Bartlett,  Squier,  Brace,  Brinton,  Gliddon,  Nott,  and  Hay- 
den.  Geographical  literature  is  indebted  first  to  Guyot,  and  also  in  an 
eminent  degree  to  Colton,  Mitchell,  Page,  Pickering,  and  Marsh. 

The  following  are  the  names  noticed  by  Griswold  of.  writers  of  Fiction, 
of  whose  subsequent  death  we  have  account:  Paulding,  Cooper,  Sedgwick, 
Simms,  Dr.  Bird,  Wm.  Ware,  Allston,  Irving,  Hawthorne,  Willis,  Poe, 
Kirkland.  These  have  been  followed  by  Theodore  Winthrop,  Caroline 
Lee  Hentz,  Thomas  Bulfinch,  Eliza  Leslie,  J.  V.  Huntingdon. — But  the 
field  (now  became  a  vast  hot-bed  beyond  measure)  of  romantic  fiction,  which 
was  spoken  of  by  Griswold  as  thronged  with  laborers,  is  now  too  much 
crowded  to  suffocation  to  allow  any  detailed  allusion  to  the  merits  of  even 
the  wTorkmen  that  need  least  to  be  ashamed,  disposed  to  rear  fair  flowers 
rather  than  foster  these  abounding  multitudes  of  meretricious  weeds.  If 
the  "  intellectual  condition  and  prospects  of  the  country  "  were  to  be  judged 
according  to  our  people's  eager  patronage  of  this  department  of  literature, 
we  confess  a  fear  that  our  young  nation's  brain  bids  fair  to  reel  or  soften 
with  the  artificial  excitement  of  fast  youth,  rather  than  be  invigorated  with 
manly  discipline  of  more  temperate  nurture,  seasoned  with  truth  and  health, 
in  other  departments  of  our  noble  literature.  Our  disproportionate  fictitious 
literature  seems  to  be  both  a  cause  and  effect  of  American  haste,  impatience 
of  discipline,  and  superficiality,  whether  in  scholarship,  or  business,  or  truly 
baptismal  religion.  Even  "Sunday-school"  children,  to  look  at  their  usual 
libraries,  are  as  likely  to  drink  of  the  distillery  of  fiction,  as  to  be  fed  with 

*  Deceased. 
72 


570  SUPPLEMENT. 


the  sincere  milk  of  the  word.  Yet  our  reading  of  stimulants,  so  intimately 
connected  with  our  high-pressure  living,  has  a  strgng  antidote  in  the  Phil 
istinism  of  this  busy  country,  teeming  with  undeveloped  material  resources, 
and  enforcing,  on  water  and  land  and  beneath,  that  sturdy,  practical 
grappling  with  imperative  labor,  which  takes  much  nonsense  out  of  our 
novel  readers  and  links  our  iron  age  to  the  heroic,  even  though  romantic 
excitement  adds  a  spice  of  the  tragic. 

Among  the  best  writers  of  fiction  are  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe,  whose 
"  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  "  produced  an  impression  throughout  our  country 
that  remains  without  parallel  in  the  history  of  our  literature,  and  it  is  be 
lieved  to  have  hastened  the  day  of  freedom  in  the  land ;  numerous  works 
of  high  reputation  from  her  pen  have  followed ;— Sarah  Jane  Lippincott 
(" Grace  Greenwood")  whose  writings,  says  Henry  Giles,  "are  eminently 
characteristic;  they  are  strictly  national;  they  are  likewise  decisively  indi 
vidual;" — Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps,  recently  introduced  to  wide-spread 
notice  by  her  somewhat  remarkable  book,  "  The  Gates  Ajar  " ;  subsequent 
stories  from  her  peri  also  meet  with  very  favorable  reception ;  and  (merely  to 
mention  well-known  names  without  comment,  and  in  indiscriminate  order), 
Louisa  M.  Alcott,  Donald  G.  Mitchell  ("  Ik  Marvel "),  Ann  S.  Stephens, 
Thomas  Bulfinch,  Bayard  Taylor,  Edward  Everett  Hale,  J.  G.  Holland, 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  George  William  Curtis,  J.  R.  Gilmore  ("Edmund 
Kirke  "),  Virginia  F«  Townsend,  Virginia  C.  Terhune  ("  Marion  Harland"), 
Mary  A.  Denison,  T.  S.  Arthur,  Emma  D.  E.  K  Southworth,  Emily  Jud- 
son  (Fanny  Forrester),  J.  T.  Trowbridge,  Wm.  T.  Adams  ("  Oliver  Optic"), 
Meta  Landor,  Harriet  Prescott  Spofford,  Richard  P.  Kimball,  Mary  J. 
Holmes,  Elizabeth  Stoddard,  Margaret  Hosmer,  James  K.  Hosmer,  Anna 
E.  Porter,  John  Esten  Cook,  Charles  G.  Leland,  Anna  Cora  Ritchie,  Paul 
Preston,  Rebecca  Harding  Davis,  Harriet  B.  McKeever,  Caroline  E.  K. 
Davis,  and  others. 

Contributors  to  our  Humorous,  Comic,  and  Satirical  literature  who  have 
passed  away, — besides*,  among  those  already  mentioned,  Irving,  Paulding, 
Sands,  Verplanck,  Willis  Gaylord  Clarke,  Joseph  C.  Neal,  Mrs.  Gilman, 
Seba  Smith  ("  Jack  Downing "),  and  Halleck, — are  Charles  F.  Browne, 
known  as  "Artemus  Ward" ;  Henry  P.  Lelaud,  author  of  "  The  Gray  Bay 
Mare";  Frederick  S.  Cozzens,  writer  of  the  "Sparrow-grass  Papers"; 
Mortimer  Thompson,  known  as  J.  Q.  Philander  Doesticks, — "  Artemus 
Ward  "  was  a  genuine  humorist,  independently  of  the  laughable  spelling  of 


SUPPLEMENT.  571 


his  words — a  cheap  feature  in  funny  writing  adopted  also  by  D.  R.  Locke 
("  Petroleum  V.  Nasby,")  Henry  G.  Shaw  ("  Josh  Billings/')  and  a  num 
ber  of  inferior  imitators.  "  Nasby  "  and  "  Josh  Billings,"  while  perhaps 
little  inferior  as  humorists  to  "  A.  Ward,"  merit  more  respect  for  earnest 
ness  of  moral  purpose,  writing  not  principally  for  public  amusement,  but 
for  persuasion  of  certain  heartfelt  principles  of  individual  or  political  moral 
ity. — The  highest  place  in  our  choice  literature  of  Wit  may  be  accorded  to 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,*  and  among  humorists  to  James  Russell  Lowell. f 
— George  William  Curtis  in  his  "  Potiphar  Papers  "  has  produced  a  series 
of  satirical  sketches  of  fashionable  society  which  have  been  highly  com 
mended  for  their  "  gayety  of  humor  "  as  well  as  for  their  "  polished  invec 
tive." — George  D.  Prentice,  (deceased)  an  accomplished  editor,  has  a  fame 
in  America  by  reason  of  many  witty  sayings  of  his  in  print. — S.  Clemens, 
widely  known  of  late  as  "  Mark  Twain  ",  is  causing  many  hearty  laughs 
not  unmingled  with  moral  profit,  by  several  popular  productions  of  his  wit, 
humor,  and  good  sense. — Charles  G.  Leland,  author  of  the  famous  "  Hans 
Breittmann  "  Ballads,  though  they  are  in  verse,  shall  be  mentioned  here,  as 
an  accomplished  humorist  through  the  medium  of  the  German- American 

*  "  Neither  of  these  kinds  of  [Holmes's]  verse  has  prepared  us  for  anything  so  good,  so  sustained, 
so  national,  and  yet  so  akin  to  our  finest  humorists  as  is  the  '  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table';  a 
very  delightful  book  ....  A  book  to  possess  two  copies  of;   one  to  be  read  and  marked,  thumbed 
and  dog-eared ;  and  one  to  stand  up  in  its  pride  of  place  with  the  rest  on  the  shelves,  all  ranged  ki 
shining  rows,  as  dear  old  friends,  not  merely  as  nodding  acquaintances.     Not  at  all  like  that  pon 
derous  and  overbearing  autocrat,  Dr.  Johnson,  is  our  Yankee  friend.     He  has  more  of  Goldsmith's 
sweetness  and  lovability.     He  is  a  true  lover  of  elegance  and  high-bred  grace,  dainty  fancies,  and 
all-pleasurable  things,  as  was  Leigh  Hunt;  he  has  more  worldly  sense  without  the  moral  languor; 
out  there  is  the  same  boy-heart,  beating  in  a  manly  breast,  beneath  the  poet's  singing  robe.     For  he 
is  a  poet  as  well  as  a  humorist.     Indeed,  although  this  book  is  written  in  prose,  it  is  full  of  poetry, 
with  the  'beaded  bubbles'  of  humor  dancing  up  through  the  hippocrene,  and  'winking  at  the  brim', 
with  a  winning  look  of  invitation  shining  in  their  merry  eyes." — North  British  Review,  1860. 

*  "  The  greatest  of  all  American  humorists  is  James  Russell  Lowell;  and  the  greatest  of  all  Ameri 
can  books  of  humor  is  the  '  Biglow  Papers.'    If  Holmes  can  match  the  Queen  Anne  men  in  their 
genial  way,  with  a  pleasant  tincture  of  Montaigne,  Lowell  reminds -us  more  of  the  lusty  strength  and 
boundless  humor  of  that  great  Elizabethan  literature.     Not  that  he  imitates  them,  or  follows  in  their 
footsteps ;  for  if  there  be  an  American  book  that  might  have  existed  as  an  indigenous  growth,  inde 
pendently  of  an  European  literature,  we  feel  that  book  to  be  the  Biglow  Papers  ....  The  humor 
is  '  audible  and  full  of  vent',  racy  in  hilarious  hyperbole,  and  it  has  that  infusion  of  poetry  necessary 
to  the  richest  and  deepest  humor.     The  book  is  a  national  birth,  and  it  possesses  that  element  of 
nationality  which  has  been  the  most  enduring  part  of  all  the  best  and  greatest  births  in  literature  and 
art  ....  And  the  crowning  quality  of  Lowell's  book  is  that  it  was  found  at  home.    It  could  not 
have  been  written  in  any  other  country  than  America." — North  British  Review,  1860. 


572  SUPPLEMENT. 


dialect  admirably  managed  by  him — a  skilful  linguist ;  and  his  productions 
are  so  warmly  welcomed  by  intelligent  readers  both  in  England  and  here, 
as  to  seem  possessed  of  an  unusually  permanent  fame. — B.  P.  Shillaber  has 
made  the  name  of  "  Mrs.  Partington  "  scarcely  ever  to  be  heard  without  a 
smile.  Robert  H.  Newell,  author  of  the  "Orpheus  C.  Kerr"  papers, 
George  Harris,  and  C.  H.  Webb  are  also  of  fair  prominence. 

Our  list  of  new  writers  of  Essays,  as  must  be  expected,  is  very  large. 
Our  vast  periodical  literature  comprises  the  larger  part  of  what  is  written 
in  this  department,  yet  very  much  appears  in  book  form.  Most  writers  of 
important  contributions  to  literature  are  also  writers  of  essays  or  "  articles  " 
on  their  favorite  subjects.  Emerson,  Hillard,  Sumner,  Tuckerman,  Whip- 
pie,  Lowell,  have  remained  among  the  most  gifted  of  our  essayists,  con 
tinually  adding  brilliant,  valuable,  or  able  productions  to  our  national 
literature.  The  past  twenty-five  years  have  added  to  the  public  gratification 
and  profit,  such  names  as  Leonard  Bacon,  Robert  Baird,*  Joseph  T.  Buck 
ingham,*  Thomas  Bulfinch,*  Prof.  Samuel  G.  Brown,  Charles  A.  Bristed, 
George  H.  Calvert,  George  B.  Cheever,  Lydia  Maria  Child,  Charles  D. 
Cleveland,*  another  excellent  laborer  in  the  promotion  of  the  knowledge  of 
American  Literature,  and  also  of  English ;  G.  T.  Congdon,  Hiram  Corson, 
Edward  T.  Channing,*  whose  instructions  have  doubtless  been  the  seed  of 
much  that  is  excellent  in  the  style  of  many  writers ;  George  William  Curtis, 
T.  L.  Cuyler,  E.  A.  and  G.  L.  Duyckinck,  whose  excellent  "  Cyclopedia 
of  American  Literature  "  has  perhaps  made  up  by  magnitude  and  complete 
ness  as  much  as  Griswold's  work  accomplished  by  priority  and  general  cir 
culation,  in  making  American  literature  known,  at  home  and  abroad ;  Abi 
gail  E.  Dodge  ("Gail  Hamilton"),  B.  B.  Edwards,*  William  Everett, 
Theodore  S.  Fay,  Cornelius  C.  Felton,  Henry  Giles,  Oliver  Wendell  Hol 
mes,  W.  D.  Howells,  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson,  Caleb  Sprague  Henry, 
Fitz  Greene  Halleck,*  J.  S.  Hart,  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,*  J.  G.  Holland 
("  Timothy  Titcomb"),  Henry  James,  James  Jackson  Jarves,  Emily  Judson* 
("  Fanny  Forrester'?),  Thomas  Starr  King,*  Richard  B.  Kimball,  Henry 
C.  Lea,  Charles  G.  Leland,  H.  W.  Longfellow,  George  P.  Marsh,  Robert 
S.  Mackenzie,  O.  M.  Mitchell,*  Walter  Mitchell,  Charles  Eliot  Norton, 
Edwards  A.  Park,  James  Parton,  Sara  P.  Parton  ("  Fanny  Fern"),  James 
K.  Paulding,*  Calvin  Pease,*  Andrew  P.  Peabody,  Wendell  Philips, 
Josiah  Quincy,*  George  Ripley,  Dr.  James  Rush,*  Richard  Rush,*  Theo- 

*  Deceased. 


SUPPLEMENT.  573 


dore  Sedgwick,*  Lydia  H.  Sigourney,*  W.  "W.  Story,  H.  B.  Stowe,  George 
Ticknor,  author  of  the  excellent  "  History  of  Spanish  Literature  "  which  is 
recognized  in  Europe  as  a  "  permanent  authority ",  Henry  D.  Thoreau,* 
Horace  Binney  Wallace,*  John  G.  Whittier,  whose  prose  writings  alone, 
would  ensure  him  a  high  position  in  literature;  and  Theodore  Winthrop.* 

The  list  of  writers  of  Voyages  and  Travels  has  been  increased  by  the 
following  well-known  names :  H.  N.  Bishop,  author  of  "  One  Thousand 
Miles' Walk  across  South  America";  Du  Chaillu,  C.  C.  Coffin,  Walter 
Colton,  J.  C.  Fletcher,  in  connection  with  D.  P:  Kidder,  writer  of  Brazil 
and  Brazilians ;  Louis  Grout,  author  of  "  Zulu  Land "  ;  Capt.  Charles 
Francis  Hall  and  J.  I.  Hayes,  distinguished  writers  on  Arctic  travel ;  W. 
D.  Howells,  the  accomplished  writer  of  "  Venetian  Life  ",  and  several  other 
productions  which  have  recently  placed  him  in  the  foremost  rank  of  elegant 
literature ;  Thomas  Starr  King,  author  of  a  charming  work  on  the  "  White 
Hills ;  their  Legends,  Landscape,  and  Scenery  " ;  the  lamented  Dr.  Elisha 
Kent  Kane,  writer  of  "  one  of  the  most  remarkable  records  ",  says  Prescott, 
"  I  ever  met  with,  of  difficulties,  and  of  the  power  of  a  brave  spirit  to  over 
come  them  " ;  Frederick  Law  Olmsted,  author  of  the  "  Cotton  Kingdom  "  ; 
James  Orton,  author  of  "  The  Andes  and  the  Amazon  " ;  Com.  M.  C.  Perry, 
the  excellent  narrator  of  his  noted  expedition  to  the  China  Seas  and  Japan ; 
Raphael  Pumpelly,  whose  recent  work,  "  Across  America  and  Asia ",  is 
remarkably  well  received ;  and  Bayard  Taylor,  the  foremost  name  in  Ameri 
can  literature  of  travel.  Many  names  might  well  be  added  to  this  list. 

Conscious  of  the  meagreness  and  omissions  of  a  statement  so  condensed 
as  the  above  has  to  be,  of  the  most  noticeable  additions  to  American  litera 
ture  since  Griswold's  day,  we  leave  our  task,  with  a  sense  of  grateful  satis 
faction  and  proper  pride  in  the  noble  and  successful  literary  achievements 
of  our  country  during  the  brief  period  here  glanced  over ;  believing  that 
no  words  of  ours  could  add  to  the  conviction  which  even  such  a  record  must 
enforce,  that  the  intellectual  condition  and  prospects  of  the  country  are  in 
most  encouraging  prosperity. 

*  Deceased. 


JAMES    KENT,    LL.D. 


[Born  1763.    Died  1847.] 


JAMES  KENT,  LL.D.,  one  of  the  most  eminent 
of  modern  jurists,  was  born  July  31,  1763,  at 
Fredericks,  Putnam  Co.,  N.  Y.  He  graduated 
at  Yale,  1781 ;  commenced  the  practice  of  law, 
1785;  elected  a  member  of  the  N.  Y.  State  As 
sembly,  1790  and  '92  ;  Professor  of  law  at  Co 
lumbia  College,  N.  Y.,  1793-98;  Master  in 
Chancery,  and  member  of  the  Legislature, 
1796;  Recorder  of  the  City,  1797;  Puisne 
Judge  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  N.  Y.,  1798  ; 
Chief  Justice  of  the  same  Court,  1804-1814; 
Chancellor  of  N.  Y.,  1814-1823;  during  this 
latter  period  he  resided  at  Albany.  In  his  60th 
year,  by  the  Constitution  of  the  State,  his  term 
of  office  expired,  just  when  he  was  in  the 
prime  of  his  powers  and  usefulness.  He  re 
moved  in  1823,  back  to  N.  Y.,  and  resumed  the 
Law  Professorship  at  Columbia  College.  Part 
of  his  lectures  before  this  Institution  were  pub- 
lished.  He  also  helped  to  edit  the  Revised  Laws 
of  the  State  of  N.  Y.,  1802,  2  vols.,  8vo. ;  deliv 
ered  an  anniversary  address  before  the  Histori 
cal  Society,  1828  ;  Address  before  the  Phi  Beta 
Kappa  of  Yale,  1831,  and  one  before  the  Law 
Association  of  N.  Y.,  1836.  He  drew  up  a 
Course  of  Reading  for  young  men,  for  the 
benefit  of  the  Mercantile  Library,  1840;  of  which 
a  new  edition,  enlarged  by  President  Charles 
King,  LL.  D.  and  Henry  A.  Oakley,  was  pub 
lished,  1853.  A  portion  of  his  decisions  as 
Chancellor,  selected  by  himself,  will  be  found 
in  Johnson's  Chancery  Reports,  7  vols.  ,1814-23 ; 
decisions  that  must  forever  remain  a  monument 
of  judicial  wisdom,  learning,  and  eloquence, 


without  superior  in  those  of  any  country  or 
of  any  age. 

His  greatest,  and  one  of  the  most  important 
works  ever  issued  in  this  country,  is  Commen 
taries  upon  American  Law,  4  vols.,  1826-30, 
of  which  he  revised  the  6th  edition  shortly  be 
fore  his  death.  Eight  editions  were  sold  up 
to  1855,  yielding  a  profit  to  the  author  and  his 
heirs  of  over  $135,000 ;  and  the  sales  have 
been  steady  and  large  ev«r  since.  Several 
abridgments  have  appeared,  all  of  which  are 
used  as  Text  Books,  and  are  the  standards  on 
the  subject  of  American  Law.  Judge  Story 
declares  Kent's  Commentaries  will  range  on 
the  same  shelf  with  the  classical  work  of  Black- 
stone,  an  opinion  supported  by  the  most  emi 
nent  jurists  of  the  country.  While  even  as  a 
library  book  of  reference  for  the  historical 
student,  or  general  reader,  its  importance  can 
hardly  be  overrated. 

A  Memoir  and  Letters  of  Chancellor  Kent, 
was  written  by  his  son,  Wm.  Kent.  Judge 
Duer  delivered  a  Discourse  on  his  Life,  Char 
acter,  and  Public  Services,  in  which  he  says, 
"  Great  as  our  country  is  in  all  the  elements 
of  a  just  renown,  and  illustrious  as  its  annals 
have  become  by  the  labors,  and  by  the  exploits 
of  statesmen  and  of  heroes,  it  may  yet  be 
doubted  whether,  hitherto,  it  has  produced  a 
man  more  worthy  of  its  entire  veneration, 
gratitude,  and  love,  than  him  whose  services 
to  his  country  and  to  his  race,  we  are  this  day 
met  to  commemorate." 


THE  LAW  OF  NATIONS. 

FROM   THE   COMMENTARIES   ON    AMERICAN   LAVf. 

BY  this  law  we  are  to  understand  that  code  of 
public  instruction,  which  defines  the  rights  and 
prescribes  the  duties  of  nations,  in  their  intercourse 
with  each  other.  The  faithful  observance  of  this 
law  is  essential  to  national  character,  and  to  the 
happiness  of  mankind.  According  to  the  observa 
tion  of  Montesquieu,  it  is  founded  on  the 
principle,  that  different  nations  ought  to  do  each 


other  as  much  good  in  peace,  and  as  little  harm 
in  war,  as  possible,  without  injury  to  their  true 
interests.  But  as  the  precepts  of  this  code  are  rot 
defined  in  every  case  with  perfect  precision,  and 
as  nations  have  no  common  civil  tribunal  to  resort 
to  for  the  interpretation  and  execution  of  this  law, 
it  is  often  very  difficult  to  ascertain,  to  the  satis 
faction  of  the  parties  concerned,  its  precise  injunc 
tions  and  extent ;  and  a  still  greater  difficulty  is 
the  want  of  adequate  pacific  means  to  secure  obe 
dience  to  its  dictates. 

MB 


576 


JAMES     KENT. 


There  has  been  a  difference  of  opinion  among 
writers,  concerning  the  foundation  of  the  law  of 
nations.  It  has  been  considered  by  some  as  a 
mere  system  of  positive  institutions,  founded  upon 
consent  and  usage ;  while  others  have  insisted 
that  it  was  essentially  the  same  as  the  law  of  na 
ture,  applied  to  the  conduct  of  nations,  in  the 
character  of  moral  persons,  susceptible  of  obliga 
tions  and  laws.  We  are  not  to  adopt  either  of 
these  theories  as  exclusively  true.  The  most 
useful  and  practical  part  of  the  law  of  nations  is, 
no  doubt,  instituted  or  positive  law,  founded  on 
usage,  consent,  and  agreement.  But  it  would  be 
improper  to  separate  this  law  entirely  from  natural 
jurisprudence,  and  not  to  consider  it  as  deriving 
much  of  its  force  and  dignity  from  the  same 
principles  of  right  reason,  the  same  views  of  the 
nature  and  constitution  of  man,  and  the  same 
sanction  of  Divine  revelation,  as  those  from  which 
the  science  of  morality  is  deduced.  There  is  a 
natural  and  a  positive  law  of  nations.  By  the 
former,  every  state,  in  its  relations  with  other 
states,  is  bound  to  conduct  itself  with  justice, 
good  faith,  and  benevolence ;  and  this  application 
of  the  law  of  nature  has  been  called  by  Vattel  the 
necessary  law  of  nations,  because  nations  are 
bound  by  the  law  of  nature  to  observe  it ;  and  it  is 
termed  by  others  the  internal  law  of  nations,  because 
it  is  obligatory  upon  them  in  point  of  conscience. 

We  ought  not,  therefore,  to  separate  the  science 
of  public  law  from  that  of  ethics,  nor  encourage 
the  dangerous  suggestion,  that  governments  are 
not  so  strictly  bound  by  the  obligations  of  truth, 
justice,  and  humanity,  in  relation  to  other  powers, 
as  they  are  in  the  management  of  their  own  local 
concerns.  States,  or  bodies  politic,  are  to  be  con 
sidered  as  moral  persons,  having  a  public  will, 
capable  and  free  to  do  right  and  wrong,  inasmuch 
as  they  are  collections  of  individuals,  each  of  whom 
carries  with  him  into  the  service  of  the  community 
the  same  binding  law  of  morality  and  religion 
which  ought  to  control  his  conduct  in  private  life. 
The  law  of  nations  is  a  complex  system,  composed 
of  various  ingredients.  It  consists  of  general 
principles  of  right  and  justice,  equally  suitable  to 
the  government  of  individuals  in  a  state  of  natural 
equality,  and  to  the  relations  and  conduct  of  na 
tions;  of  a  collection  of  usages,  customs,  and 
opinions,  the  growth  of  civilization  and  commerce ; 
and  of  a  code  of  conventional  or  positive  law.  In 
the  absence  of  these  latter  regulations,  the  inter 
course  and  conduct  of  nations  are  to  be  governed 
by  principles  fairly  to  be  deduced  from  the  rights 
and  duties  of  nations,  and  the  nature  of  moral 
obligation ;  and  we  have  the  authcrity  of  the 
lawyers  of  antiquity,  and  of  some  of  the  first 
masters  in  the  modern  school  of  public  law,  for 
placing  the  moral  obligation  of  nations  and  of 
individuals  on  similar  grounds,  and  for  considering 
individual  and  national  morality  as  parts  of  one 
and  the  same  science. 

The  law  of  nations,  so  far  as  it  is  founded  on 
the  principles  of  natural  law,  is  equally  binding  in 
every  age,  and  upon  all  mankind.  But  the  Chris 
tian  nations  of  Europe,  and  their  descendants  on 


this  side  of  the  Atlantic,  by  the  vast  superiority  of 
their  attainments  in  arts,  and  science,  and  com 
merce,  as  well  as  in  policy  and  government;  and, 
above  all,  by  the  brighter  light,  the  more  certain 
truths,  arid  the  more  definite  sanction  which 
Christianity  has  communicated  to  the  ethical 
jurisprudence  of  the  ancients,  have  established  a 
law  of  nations  peculiar  to  themselves.  They  form 
together  a  community  of  nations  united  by  religion, 
manners,  morals,  humanity,  and  science,  and  united 
also  by  the  mutual  advantages  of  commercial  inter 
course,  by  the  habit  of  forming  alliances  arid 
treaties  with  each  other,  of  interchanging  ambas 
sadors,  and  of  studying  and  recognizing  the  same 
writers  and  systems  of  public  law. 

The  law  of  nations,  as  understood  by  the 
European  world,  and  by  us,  is  the  offspring  of 
modern  times.  The  most  refined  states  among 
the  ancients  seem  to  have  had  no  conception  of 
the  moral  obligations  of  justice  and  humanity  be 
tween  nations,  and  there  was  no  such  thing  in 
existence  as  the  science  of  international  law. 
They  regarded  strangers  and  enemies  as  nearly 
synonymous,  and  considered  foreign  persons  and 
property  as  lawful  prize.  Their  laws  of  war  and 
peace  were  barbarous  and  deplorable.  So  little 
were  mankind  accustomed  to  regard  the  rights  of 
persons  or  property,  or  to  perceive  the  value  and 
beauty  of  public  order,  that  in  the  most  enlightened 
ages  of  the  Grecian  republics,  piracy  was  regarded 
as  an  honorable  employment.  There  were  power 
ful  Grecian  states  that  avowed  the  practice  of 
piracy ;  and  the  fleets  of  Athens,  the  best  disci 
plined  and  most  respectable  naval  force  in  all  an 
tiquity,  were  exceedingly  addicted  to  piratical 
excursions.  It  was  the  received  opinion,  that 
Greeks,  even  as  between  their  own  cities  and 
states,  were  bound  to  no  duties,  nor  by  any  moral 
law,  without  compact ;  and  that  prisoners  taken  in 
war,  had  no  rights,  antf  might  lawfully  be  put  to 
death,  or  sold  into  perpetual  slavery,  with  their 
wives  and  children. 

There  were,  however,  many  feeble  efforts,  and 
some  successful  examples,  to  be  met  with  in 
Grecian  history,  in  favor  of  national  justice.  The 
object  of  the  Amphictyonic  council  was  to  institute 
a  law  of  nations  among  the  Greeks,  and  settle 
contests  between  Grecian  states  by  a  pacific  ad 
justment.  It  was  also  a  law  of  nations  among 
them,  and  one  which  was  very  religiously  observed, 
to  allow  to  the  vanquished  the  privilege  of  burying 
their  own  dead,  and  to  grant  the  requisite  truce 
for  that  purpose.  Some  of  these  states  had  public 
ministers  resident  at  the  courts  of  others,  and  there 
were  some  distinguished  instances  of  great  hu 
manity  shown  to  prisoners  of  war.  During  a 
cessation  of  arms  in  the  course  of  the  Peloponne- 
sian  war,  Athens  and  Sparta  agreed  to  an  exchange 
or  mutual  surrender  of  prisoners.  The  sound 
judgment  and  profound  reflections  of  Aristotle, 
naturally  raised  his  sense  of  right  above  the  atro 
cious  maxims  and  practices  of  his  age,  and  he 
perceived  the  injustice  of  that  doctrine  of  Grecian 
policy,  that,  by  the  laws  of  war,  the  vanquished 
became  the  absolute  property  of  the  victor. 


ALEXANDER    WILSON. 


[Born  1766.    Died  1813.] 


ALEXANDER  WILSON,  the  first  to  claim  the 
title  of  the  American  Ornithologist,  and  the  one 
who  has  so  thoroughly  maintained  it  by  his 
charming  and  accurate  descriptions,  and  the 
best  and  most  natural  drawings  of  birds  ever 
published,  was  born  at  Paisley,  Scotland,  July 
6,  1766.  His  parents  were  persons  in  humble 
but  respectable  circumstances;  his  father  was 
a  weaver,  and  bore  a  high  character  as  a  man 
of  strict  honesty  and  industrious  habits,  united 
to  much  good  sense  and  superior  intelligence. 
He  fondly  hoped  Alexander,  his  eldest  son, 
would  become  a  minister  of  the  Gospel,  and 
placed  him  with  a  clergyman  for  that  purpose; 
but  the  death  of  his  mother  when  he  was  ten 
years  old,  leaving  a  large  family,  needing 
moth  erly  care,  induced  his  father  to  marry  again, 
and  his  family  increasing,  he  was  obliged  to  sus 
pend  his  son's  education.  Alexander  had  made 
good  use  of  his  time;  he  says  in  a  letter  in 
1811,  "for  my  success,  I  have  to  thank  the 
goodness  of  a  kind  father  whose  attention  to 
my  education  in  early  life,  as  well  as  the  books 
then  put  into  my  hands,  first  gave  my  mind  a 
bias  towards  relishing  the  paths  of  literature, 
and  the  charms  and  magnificence  of  nature." 

At  the  age  of  13,  he  was  apprenticed  to  a 
weaver,  with  whom  he  remained  from  1779  to 
1782.  He  then  worked  four  years  longer  at 
his  trade,  writing  poetry  during  his  spare  mo 
ments.  Of  an  active  turn  of  mind  and  body, 
he  was  glad  to  give  up  weaving,  and  start  out 
as  a  peddler,  pursuing  this  occupation  for  three 
years,  visiting  most  of  the  romantic  and  liter 
ary  objects  of  interest  in  Scotland.  In  1789, 
he  made  arrangements  with  a  publisher  for  an 
edition  of  his  poems,  for  which  he  issued  a 
poetical  prospectus  and  hand-bill,  which  he 
distributed  on  his  pedestrian  tour.  The  sub 
scription  part  was  a  failure,  though  the  book 
was  printed  in  July,  1790,  and  he  started  out 
again  to  sell  copies.  Meeting  with  but  little 
success,  he  resumed  the  loom  at  Paisley. 
Hearing  of  a  literary  discussion  at  Edinburgh, 
he  studied  for  it,  wrote  a  poem  called  the 
Laurel  Disputed,  worked  hard  for  the  means 
1o  travel  to  that  city,  and  read  it  at  the  time 
73 


and  place  of  discussion.  Though  the  audience 
did  not  agree  with  him,  he  made  many  friends, 
and  became  a  contributor  to  the  Bee,  edited 
by  Dr.  Anderson. 

Before  leaving  town,  he  recited  two  other 
poems,  Rub  and  Ringan,  and  the  Loss  of  the 
Pack,  and  published  his  poem  in  blank  verse, 
the  Laurel  Disputed,  or,  the  Merits  of  Robert 
Ferguson  and  Allan  Ramsay  contrasted.  On 
returning  to  Paisley,  when  his  funds  were  ex 
hausted,  his  Edinburgh  success  induced  him 
to  bring  out  a  new  edition  of  his  poems,  enti 
tled,  Poems,  Humorous,  Satirical,  and  Serious, 
and  the  author  again  attempted  to  be  his  own 
bookseller,  and  again  failed. 

In  1792,  his  poem  of  Watty  and  Meg,  pub 
lished  anonymously,  met  with  great  success — 
one  hundred  thousand  copies  being  sold  in  a 
few  weeks — and  received  the  high  honor  of 
being  attributed  to  Burns.  This  was  a  great 
gratification  to  the  author,  who  entertained  a 
high  regard  for  the  great  poet,  and  had  pre 
viously  made  his  acquaintance  by  a  letter 
which  he  wrote  to  Burns  on  the  first  publica 
tion  of  his  poems,  in  which  he  objected  to  some 
on  the  score  of  immorality.  Burns  replied  he 
was  so  accustomed  to  such  communications, 
that  he  usually  paid  no  attention  to  them ;  but 
that  as  Wilson  showed  himself  to  be  a  good  poet, 
he  would,  in  this  instance,  vindicate  himself. 
Wilson  afterwards  visited  Burns  at  Ayrshire. 

A  dispute  arising  between  the  manufactu 
rers  &nw  weavers  of  Paisley,  Wilson  wrote 
several  satirical  poems,  for  one  of  which,  the 
Shark,  or,  Long  Mills  Detected,  he  was  sen-* 
tenced  to  jail  for  a  few  days,  and  to  burn  the 
poem  in  public,  on  February  6th,  1793.  This 
occurrence,  with  his  sympathy  with  the  demo 
cratic  spirit  of  the  early  days  of  the  French 
Revolution,  which  caused  him  to  be  suspected 
by  the  authorities,  the  hopelessness  of  better 
ing  his  condition  in  the  old  world,  and  the 
alluring  prospect  of  political  and  pecuniary  in 
dependence,  held  out  by  the  new,  were  the 
motives  of  his  emigration  to  America.  After 
living  four  months  at  the  rate  of  a  shilling  a 
week,  he  saved  money  enough  for  his  passage, 
577 


078 


ALEXANDER    WILSON. 


walked  to  Port  Patrick,  sailed  to  Belfast,  and  J 
thence  embarked  for  America.^ 

He  landed  at  New  Castle,  Delaware,  July  14, 

1794,  and  proceeded  to  Philadelphia,  33  miles, 
on    foot,  shooting   on  tho  way  a  red-headed 
woodpecker,  the  commencement  of  his   orni 
thological   pursuits.     On    his    arrival    at   the 
city,  he  worked   at  copper  plate  printing,  and 
afterward    at   weaving   and  peddling.     These 
were  abandoned   in  1795,  for  school  keeping 
near  Fninkford,  and  afterward  at  Milestown, 
Pa.,  where  he  remained  a  few  years,  diligently 
employed    in  acquiring  as  well  as  imparting 
information.     He  also  took  a  hand  at  politics, 
and   delivered  an  oration  on  the  Power  and 
Value  of  National  Liberty,  and  wrote  the  song 
entitled  Jefferson  and  Liberty. 

In  1802,  he  took  charge  of  a  seminary  near 
Gray's  Ferry,  on  the  Schuylkill,  four  miles 
from  Philadelphia.  This  brought  him  into 
communication  with  two  valuable  friends, 
Wm.  Bartram  the  Botanist,  and  Lawson  the 
Engraver.  His  leisure  hours  were  now  devoted 
to  the  pursuit  to  which  he  was  becoming  more 
and  more  attached — that  of  Ornithology.  A 
letter  he  wrote  about  this  time,  June,  1803, 
says,  "  close  application  to  the  duties  of  my 
profession,  which  I  have  followed  since  Nov., 

1795,  has  deepl}'  injured  my  constitution  ;  the 
more  so,  that  my  rambling  disposition  was  the 
worst  calculated  of  any  one's  in  the  world  for 
the  austere  regularity  of  a  teacher's  life.     I 
have  had  many  pursu.its  since  I  left  Scotland 
— mathematics,  the  German  language,  music, 
drawing,  etc.,  and  I  am  now  about  to  make  a 
collection  of  all  our  finest  birds."     He  wrote 
for  Chas.   Brockden    Brown's  Literary  Maga 
zine,  the  Solitary  Tutor,  and  other  poems. 

In  October,  1804,  Wilson,  with  two  friends, 
made  a  pedestrian  tour  to  the  Falls  of  Niagara. 
Winter  overtook  them  on  their  return,  in 
November,  near  Cayuga  Lake.  One  of  his 
companions  tarried  with  his  relatives  till 
Spring;  the  other  availed  himself  of  a  less 
fatiguing  mode  of  transportation  than  that  of 
his  legs  ;  while  Wilson  trudged  home  with  his 
gun  on  his  shoulder,  through  the  snow  "  mid- 
leg  deep  ",  and  arrived  there  in  December,  after 
a  journey  of  1257  miles,  and  an  absence  of  59 
days.  One  result  of  his  trip  was  his  fine  poem 
•of  the  Foresters,  published  in  the  Portfolio, 
and  afterwards  reprinted  in  a  16mo.  volume  ; 
another  to  confirm  him  in  the  resolution  he 


had  taken,  "  Feeling  more  eager  than  ever  to 
commence  some  more  extensive  expedition, 
where  scenes  and  subjects,  entirely  new  and 
generally  unknown,  might  reward  my  curios 
ity  ;  and  where  perhaps  my  humble  acquisi 
tions  might  add  something  to  the  stores  of 
knowledge." 

Seeing  the  imperfections  of  books  on  the 
subject  of  the  birds  of  our  country,  how  incor 
rectly  and  often  falsely  they  were  represented 
in  drawings,  he  determined  to  devote  his  life 
to  Ornithology. 

Wilson  now  employed  his  leisure  hours  in 
perfecting  himself  in  drawing  and  coloring. 
He  also  practiced  the  art  of  etching,  and 
endeavored  to  engage  his  friend  Lawson  in  his 
projected  publication  on  American  Ornithol 
ogy,  but  without  success.  Obstacles  did  not, 
however,  change  his  purpose.  He  declared 
his  intention  to  go  on,  though  the  effort  cost 
him  his  lif°.  "  If  so,  I  shall  at  least  leave  a 
small  beacon  to  point  out  where  I  perished." 
He  wrote  to  Jefferson  in  1806,  requesting 
employment  in  the  expeditions  fitting  out  for 
the  survey  of  the  western  territory.  No  reply 
was  received  ;  but  private  enterprise  was  now 
about  to  furnish  means  for  the  execution  of 
his  long  cherished  project.  Wm.  Bradford, 
the  publisher,  engaged  Wilson  to  superintend 
a  new  edition  of  Rees's  Cyclopedia.  The  lib 
eral  salary  received  enabled  Wilson  to  give 
up  school-keeping,  and  devote  himself  to  this 
work,  which  progressed  so  well  in  his  hands 
that  the  publisher  agreed  to  undertake  the  Orni 
thology.  He  worked  so  unremittingly  in  pre 
paring  for  the  press,  that  his  health  began  to 
fail.  As  a  relaxation,  he  undertook  a  pedes 
trian  tour  through  Pennsylvania,  in  August, 
1807,  from  which  he  returned  with  new  vigor 
to  his  desk. 

The  first  of  the  nine  volumes  of  the  great 
work  was  published  in  Sept.,  1808,  the  edition 
consisting  of  200  copies.  The  plates  were 
well  engraved  by  Lawson,  and  colored  by 
his  daughters  from  patterns  made  by  Wil 
son.  In  the  same  month,  the  author  set  out 
for  the  eastward  to  procure  subscribers.  He 
travelled  as  far  as  Maine,  and  returned  through 
Vermont,  by  the  way  of  Albany  to  Philadelphia. 
Visiting  "  many  thousands  who  have  examined 
my  book — among  men  of  the  first  character 
for  taste  and  literature — I  have  heard  nothing 
but  expressions  of  the  highest  admiration  and 


ALEXANDER    WILSON. 


57S 


esteem  "  ;  but  getting  few  subscribers  for  "  a 
work  too  good  for  the  country."  During  the 
winter  he  travelled  southward.  Returning 
with  a  few  subscribers,  300  additional  copies 
were  struck  off.  The  price  was  one  hundred 
and  twenty  dollars  per  copy  of  9  vols.  Vol 
ume  II  appeared  in  Jan.,  1810,  and  the  author 
having  seen  it  through  the  press,  set  out  on  a 
tour  down  the  Ohio  and  Mississippi,  in  quest 
of  new  materials  and  new  subscribers.  From 
Pittsburg  he  descended  the  river  in  an  open 
skiff,  which  though  perilous,  recommended 
itself  for  its  economy  and  freedom  of  action. 
During  this  descent  of  the  Ohio,  a  voyage  of 
720  miles,  he  wrote  the  poem  of  the  Pilgrim. 

From  Louisville,  he  made  his  way  to  Nash 
ville,  and  thence  through  the  Indian  country 
to  Natchez.  On  the  6th  of  June,  he  reached 
New  Orleans,  252  miles  from  Natchez.  Here, 
in  a  fortnight,  he  procured  60  new  subscribers. 
He  took  passage  in  a  ship  for  New  York,  where 
he  arrived,  July  30th.  He  returned  to  Phila 
delphia,  on  the  2d  of  August,  after  a  seven 
months'  tour,  during  which  he  had  spent  only 
$450,  but  had  obtained  an  abundant  supply 
of  materials  for  his  work,  including  several 
beautiful,  and  hitherto  unknown  birds. 

In  1812,  he  was  made  a  member  of  the 
American  Philosophical  Society.  The  greater 
part  of  the  years  1811-12,  were  spent  by  him 
at  the  Botanical  garden  of  his  friend,  Mr.  Bar- 
tram.  There,  removed  from  the  noise  and 
bustle  of  the  town,  he  enjoyed  complete  free 
dom  from  interruption,  and  was  able  to  dispose 
cf  his  time  to  the  best  advantage,  while  he 
recruited  his  overworn  and  sinking  frame  by 
happy  rambles  through  the  neighboring  woods. 
Here  the  publication  of  his  Ornithology  pro 
gressed  rapidly,  and  he  now  tasted  the  satis 
faction  of  knowing  that  his  labors  had  not 
been  in  vain,  and  that  the  value  of  his  great 
work,  was  becoming  more  and  more  generally 
appreciated. 

In  September,  he  made  a  short  excursion 
to  the  eastward  for  the  purpose  of  visiting  his 
subscribers,  settling  accounts  with  his  agents 
and  pursuing  his  investigations.  At  Haverhill 
the  good  people  observing  a  stranger  among 
them  of  very  inquisitive  habits,  arrested  him 
as  a  spy  from  Canada,  taking  sketches  to 
facilitate  British  invasion ;  but  on  finding  out 
the  truth,  dismissed  him  with  many  apologies. 
He  also  made  several  short  excursions  to 


different  parts,  and  five  times  visited  the  coast 
of  New  Jersey,  in  pursuit  of  the  waders  and 
web-footed  tribes.  The  aggregate  of  his  peri- 
grinations  amounted  to  upwards  of  10,000 
miles.  In  the  early  part  of  1813,  the  seventh 
volume  of  the  Ornithology  was  completed,  and 
soon  after  its  publication,  he  again  set  out,  on 
an  expedition  to  Egg  Harbor,  to  procure  mate 
rials  for  the  8th  volume,  principally  the  marine 
water-fowl.  This  was  his  last  expedition,  and 
occupied  nearly  four  months.  On  his  return 
to  Philadelphia,  he  applied  himself  with  the 
greatest  diligence  to  prepare  the  letter  press 
of  the  forthcoming  volume,  which  he  thought 
would  nearly  terminate  his  labors,  and  bring 
him*  to  the  completion  of  a  work  on  which  he 
had  risked  his  reputation,  his  fortune,  and  his 
earthly  all.  Unhappily  this  object  was  attended 
with  such  an  excess  of  toil,  as  brought  on  one 
of  his  old  complaints,  which  had  gradually 
been  becoming  more  frequent  when  mind  or 
body  was  harrassed  and  agitated  in  the  prose 
cution  of  any  favorite  object.  The  dysentery, 
his  former  foe,  resumed  its  deadly  assaults,  and 
after  a  few  days  illness,  Wilson  expired,  August 
23,  1813,  in  the  48th  year  of  his  age. 

Sir  William  Jardine  says,  "  In  his  birthplace, 
a  society  has  been  formed  by  his  admirers, 
who  meet  annually  to  talk  over  past  recollec 
tions,  when  the  merits  of  his  works  and  the 
remembrance  of  the  deceased  poet  and  natu 
ralist  are  commemorated  in  a  speech  or  an 
ode."  Surely  America  .has  reason  to  do  him 
honor. 

It  is  mentioned  by  Mr.  Ord,  his  friend  and 
biographer,  that  Wilson  had  proposed,  on  the 
completion  of  his  Ornithology,  to  publish  an 
edition  in  four  volumes,  8vo.,  the  figures  to  be 
engraved  on  wood.  He  also  contemplated  a 
work  on  the  Quadrupeds  t>f  the  U.  S.,  to  be 
printed  in  the  same  style  as  the  Ornithology. 
Part  of  the  eighth  volume,  having  been  put 
through  the  press  while  the  author  was  living, 
the  remainder  was  edited  by  Mr.  Ord,  and  the 
8th  and  9th  volumes  were  published  in  Janu 
ary,  1814;  though  the  illustrations  had  all 
been  prepared  under  Wilson's  supervision  be 
fore  his  death.  Mr.  Ord  had  been  Wilson's 
assistant  in  his  rambles,  and  was  well  qualified 
to  complete  his  work.  He  accompanied  the 
9th  volume  with  a  life  of  its  author.  Subse 
quently  four  additional  volumes  were  giver 
to  the  world  by  Charles  Lucien  Bonaparte 


580 


ALEXANDER     WILSON. 


Prince  of  Musignano.  They  appeared  in  1828, 
the  first  of  which  was  edited  by  Dr.  John  D. 
Godman,  the  eminent  naturalist,  who  himself 
wrote  a  very  able  work  on  American  Quadru 
peds,  which  passed  through  a  number  of 
editions ;  the  last  three  volumes  were  edited 
by  Wm.  Cooper.  A  new  edition  of  Wilson's 
Ornithology,  the  letter  press  in  3  vols.  8  vo., 
and  the  plates  in  1  vol.,  royal  4to.,  was  pub 
lished  in  1825,  by  Harrison  Hall.  An  edition 
in  one  vol.,  octavo,  edited  by  Dr.  Brewer,  with 
notes,  was  published  in  Boston,  in  1841.  A 
new  edition  in  3  vols.,  imperial  8vo.,  with  an 
atlas  of  over  three  hundred  carefully  colored 
plates  from  Wilson's  original  plates  in  folio, 
is  about  to  be  reprinted  in  Philadelphia, 
1870,  by  Porter  and  Coates,  and  will  be  an 
ornament  and  a  valuable  addition  to  any 
library.  It  is  the  Classic  on  the  subject. 
Several  editions  of  the  work,  with  and  without 
plates,  have  been  issued  in  England. 

When  we  think  of  the  limited  opportunities 
Wilson  had  of  acquiring  information,  and  ex 
amine  the  result  of  his  life-long  endeavor  to 
leave  something  behind  him,  which  the  world 
would  not  willingly  let  die,  we  know  not 
whether  most  to  admire  his  indomitable  perse 
verance,  his  great  self-reliance,  or  the  natural 
ardor  of  his  mind,  which  could  carry  through 
to  a  successful  termination,  through  all  the 
difficulties  he  surmounted,  a  work  of  such 
magnitude.  His  descriptions  are  so  truthful, 
and  so  full  of  the  charm  of  nature,  as  at  once 
to  attract  the  most  casual  reader  by  the 
brilliant  sweetness  of  his  style,  while  his 
drawings,  unrivalled  for  their  accuracy  of 
engraving  and  coloring,  represent  each  bird  so 
faithfully,  as  to  size  and  color,  and  the  most 
likely  position  the  bird  is  usually  seen  in, 
that  the  most  careless  observer,  at  once  recog 
nizes  any  bird  he  may  ever  have  been  acquainted 
with,  even  if  so  long  ago  as  his  boyish  days. 
Another  great  merit  in  his  plates  is,  that  all 
the  birds  are  represented  the  size  of  life,  where 
possible,  while  the  others  are  drawn  to  an 
Accurate  scale,  which  is  of  vast  use  in  under 
standing  his  descriptions,  or  recognizing  the 
bird  when  seen. 

The  poems  of  Wilson  reflect  his  sympathies, 
his  sensibilities,  his  love  of  humorous  observa 
tion  among  men  ;  as  his  prose,  with  its  quick, 


lively  step  and  minute  discrimination,  so 
freshly  pictures  the  feathered  world.  He  has 
his  song  for  love  and  beauty,  and  his  similar 
choice  of  subject  in  ludicrous  tale  or  ballad,  with 
a  smarting  sense  of  wrong  and  poverty ;  while 
an  early  observation  in  natural  history,  and 
his  pursuit  of  descriptive  poetry,  belong  especi 
ally  to  Wilson  the  Naturalist.  We  may  add 
that  at  his  death,  Burns  wrote  one  of  his 
sweetest  songs  upon  Wilson,  invoking  the 
birds  to  join  in  mourning  "  wham  we  deplore." 
Speaking  to  a  friend  one  day  on  the  subject 
of  death,  Wilson  expressed  a  wish  that  his 
body  should  repose  in  some  rural  spot  sacred 
to  peace  and  solitude,  and  where  the  birds 
might  sing  over  his  grave.  He  was  buried  in 
the  cemetery  of  the  old  Swedes'  Church  in 
Southwark,  Philadelphia,  and  a  plain  marble 
tomb  marks  the  place  where  he  is  laid. 

In  his  personal  appearance,  Wilson  was  tall 
and  handsome ;  rather  slender  than  athletic  in 
form.  His  countenance  was  exprsssive  and 
thoughtful,  his  eye  powerful  and  intelligent, 
and  his  conversation  remarkable  for  quickness 
and  originality.  He  was  warm-hearted  and 
generous  in  his  affections,  and  through  life 
displayed  a  constant  attachment  to  his  friends, 
even  after  many  years  of  separation. 

Few  examples  can  be  found  in  literary  his 
tory  equal  to  that  of  Wilson.  Though  fully 
aware  of  the  difficulty  of  the  enterprise  in 
which  he  engaged,  his  heart  never  for  a  moment 
really  failed  him.  His  success  was  complete, 
for  his  work  on  Birds  has  secured  him  immor 
tal  honor.  We  conclude  with  a  quotation  from 
Burns : 


Thee,  Wilson,  Nature's  sel  shall  mourn 

By  wood  and  wild, 
Where,  haply,  pity  strays  forlorn, 

Frae  man  exil'd. 

Mourn,  ye  wee  songsters  o'  the  wood; 
Ye  groups  that  crop  the  heather  bud; 
Ye  curlews  calling  thro'  a  chid; 

Ye  whistling  plover; 
And  mourn,  ye  whirring  paitrick  brood; 

He's  garie  for  ever! 

Mourn,  clam'ring  craiks  at  close  o'  day, 
'Mang  fields  o'  flow'ring  clover  gay; 
And  when  ye  wing  your  annual  way 

Frae  our  cauld  shore, 
Tell  thae  far  warls,  wha  lies  in  clay, 

Wham  we  deplore. 


ALEXANDER     WILSON. 


5  81 


THE  BLUE-BIRD 

FROM   THE  AMERICAN   ORNITHOLOGY.  ' 

THE  pleasing  manners  and  sociable  disposition 
of  this  little  bird  entitle  him  to  particular  notice. 
As  one  of  the  first  messengers  of  spring,  bringing 
the  charming  tidings  to  our  very  doors,  he  bears 
his  own  recommendation  always  along  with  him, 
and  meets  with  a  hearty  welcome  from  every 
body. 

Though  generally  accounted  a  bird  of  passage, 
yet  so  early  as  the  middle  of  February,  if  the 
weather  be  open,  he  usually  makes  his  appearance 
about  his  old  haunts,  the  barn,  orchard  and  fence- 
posts.  Storms  and  deep  snows  sometimes  suc 
ceeding,  he  disappears  for  a  time ;  but  about  the 
middle  of  March  is  again  seen,  accompanied  by 
his  mace,  visiting  the  box  in  the  garden,  or  the 
hole  in  the  old  apple-tree,  the  cradle  of  some 
generations  of  his  ancestors.  "  When  he  first 
begins  his  amours,"  says  a  curious  and  correct 
observer,  "  it  is  pleasing  to  behold  his  courtship, 
his  solicitude  to  please  and  to  secure  the  favor  of 
his  beloved  female.  He  uses  the  tenderest  ex 
pressions,  sits  close  by  her,  caresses  and  sings  to 
her  his  most  endearing  warblings.  When  seated 
together,  if  he  espies  an  insect  delicious  to  her 
taste,  he  takes  it  up,  flies  with  it  to  her,  spreads 
his  wing  over  her  and  puts  it  in  her  mouth."  If 
a  rival  makes  his  appearance,  (for  they  are  ardent 
in  their  loves,)  he  quits  her  in  a  moment,  attacks 
and  pursues  the  intruder,  as  he  shifts  from  place  to 
place,  in  tones  that  bespeak  the  jealousy  of  his 
affection,  conducts  him  with  many  reproofs  beyond 
the  extremities  of  his  territory,  and  returns  to 
warble  out  his  transports  of  triumph  beside  his 
beloved  mate.  The  preliminaries  being  thus 
settled,  and  the  spot  fixed  on,  they  begin  to  clean 
out  the  old  nest,  and  the  rubbish  of  the  former 
year,  and  to  prepare  for  the  reception  of  their  future 
offspring.  Soon  after  this  another  sociable  little 
pilgrim  (Molacilla  domestica,  House  Wren),  also 
arrives  from  the  south,  and  finding  such  a  snug 
birth  pre-occupied,  shows  his  spite,  by  watching  a 
convenient  opportunity,  and  in  the  absence  of  the 
owner  popping  in  and  pulling  out  sticks  ;  but  takes 
special  care  to  make  off  as  fast  as  possible. 

The  female  lays  five,  and  sometimes  six,  eggs, 
of  a  pale  blue  color ;  and  raises  two,  and  some- 
(irnes  three  broods  in  a  season  ;  the  male  taking 
the  youngest  under  his  particular  care  while  the 
female  is  again  sitting.  Their  principal  food  are 
insects,  particularly  large  beetles,  and  others  of  the 
coleopterous  kinds  that  lurk  among  old  dead  and 
decaying  trees.  Spiders  are  also  a  favorite  repast 
with  them.  In  fall  they  occasionally  regale  them 
selves  on  the  berries  of  the  sour  gum  ;  and  as  winter 
approaches,  on  those  of  the  red  cedar,  and  on  the 
fruit  of  a  rough  hairy  vine  that  runs  up  and 
cleaves  fast  to  the  trunks  of  trees.  Ripe  persim 
mons  is  another  of  their  favorite  dishes ;  and  many 
other  fruits  and  seeds  which  I  have  found  in  their 
stomachs  at  that  season,  which,  being  no  botanist, 
I  am  unable  to  particularize.  They  are  frequently 
pestered  with  a  species  of  tape-worm,  some  of 


which  I  have  taken  from  their  intestines  of  an 
extraordinary  size,  and  in  some  cases  in  great 
numbers.  Most  other  birds  are  also  plagued  with 
these  vermin  ;  but  the  Blue-bird  seems  more  sub 
ject  to  them  than  any  I  know,  except  the  Wood 
cock.  An  account  of  the  different  species  of  ver 
min,  many  of  which  I  doubt  not  are  non-descripts, 
that  infest  the  plumage  and  intestines  of  our  birds, 
would  of  itself  form  an  interesting  publication  ; 
but  as  this  belongs  more  properly  to  the  ento 
mologist,  I  shall  only,  in  the  course  of  this  work, 
take  notice  of  some  of  the  most  remarkable ;  and 
occasionally  represent  them  in  the  same  plate 
with  those  birds  on  which  they  are  usually  found. 

The  usual  spring  and  summer  song  of  the 
Blue-bird  is  a  soft,  agreeable  and  oft-repeated 
warble,  uttered  with  open  quivering  wings,  and  is 
extremely  pleasing.  In  his  motions  and  general 
character  he  has  great  resemblance  to  the  Robin 
Red-breast  of  Britain ;  and  had  he  the  brown 
olive  of  that  bird,  instead  of  his  own  blue,  could 
scarcely  be  distinguished  from  him.  Like  him  he 
is  known  to  almost  every  child  ;  and  shows  as 
•much  confidence  in  man  by  associating  with  him 
in  summer,  as  the  other  by  his  familiarity  in 
winter.  He  is  also  of  a  mild  and  peaceful  disposi 
tion,  seldom  fighting  or  quarrelling  with  other 
birds.  His  society  is  courted  by  the  inhabitants 
of  the  country,  and  few  farmers  neglect  to  provide 
for  him, -in  some  suitable  place,  a  snug  little  sum 
mer  house,  ready  fitted  and  rent-free.  For  this  he 
more  than  sufficiently  repays  them  by  the  cheer 
fulness  of  his  song,  and  the  multitude  of  injurious 
insects  which  he  daily  destroys.  Towards  fall, 
that  is  the  month  of  October,  his  song  changes  to 
a  single  plaintive  note,  as  he  passes  over  the 
yellow,  many  colored  woods ;  and  his  melancholy 
air  recalls  to  our  minds  the  approaching  decay  of 
the  face  of  nature.  Even  after  the  trees  are  stript 
of  their  leaves,  he  still  lingers  over  his  native 
fields,  as  if  loth  to  leave  them.  About  the  middle 
or  end  of  November  few  or  none  of  them  are 
seen ;  but  with  every  return  of  mild  and  open 
weather  we  hear  his  plaintive  note  amidst  the 
fields,  or  in  the  air,  seeming  to  deplore  the  devasta 
tions  of  winter.  Indeed,  he  appears  scarcely  ever 
totally  to  forsake  us;  but  to  follow  fair  weather 
through  all  its  journeyings  till  the  return  of  spring. 

Such  are*  the  mild  and  pleasing  manners  of  the 
Blue-bird,  and  so  .universally  is  he  esteemed,  that 
I  have  often  regretted  that  no  pastoral  muse  has 
yet  arisen  in  this  western  woody  world,  to  do 
justice  to  his  name,  and  endear  him  to  us  still 
more  by  the  tenderness  of  verse,  as  has  been  done 
to  his  representative  in  Britain,  the  Robin  Red 
breast.  A  small  acknowledgment  of  this  kind  I 
have  to  offer,  which  the  reader  I  hope  will  excuse 
as  a  tribute  to  rural  innocence. 


When  winter's  cold  tempests  and  snows  are  no  more, 
Green  meadows  and  brown  f'urrow'd  fields   re-appearing, 

The  fishermen  hauling  their  nhsid  to  the  shore, 
And  cloud-cleaving  geese  to  the  Lakes  are  a-steering; 

When  first  the  lone  butterfly  flits  on  the  wing; 
When  red  glow  the  mnples.  so  fresh  and  so  pleasing, 

0  then  comes  the  Blue-bird,  the  HERALD  OF  SPRING! 
And  bails  with  his  warblings  the  charms  of  the  season. 


582 


ALEXANDER    WILSON 


Then  loud  piping  frogs  make  the  marshes  to  ring; 
Then  warm  glows  the  sunshine,  and  fine  is  the  weather; 

The  blue  woodland  flowers  just  beginning  to  spring, 
And,  spicewood  and  sassafras  budding  together: 

O  then  to  your  gardens  ye  housewives  repair? 
Your  walks  border  up  ;  sow  ar.d  plant  at  your  leisure; 

The  Blue-bird  will  chant  from  his  box  such  an  air, 
That  all  .your  hard  toils  will  seem  truly  a  pleasure. 

lie  flits  through  the  orchard,  he  visits  each  tree, 
The  red  flowering  peach  and  the  apple's  sweet  blossoms ; 

He  snaps  up  destroyers  wherever  they  be, 
And  seizes  the  caitiffs  that  lurk  in  their  bosoms; 

He  drags  the  vile  grub  from  the  corn  he  devours; 
The  worms  from  their  webs  where  they  riot  and  welter; 

His  song  and  his  services  freely  are  ours, 
And  all  that  he  asks  is,  in  summer  a  shelter. 

The  ploughman  is  pleased  when  he  gleams  in  his  train, 
Now  searching  the  furrows — now  mounting  to  cheer  him; 

The  gardener  delights  in  his  sweet  simple  strain, 
And  leans  on  his  spade  to  survey  and  to  hear  him; 

The  slow  ling'ring  schoolboys  forget  they'll  be  chid, 
While  gazing  intent  as  he  warbles  bef  >re  'em 

In  mantle  of  sky-blue,  and  bosom  so  red, 
That  each  little  loiterer  seems  to  adore  him. 

When  all  the  gay  scenes  of  the  summer  are  o'er, 
And  autum  slow  enters  30  silent  and  sallow, 

And  millions  of  warblers,  that  charmed  us  before, 
Have  fled  in  the  train  of  the  sun-seeking  swallow; 

The  Bine-bird,  forsaken,  yet  true  to  his  home. 
Still  lingers,  and  looks  f  >r  a  milder  to-morrow,  ^ 

Till  forced  by  the  horrors  of  winter  to  roam, 
He  sings  his  adieu  in  a  lone  note  of  sorrow. 

While  spring's  lovely  season,  serene,  dewy,  warm, 
The  green  face  of  earth,  and  the  pure  blue  of  heav'n, 

Or  love's  native  music  have  influence  to  charm, 
Or  sympathy's  glow  to  our  feelings  are  giv'n, 

Still  dear  to  each  bosom  the  Blue-bird  shall  be, 
His  voice,  like  the  thriilings  of  hope,  is  a  treisnre; 

For,  through  bleakest  storms  if  a  calm  he  but  see, 
He  comes  to  remind  us  of  sunshine  and  pleasure ! 

The  Blue-bird,  in  summer  and  fall,  is  fond  of 
frequenting  open  pasture  fields;  and  there  perch 
ing  on  the  stalks  of  the  great  mullein,  to  look  out 
for  passing  insects.  A  whole  family  of  them  are 
often  seen,  thus  situated,  as  if  receiving  lessons  of 
dexterity  from  their  more  expert  parents,  who  can 
espy  a  beetle  crawling  among  the  grass,  at  a  con 
siderable  distance ;  and  after  feeding  on  it,  instantly 
resume  their  former  position.  But  whoever  in 
formed  Dr.  Latham  that  "  this  bird  is  never  seen 
on  trees,  though  it  makes  its  nest  in  the  holes  of 
them  !"  might  as  well  have  said,  that  the  Ameri 
cans  are  never  seen  in  the  streets,  though  they 
build  their  houses  by  the  sides  of  them.  For 
what  is  there  in  the  construction  of  the  feet  and 
claws  of  this  bird  to  prevent  it  from  perching  1 
Or  what  sight  more  common  to  an  inhabitant  of 
this  country  than  the  Blue-bird  perched  on  the  top 
of  a  peach  or  apple-tree  ;  or  among  the  branches 
of  those  reverend  broadarmed  chestnut  trees,  that 
stand  alone  in  the  middle  of  our  fields,  bleached 
by  the  rains  and  blasts  of  ages  1 

The  blue-bird  is  six  inches  and  three  quarters  in 
length,  the  wings  remarkably  full  and  broad ;  the 
whole  upper  parts  are  of  a  rich  sky  blue,  with 
purple  reflections ;  the  bill  and  legs  are  black ;  in 
side  the  mouth  and  soles  of  the  feet  yellow,  resemb 
ling  the  color  of  a  ripe  persimmon ;  the  shafts  of 
all  the  wing  and  tail  feathers  are  black ;  throat, 
neck,  breast,  and  sides  partially  under  the  wings, 
chestnut;  win^s  dusky  black  at  the  tips;  belly 
and  vent  white ;  sometimes  the  secondaries  are 


exteriorly  light  brown,  but  the  bird  has  in  that 
case  not  arrived  at  his  full  color.  The  female  is 
easily  distinguished  by  the  duller  cast  of  the  back, 
the  plumage  of  which  is  skirted  with  light  brown, 
and  by  the  red  on  the  breast  being  much  fainter, 
and  not  descending  near  so  low  as  in  the  male ; 
the  secondaries  are  also  more  dusky.  This  species 
is  found  over  the  whole  United  States;  in  the 
Bahama  islands  where  many  of  them  winter;  as 
also  in  Mexico,  Brazil,  and  Guiana. 

Mr.  Edwards  mentions  that  the  specimen  of 
this  bird  which  he  was  favored  with,  was  sent 
from  the  Bermudas ;  and  as  Uiese  islands  abound 
with  the  cedar,  it  is  highly  probable  that  many  of 
those  birds  pass  from  our  continent  thence,  at  the 
commencement  of  winter,  to  enjoy  the  mildness 
of  that  climate  as  well  as  their  favorite  food. 

As  the  Blue-bird  is  so  regularly  seen  in  winter, 
after  the  continuance  of  a  few  days  of  mild  and 
open  weather,  it  has  given  rise  to  various  con 
jectures  as  to  the  place  of  his  retreat.  Some 
supposing  it  to  be  in  close  sheltered  thickets, 
lying  to  the  sun ;  others  the  neighborhood  of  the 
sea,  where  the  air  is  supposed  to  be  more  temperate, 
and  where  the  matters  thrown  up  by  the  waves 
furnish  him  with  a  constant  and  plentiful  supply 
of  food.  Others  trace  him  to  the  dark  recesses  of 
hollow  trees,  and  subterraneous  caverns,  where 
they  suppose  he  dozes  away  the  winter,  making, 
like  Robinson  Crusoe,  occasional  reconnoitring 
excursions  from  his  castle,  whenever  the  weather 
happens  to  be  favorable.  But  amidst  the  snows 
and  severities  of  winter  I  have  sought  for  him  in 
vain  in  the  most  favorable  sheltered  situations  of 
the  middle  states ;  and  not  only  in  the  neighbor 
hood  of  the  sea,  but  on  both  sides  of  the  moun 
tains.  I  have  never,  indeed,  explored  the  depths 
of  caverns  in  search  of  him,  because  I  would  as 
soon  expect  to  meet  with  tulips  and  butterflies 
there,  as  Blue-birds,  but  among  hundreds  of  wood 
men,  who  have  cut  down  trees  of  all  sorts,  and  at 
all  seasons,  I  have  never  heard  one  instance  of 
these  birds  being  found  so  immured  in  winter; 
while  in  the  whole  of  the  middle  and  eastern 
states,  the  same  general  observation  seems  to 
prevail  that  the  Blue-bird  always  makes  his  ap 
pearance  in  winter  after  a  few  days  of  mild  and 
open  weather.  On  the  other  hand,  I  have  myself 
found  them  numerous  in  the  woods  of  North  and 
South  Carolina,  in  the  depth  of  winter,  and  I  have 
also  been  assured  by  different  gentlemen  of  re 
spectability,  who  have  resided  in  the  islands  of 
Jamaica,  Cuba,  and  the  Bahamas  and  Bermudas, 
that  this  very  bird  is  common  there  in  winter. 
We  also  find,  from  the  works  of  Hernandcs  Piso 
and  others,  that  it  is  well  known  in  Mexico, 
Guiana  and  Brazil ;  and  if  so,  the  place  of  its 
winter  retreat  is  easily  ascertained,  without  having 
recourse  to  all  the  trumpery  of  holes  and  caverns, 
torpidity,  hybernation,  and  such  ridiculous  im 
probabilities. 

Nothing  is  more  common  in  Pennsylvania  than 
to  see  large  flocks  of  these  birds  in  spring  and  fall, 
passing,  at  considerable  heights  in  the  air ;  from 


ALEXANDER     WILSON. 


the  south  in  the  former,  and  from  the  north  in  the 
latter  season.  I  have  seen,  in  the  month  of  Octo 
ber,  about  an  hour  after  sun-rise,  ten  or  fifteen  of 
them  descend  from  a  great  height  and  settle  on 
the  top  of  a  tall  detached  tree,  appearing,  from 
their  silence  and  sedateness,  to  be  strangers;  and 
fatigued.  After  a  pause  of  a  few  minutes  they 
began  to  dress  and  arrange  their  plumage,  and 
continued  so  employed  for  ten  or  fifteen  minutes 
more;  then,  on  a  few  warning  notes  being  given, 
perhaps  by  the  leader  of  the  party,  the  whole  re 
mounted  to  a  vast  height,  steering  in  a  direct  line 
for  the  southwest.  In  passing  along  the  chain 
of  the  Bahamas  towards  the  West  Indies,  no  great 
difficulty  can  occur  from  the  frequency  of  these 
i.slands  ;  nor  even  to  the  Bermudas,  which  are  said 
to  be  600  miles  from  the  nearest  part  of  the  conti 
nent.  This  may  seem  an  extraordinary  flight  for 
so  small  a  bird  ;  but  it  is  nevertheless  a  fact  that  it 
is  performed.  '  If  we  suppose  the  Blue-bird  in  this 
case  to  fly  only  at  the  rate  of  a  mile  per  minute, 
which  is  less  than  I  have  actually  ascertained  him 
to  do  over  land,  ten  cy  eleven  hours  w.>uld  be 
sufficient  to  accomplish  the  journey  ;  besides  the 
chances  he  would  have  of  resting  places  by  the 
way,  from  the  number  of  vessels  that  generally 
navigate  those  seas.  In  like  manner,  two  days  at 
most,  allowing  for  numerous  stages  for  rest,  would 
conduct  him  from  the  remotest  regions  of  Mexico 
to  any  part  of  the  Atlantic  states.  When  the 
natural  history  of  that  part  of  the  continent  and 
its  adjacent  isles,  are  better  known,  and  the  periods 
at  which  its  birds  of  passage  arrive  and  depart,  are 
truly  ascertained,  I  have  no  doubt  but  these  sup 
positions  will  be  fully  corroborated. 


THE  BALD  EAGLE, 

FROM   THE   SAME. 

THIS  bird  has  been  long  known  to  naturalists, 
being  common  to  both  continents ;  and  occasionally 
met  with  from  a  very  high  northern  latitude,  to 
the  borders  of  the  torrid  zone,  but  chiefly  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  sea  and  along  the  shores  and 
cliffs  of  our  lakes  and  large  rivers.  Formed  by 
nature  for  braving  the  severest  cold  ;  feeding  equally 
on  the  produce  of  the  sea,  and  of  the  land  ;  possess 
ing  powers  of  flight,  capable  of  outstripping  even 
the.  tempests  themselves ;  unawed  by  anything  but 
man,  and,  from  the  ethereal  heights  to  which  he 
soars,  looking  abroad  at  one  glance, on  an  immeasur 
able  expanse  of  forests,  fields,  lakes  and  ocean,  deep 
below  him ;  he  appears  indifferent  to  the  little  lo 
calities  of  change  of  seasons  ;  as,  in  a  few  minutes 
he  can  pass  from  summer  to  winter,  from  the  lower 
to  the  higher  regions  of  the  atmosphere,  the  abode 
of  eternal  cold  ;  and  thence  descend  at  will  to  the 
torrid  or  the  arctic  regions  of  the  earth.  He  is 
therefore  found  at  all  seasons  in  the  countries  he  in 
habits;  but  prefers  such  places  as  have  been  men 
tioned  above,  from  the  great  partiality  he  has  for  fish. 

In  procuring  these  he  displays,  in  a  Very  singu 
lar  manner,  the  genius  and  energy  of  his  character, 
which  is  fierce,  contemplative,  daring  and  tyranni 


cal  ;  attributes  not  exerted  but  on  particular  occa 
sions  ;  but,  when  put  forth,  overwhelming  all  oppo 
sition.  Elevated  on  a  high  dead  limb  of  some 
gigantic  tree,  that  commands  a  wide  view  of  the 
neighboring  shore  and  ocean,  he  seems  calmly  to 
contemplate  the  motions  of  the  various  feathered 
tribes  that  pursue  their  busy  avocations  below  :  the 
snow-white  Gulls,  slowly  winnowing  the  air;  the 
busy  Tringse,  coursing  along  the  sands;  trains 
of  Ducks,  streaming  over  the  surface;  silent  and 
watchful  Cranes,  intent  and  wading;  clamorous 
crows,  and  all  the  winged  multitudes  that  subsist 
by  the  bounty  of  this  vast  liquid  magazine  of 
nature.  High  over  all  these  hovers  one,  whose  ac 
tion  instantly  arrests  all  his  attention.  By  his  wide 
curvature  of  wing,  and  sudden  suspension  in  air, 
he  knows  him  to  be  the  Fish-Hawk,  settling  over 
some  devoted  victim  of  the.  deep.  His  eye  kindles 
at  the  sight,  and  balancing  himself,  with  half- 
opened  wings,  on  the  branch,  he  watches  the  re 
sult.  Down,  rapid  as  an  arrow  from  heaven,  de 
scends  the  distant  object  of  his  attention,  the  roar 
of  its  wings  reaching  the  ear  as  it  disappears  in  the 
deep,  making  the  surges  foam  around  !  At  this 
moment  the  looks  of  the  Eagle  are  all  ardor;  and, 
levelling  his  neck  for  flight,  he  sees  the  Fish-Hawk 
once  more  emerge,  struggling  with  his  prey,  and 
mounting  in  the  air  with  screams  of  exultation. 
These  are  the  signal  for  our  hero,  who,  launching 
into  the  air,  instantly  gives  chase,  soon  gains  on 
the  Fish-Hawk.  Each  exerts  his  utmost  to  mount 
above  the  other,  displaying,  in  these  rencounters, 
the  most  elegant  and  sublime  aerial  evolutions. 
The  unencumbered  Eagle  rapidly  advances,  and  is 
just  on  the  point  of  reaching  his  opponent,  when, 
with  a  sudden'scream,  probably  of  despair  and  hon 
est  execration,  the  latter  drops  his  fish  ;  the  Eagle, 
poising  himself  for  a  moment  as  if  to  take  a  more 
certain  aim,  descends  like  a  whirlwind,  snatches 
it  in  his  grasp  ere  it  reaches  the  water,  and  bears 
his  ill-gotten  booty  silently  away  to  the  woods. 

These  predatory  attacks,  and  defensive  manoeu 
vres,  of  the  E  igle  and  the  Fish-Hawk,  are  matters 
of  daily  observation  along  the  whole  of  our  sea- 
coast,  from  Florida  to  New  England ;  and 
frequently  excite  great  interest  in  the  spectators. 
Sympathy,  however,  on  this,  as  on  most  other 
occasions,  generally  sides  with  the  honest  and 
laborious  sufferer,  in  opposition  to  the  attacks  of 
power,  injustice  and  rapacity ;  qualities  for  which 
our  hero  is  so  generally  notorious,  and  which, 
in  his  superior  man,  are  certainly  detestable.  As 
for  the  feelings  of  the  poor  fish,  they  seem  al 
together  out  of  the  question. 

When  driven,  as  he  sometimes  is,  by  the  com 
bined  courage  and  perseverance  of  the  Fish-Hawks 
from  their  neighborhood,  and  forced  to  hunt  for 
himself,  he  retires  more  inland,  in  search  of 
young  pigs,  of  which  he  destroys  great  numbers. 
In  the  lower  parts  of  Virginia  and  North  Carolina, 
where  the  inhabitants  raise  vast  herds  of  those 
animals,  complaints  of  this  kind  are  very  general 
against  him.  He  also  destroys  young  lambs  in  the 
early  part  of  spring  ;  and  will  sometimes  attack  old 
sickly  sheep,  aiming  furiously  at  their  eyes. 


BENJAMIN    SILLIMAN, 


[Born  1779.    Died  1864.] 


PROFESSOR  BENJAMIN  SILLIMAN,  the  son  of  G. 
S.  Stlliman,  a  lawyer  of  distinction,  and  a 
Revolutionary  patriot  and  soldier,  was  born 
in  North  Stratford,  now  Trumbull,  Conn. /Au 
gust  8,  1779.  He  entered  Yale  College,  in  1791, 
and  graduated  in  1796  ;  for  a  time  he  studied 
the  law;  in  1799  he  was  appointed  a  tutor  in  the 
College  ;  and  has  since  been  prominent  in  its 
faculty — his  professorship  of  Chemistry,  Min 
eralogy,  and  Geology,  dating  from  1804.  He 
devoted  himself  to  these  sciences  at  the  sug 
gestion  of  President  Dwight ;  studied  some 
time  in  New  Haven;  spent  two  seasons  in 
Philadelphia;  and  perfected  himself  in  Edin 
burgh  and  London,  where  he  purchased  scien 
tific  books  and  apparatus  for  the  college.  He 
had  given  a  partial  course  of  lectures  before  he 
went  abroad,  and  gave  his  first  full  course  in 
Yale,  in  1806-7.  In  1810,  he  published  his 
Journal  of  Travels  in  England,  Holland,  and 
Scotland,  and  two  passages  on  the  Atlantic, 
which  was  received  with  great  favor,  and 
passed  through  several  editions.  It  was  one 
of  the  first  of  which  an  account  was  published, 
in  the  United  States.  Nearly  fifty  years  later 
he  crossed  the  Atlantic  again,  and  has  con 
trasted  his  observations  after  this  interval  in 
the  two  volumes  which  he  published  in  1853, 
/  with  the  title,  A  Visit  to  Europe  in  1851.  An 
other  record  of  his  travels,  is  Remarks  made 
in  a  short  tour  between  Hartford  and  Quebec, 
in  the  autumn  of  1819.  Uniting  mineralogy 
and  geology  to  chemistry,  he  made  a  geological 
survey  of  Connecticut ;  observed  the  fall  of  a 
meteorite;  constructed,  with  the  aid  of  Profes 
sor  Hare,  a  compound  blowpipe,  and  repeated 
the  experiments  of  Sir  Humphry  Davy.  In 
the  coarse  of  his  college  engagement,  he  has 
published  Elements  of  Chemistry  in  the  order 
of  the  lectures  in  Yale  College,  in  1830;  and 
has  edited  Henry's  Chemistry,  and  Bakewell's 
Geology.  His  lectures  on  Chemistry,  to  which 
the  public  have  been  admitted,  at  Yale,  and 
which  he  has  delivered  in  the  chief  cities  of  the 
country,  have  gained  him  much  reputation, 
which  has  been  extended  at  home  and  abroad 
by  his  able  editorship  ol  the  American  Jour- 
584 


nal  of  Science,  of  whicn   he  commenced  the 
publication  in  1818. 

This  important  journal  was  commenced  in 
July,  1818,  and  was  sustained  for  many  years 
at  the  private  expense  of  Prof.  Silliman.  In 
April,  1838,  Benj.  Silliman,  Jr.,  became  asso 
ciate  editor.  The  first  series  of  the  Journal 
was  completed  in  1846,  in  50  vols.,  the  last  one 
being  a  full  Index  to  the  others.  A  second 
series  followed  with  Prof.  Jas.  D.  Dana,  as  as 
sociate  editor,  with  whom  others  have  since 
been  connected. 

This  Journal  is  well  known  and  appreciated 
throughout  the  learned  world,  and  has  become 
a  very  extensive  repository  of  the  scientific 
labors  of  our  countrymen,  and  will  ever  remain 
a  permanent  monument  of  the  editor's  zeal  and 
perseverance  in  his  studies. 

In  1853,  Prof.  Silliman  resigned  his  office  as 
a  Professor  in  Yale  College,  on  account  of 
growing  infirmities  of  age,  and  was  compli 
mented  with  the  title  of  "Professor  Emeritus." 
He  was  succeeded  in  the  Department  of  Geol 
ogy  by  Prof.  Jas.  D.  Dana,  arid  in  that  of 
Chemistry,  by  his  son,  B.  Silliman,  Jr.,  who  has 
proved  himself  a  worthy  successor  of  his  father, 
not  only  as  a  Professor,  but  as  a  scientific  man 
and  author.  He  has  published,  First  Princi 
ples  of  Chemistry ;  and  First  Principles  of 
Physics  or  Natural  Philosophy;  both  of  which 
have  been  largely  introduced  as  Text  Books. 

Prof.  Silliman,  who  had  been  for  nearly 
three-quarters  of  a  century  identified  with  the 
history  and  progress  of  Yale  College,  died  at 
his  residence,  in  New  Haven,  on  the  morning 
of  a  National  Thanksgiving,  Nov.  24,  1864. 
Though  far  advanced  in  life,  dying  at  the  age 
of  85,  time  had  laid  ;ts  hand  gently  upon  him  ; 
his  form  was  erect,  and  his  faculties  were  nn 
impaired  to  the  last,  adding  a  new  instance  to 
the  many  recorded  of  the  genial  old  age  of  natu 
ralists  and  men  of  science,  and  the  favorable 
influence  on  mind  and  body  of  their  pursuits. 
His  integrity  and  amiability  gained  him  the  uni 
versal  respect  of  his  friends  and  associates,  as  his 
services  to  the  cause  of  science,  made  his  name 
regarded  with  interest  throughout  the  world. 


BENJAMIN     SILLIMAN. 


5b5 


EXCURSION  TO  MONT  BLANC. 

VROM    A    VISIT    TO    EUROPE    IX    1851. 


MOXTAGNE  VERT  AND  THE  MER  DE  GLACE. 
. — In  reference  to  this  ascent,  we  secured  the  two 
guHes  esteemed  the  best  in  Chatnouni — Auguste 
Balmat  and  David  Coutet — the  same  that  have 
been  already  alluded  to.  We  were  early  on  our 
saddles,  upon  strong  mules,  but  not  with  decrepit 
horse  furniture,  as  in  some  former  mountain  jour 
neys ;  all  was  now  so  strong  and  good  as  to  com 
mand  our  confidence.  The  guides  went  on  foot. 
The  ladies  were  furnished  with  fortified  saddles 
to  gu  ird  against  falling  off,  and  they  had  each 
an  extra  attendant  walking  by  the  side  of  the 
mule. 

This  mountain  is  very  steep,  and  rocky ;  it  is 
exceedingly  encumbered  with  its  own  immense 
ruins,  which,  in  the  course  of  ages,  have  rolled 
down  from  its  summit  and  lodged  either  at  its 
base  or  on  its  flanks.  There  are  piles  on  piles  of 
rocks,  and  some  of  them  are  of  great  dimensions ; 
among  which,  to  clear  even  a  mule  path  has  evi 
dently  been  a  work  of  great  labor  and  difficulty. 
The  zigzag  ascent  winds  around  turns,  which  are 
very  abrupt  and  frequent.  They  often  pass  along 
the  edge  of  fearful  precipices,  where  a  false  step 
would  send  the  mule  and  the  rider  to  destruction. 
It  often  seems  as  if  the  apparently  perverse,  but 
really  skilful  little  animal,  was  about  to  walk  de 
liberately  off,  as,  in  order  that  his  feet  may  find 
their  proper  position,  his  head  and  neck  are  pro 
jected  beyond  the  road,  and  overhang  the  precipice. 
But  do  not  interfere  with  the  nice  balancing  of 
your  mule;  he  knows  better  than  you  can  instruct 
him  how  to  proceed,  and  has  not  the  least  inclina 
tion  to  roll  down  the  mountain,  although  the 
wrong  pulling  up  of  a  rein,  or  the  sudden  change 
of  position  of  a  heavy  man  on  the  saddle,  may 
force  him  and  yourself  to  that  result.  Trust  a 
good  Providence,  and  the  mule,  a-s  the  instru 
ment,  and  you  will  pass  safely  along  the  mountain 
steeps. 

The  ascent  occupied  two  hours  arid  a  half,  when 
we  arrived  at  the  hotel  near  tlie  top  of  the  moun 
tain,  which  falls  but  a  few  hundred  feet  short  of 
being  as  high  as  Mount  Washington  in  New 
Hampshire.  We  found  that  several  strangers  had 
already  arrived,  like  us,  to  see  the  glacier;  our  po 
sition  enabled  us  to  look  down  upon  the  Mer  de 
Glace,  and,  being  furnished  each  with  an  alpen 
stock,  we  cautiously  descended  the  b.uik  of  the 
mountain,  which  inclines  with  a  gentle  slope  down 
to  '*  •  sea  of  ice. 

I  .i  :  ME$  DE  GLACE We  were  nerain  favored 

by  u.  »e  weather,  and  the  sun  shone  bright.  In  a 
rain,  it  would  be  dangerous  to  walk  on  the  slippery 
ice,  and  in  a  fog  or  snow-storm  (for  on  the  high 
Alps  snow-storms  occur  in  all  the  months  of  the 
year)  in  such  circumstances  the  adventurer  would 
be  in  constant  danger  of  falling  into  the  yawning 
crevasses. 

Arrived  upon  its  immense  and  cold  bosom,  we 
looked  eagerly  around,  and  saw  that  it  was  indeed 
a  sea  of  ice  ;  or  rather,  it  is  like  a  great  river  sud- 
74 


denly  congealed  in  the  midst  of  a  tempest.  By 
a  little  practice  with  our  poles  pointed  with  iron, 
we  acquired  confidence,  and  made  excursions  in 
various  directions.  This  glacier  is,  indeed,  a  won 
der.  From  the  mountain  top  it  descends  more 
than  20  miles,  and  has  an  extent,  as  our  guides 
assured  us,  of  more  thai>  50,  if  all  the  ramifica 
tions  are  included  ;  it  reaches  quite  down  into  the 
valley  of  Chamouni.  The  breadth  of  this  glacier, 
in  that  portion  which  was  under  our  immediate 
inspection,  is  from  half  a  mile  to  a  mile.  It  is,  at 
present,  much  divided  by  cross  fissures  or  crevasses, 
which  grow  more  numerous  as  the  season  advan 
ces.  The  glacier,  by  moving  downward,  at  the 
rate  of  more  than  a  foot  in  a  day,  is  impeded  by 
the  rocky  bottom,  and  as  the  ice,  thus  hooked  and 
grappled  by  the  pointed  rocks,  hangs  there  in  op 
position  to  gravity,  which  is  constantly  urging  the 
mass  downward,  it  cracks,  forming  those  open  fis 
sures  which  the  French  call  crevasses.  An  in 
telligible  description  of  a  glacier  is  not  an  easy 
thing.  It  is  not,  as  one  might  suppose,  a  smooth 
glassy  surface,  like  that  on  a  quiet,  congealed  lake ; 
possibly  in  the  very  elevated  regions  it  may  have 
that  appearance,  but  in  these  lower  regions  it  is  a 
continuous  series  of  masses  connected,  indeed,  be 
low,  but  so  separated  above  by  the  fissures,  that 
the  portions  appear  like  vast  white  rocks — white 
originally,  but  the  fine  fragments  and  dust  of  the 
granite  and  other  rocks,  disintegrated  by  the 
weather  on  the  exposed  cliffs,  and  blown  down 
upon  the  surface  of  the  glaciers,  gives  them  that 
soiled  and  dingy  aspect  which  they  present.  It 
has  often  been  remarked  by  those  who  have  ex 
amined  the  glaciers,  that  rocks  and  stones,  falling 
upon  them,  are  buried  in  the  falling  snows  of  the 
higher  regions,  and  by  the  melting  and  freezing 
of  the  snow,  they  become  eventually  buried  in  solid 
ice.  In  the  progress  of  years,  and  in  the  succes 
sion  of  summers,  as  the  glacier  advances  downward, 
bearing  along  these  rocks  and  stones,  they  are  dis 
closed  by  the  melting  of  their  covering,  and  thus 
they  come  into  view  as  if  they  had  actually  risen. 
Sometimes  they  so  effectually  cover  and  protect 
the  ice  on  which  they  lie,  that  it  does  not  sensibly 
melt  beneath  them,  while  the  general  surface  all 
around  is  lowered  by  the  melting,  and  thus  it  hap 
pens  that  a  rock  may  stand  on  a  pedestal  of  ice  some 
times  several  feet  or  yards  above  the  general  level 
— and  many  such  rocks  may  bt?  in  view  at  once , 
but  eventually  the  pedestals  give  way,  and  the  ele 
vated  rocks  fall  to  the  common  level. 

The  fissures  and  crevasses  are  so  numerous  and 
deep,  and  their  edges  are  so  slippery,  that  great 
care  is  requisite  at  all  times  to  avoid  falling  into 
them  ;  when  they  are  concealed  by  snow,  arched 
over  them,  the  danger  becomes  imminent,  and  in 
such  cases  the  cautious  guides  try  the  soundness  of 
the  footing  by  applying  the  iron-pointed  alpenstock. 
The  sides  of  the  crevasses  are  of  a  splendid  blue- 
green  color,  and  the  ice  often  contains  pools  of  pel 
lucid  water;  the  more  superficial  cavities  or  little 
lakes,  accessible  without  danger,  and  the  water,from 
its  purity  and  coldness,  is  very  refreshing  to  the 
traveller.  Rills  of  water,  coursing  over  the  surfacr 


536 


BENJAMIN     SILLIMAN. 


plunge  into  the  crevasses  and  are  lost,  all  but  the 
musical  murmur  of  their  fall. 

Even  the  masses,  which  externally  are  soiled 
and  dirty,  on  heing  broken  exhibit  pure  and  trans 
parent  ice,  looking  like  the  most  perfect  rock  crys 
tal.  Every  morning  the  hotels  are  supplied  by 
reporting  to  the  lower  end  of  the  glaciers.  They 
need  wish  for  nothing  purer ;  and  thus  they  have 
an  unfailing  supply  from  these  great  natural  ice 
houses — sources  which  are  perennial  and  inex 
haustible. 

The  first  appearance  of  the  glaciers  is  like  that 
of  a  fearfully  agitated  ocean,  tossed  by  violent,  and 
conflicting,  and  eddying  winds,  congealed  ere  the 
billows  have  had  time  to  subside,  and  thus  preserv 
ing  all  its  high  ridges,  its  peaks,  and  deep  hollows. 
Still,  there  is  a  degree  of  regularity  in  the  confus 
ion :  the  tumult  has  observed  a  law  which  has 
opened  the  fissures,  in  curves,  parallel,  and  nearly 
at  right  angles  to  the  rocky  banks,  the  convexity 
being  downwards  from  its  source. 

MORAINES. — This  is  the  name  given  of  old  to 
the  piles  of  rocks,  and  stones,  and  ruins  which  are 
crowded  along  the  sides  of  the  glaciers,  forming 
la'eral  moraines ;  and  the  name  includes  also 
those  still  more  considerable  piles  that  are  both 
borne  along  by  the  glacier  and  pushed  before  it  in 
its  descending  course,  forming  terminal  moraines. 
From  our  present  point  of  view,  we  could  see  only 
the  lateral  moraines  of  the  Mer  da  Glace ;  the  ter 
minal  we  reserved  for  another  occasion.  The  lat 
eral  accumulations  are  here  very  great ;  they  form 
a  high  and  rough  border  of  granite  rocks,  which 
are,  in  some  instances,  very  large  ;  and  as  they 
often  lie  high  above  the  glacier,  forming  a  train 
along  the  naked  rocky  sides,  they  prove  that  the 
glacier  has  been  anciently  much  thicker,  and  has 
descended  at  a  higher  elevation. 

ROCKS  BORNE  AT.OXG  on  the  surface  of  the  gla 
cier  are  very  numerous,  and  like  those  arranged 
along  the  sides,  they  are  granite,  often  in  enormous 
blocks.  They  either  lie  upon  the  glacier,  or  re 
pose  in  its  crevasses,  or  are  frozen  into  it  in  mass; 
and  as  they  move  downward,  with  a  progress  slow 
indeed,  but  sure,  they  will  eventually  find  their 
place  in  the  lower  country,  or  they  will  be  piled 
up  along  the  sides  in  lateral  moraines. 

The  theory  of  glaciers  cannot  be  adequately 
discussed  in  these  rapid  popular  remarks;  but  the 
writings  of  Agassiz,  Charpentier,  Forbes  of  Edin 
burgh,  Guyot,  and  other  eminent  Alpine  travellers 
and  writers,  affml  ample  information.  The  trans 
portation  of  rocks  by  glaciers  to  great  distances  is 
a  fact  fully  established.  The  rocks  have  fallen 
from  the  higher  cliffs,  and  have  been  borne  alon<r 
dov/uward.  The  masses  of  rocks  and  stones  that 
are  pressed  beneath  the  glacier  during  the  season 
of  its  motion,  in  the  summer,  or  between  it  and 
the  lateral  walls,  produce  those  furrows,  scratches, 
and  grooves,  and  those  polished  surfaces,  which 
are  observed  in  all  the  countries  where  glaciers 
exist,  and  often  also  where  they  are  not  found  at 
the  present  day.  The  erratic  rocks,  called  bould 
ers,  have  often  the  same  origin  as  those  on  the 
back  of  the  great  and  little  Saldve,  near  Geneva. 


Floating  icebergs  have  also  been  efficient  in  the 
transportation  of  the  erratics.  This  necessity 
implies  submergence  of  the  countries  over  which 
the  bergs  have  passed  ;  just  as  they  are,  in  fact, 
floated  in  the  present  era  from  the  polar  regions 
of  both  hemispheres;  and,  therefore,  we  must  ad 
mit  the  existence  of  elevated  ice-bound  cliffs  to 
form  the  icebergs,  and  to  afford  masses  of  rock. 

Currents  and  deluges  of  water,  especially  when 
favored  by  gravity,  may  have  been,  to  a  certain 
extent,  auxiliary  to  the  movement  of  rocks  ;  but 
they  are  not  of  themselves  competent  to  place  the 
boulders  where  we  often  find  them,  perched  high 
on  mountain  tops,  or  reclining  on  their  declivities; 
and  often  the  boulders,  as  we  have  recently  seen 
on  the  Saleve,  are  not  only  of  an  entirely  different 
nature  from  the  mountain  on  which  they  lie,  but 
they  offer  no  proof  of  friction,  their  sharp  and  an 
gular  outline  being  still  well  defined. 

"A  glacier,"  says  Professor  Forbes,  "  is  an  end 
less  scroll — a  stream  of  time,  upon  whose  stain 
less  ground  is  engraven  the  succession  of  events, 
whose  dates  far  transcend  the  memory  of  living  man. 

"At  the  usual  rate  of  descent,  a  rock  which  fell 
upon  a  high  glacier  200  years  ago,  mny  only  just 
now  have  reached  its  final  resting-place  in  the 
lower  country  ;  and  a  block  larger  than  the  largest 
of  Egyptian  obelisks  may  occupy  the  time  of  six 
generations  of  men  in  its  descent,  before  it  is  laid 
low  in  the  common  grave  of  its  predecessors." 

The  glaciers  often  terminate  so  abruptly  that 
corn  has  been  seen  to  grow  next  to  the  glacier, 
and  the  inhabitants  have  gathered  ripe  cherries, 
while  standing  with  one  foot  on  the  tree  and  the 
other  on  the  glacier. 

THE  SCENERY  AROUND  THE  MER  TE  GLACE. 
— The  aspect  of  the  mountains  here  is  very  sub 
lime.  Far,  very  far  above  the  observer,  the  snowy 
ridges,  peaks  and  domes  rise  in  solemn  grandeur, 
mantled  with  ever-during  ice.  Before  and  around 
the  observer  are  the  naked  Aiguilles,  needle-shaped 
mountains,  composed  of  rocks  whose  sides  are  so 
steep  that  snow  will  not  lie  upon  them.  They  are 
rude,  acute  cones,  sometimes  solitary  and  again 
grouped,  rising  many  thousand  feet  above  the  Mer 
de  Glace,  and  so  very  precipitous  that  they  cannot 
be  climbed.  Only  birds  of  the  most  powerful  wing 
can  scale  their  walls,  or  gain  their  summit.  The 
Aiguille  de  Dru  is  the  most  remarkable.  It  rose 
before  us  to-day  in  solitary  grandeur.  It  is  ex 
ceedingly  acute,  is  very  high,  perhaps  60CO  feet, 
above  the  glacier,  and  is  garnished  with  manv  sub 
ordinate  bristling  points,  which  appear  like  delicate 
Gothic  turrets,  or  minarets  of  Saracenic  architecture. 

One  of  our  party  remarked,  that  the  Val  del 
Bove  was  here  repeated,  although  on  a  greatly 
diminished  scale;  instead,  however,  of  an  amphi 
theatre  of  lava  it  was  an  amphitheatre  of  ice,  piled 
up  in  the  same  wild  confusion.  The  immense 
mountains  of  snow  above,  the  rocky  walls  of  the 
yawning  gulf,  and  the  groups  of  Aiguilles,  in 
cluded  an  am  phi  theatrical  area,  depressed  thou 
sands  of  feet,  like  the  volcanic  floor  of  the  Val  del 
Bove,  and,  like  that,  having  a  still  lower  outlet  of 
communication  with  the  nether  world. 


GEORGE    TICKNOR. 


[Born  1791.] 


GEORGE  TICKXOR  was  born  in  Boston,  August 
],  1791,  and  graduated  at  Dartmouth  College 
at  sixteen.  He  occupied  himself  the  next  three 
years  in  Boston  with  a  diligent  study  of  the 
ancient  classics,  when  he  engaged  in  the 
study  of  the  law,  and  was  admitted  to  the 
bar  in  1813.  The  tastes  of  the  scholar,  how 
ever,  prevailed  over  the  practice  of  the  profes 
sion,  and  in  1815,  Mr.  Ticknor  sailed  for 
Europe,  to  accomplish  himself  in  the  thorough 
course  of  instruction  of  a  German  University. 
He  passed  five  years  in  studying  the  languages 
and  literature  of  Europe,  residing  at  Gottingen, 
Paris,  Madrid,  Lilbon,  Rome,  and  Edinburgh, 
making  the  acquaintance  of  eminent  scholars 
on  the  Continent  and  Great  Britain,  among 
others  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  Robert  Southey, 
who  admired  his  scholarship,  and  stock  of 
curious  Spanish  lore,  maintaining  afterwards 
intimate  correspondence  and  association  in 
similar  pursuits  and  scholarship.  Scott,  whom 
he  visited  at  Abbotsford  in  1819,  speaks  of  Mr. 
Ticknor  in  one  of  his  letters,  as  "  a  wondrous 
fellow  for  romantic  lore  and  antiquarian 
research." 

Mr.  Tieknor  returned  home  in  1820,  to  enter 
upon  the  duties  of  a  new  Professorship  of 
Modern  Languages  and  Literature,  in  Harvard 
University,  to  which  he  had  been  appointed 
during  his  absence.  Well  qualified,  he  became 
actively  engrossed  in  its  duties,  delivering 
lectures  on  French  and  Spanish  literature ;  on 
particular  authors,  as  Dante  and  Goethe  ;  on 
the  English  poets,  and  other  kindred  topics. 
Mr.  Prescott  says,  "  The  influence  of  this 
instruction  was  soon  visible  in  the  higher 
education  as  well  as  the  literary  ardor  shown 
by  the  graduates.  So  decided  was  the  impulse 
thus  given  to  the  popular  sentiment,  that  con 
siderable  apprehension  was  felt,  lest  modern 
literature  was  to  receive  a  disproportionate 
share  of  attention  in  the  scheme  of  collegiate 
education." 

After  fifteen  years  passed  in  these  liberal 
duties  at  Harvard,  Mr.  Ticknor,  in  1835,  resigned 
his  professorship,  and  with  his  family  paid  a 
Becond  visit  to  Europe.  He  passed  three  years 

o87 


in  England  and  on  the  Continent ;  collecting 
books  on  Spanish  literature.  In  1840,  after 
his  return  to  America,  completely  armed  by 
his  studies  in  Europe,  the  mental  experience 
of  his  previous  course  of  lectures,  and  with 
the  rich  resources  of  an  unexampled  collection 
of  Castilian  literature  in  his  library,  Mr.  Tick 
nor  commenced  his  important  work  on  Span 
ish  literature. 

The  History  of  Spanish  Literature  was  pub 
lished  in  1£49,  in  London  and  New  York,  in 
3  vols.,  8vo.,  uniform  with  Prescott:s  Works. 
It  at  once  arrested  the  attention  of  scholars 
on  both  sides  the  Atlantic,  and  received  the 
highest  encomiums  from  the  principal  Journals 
and  Reviews  of  England  and  the  Continent,  as 
a  standard  contribution  to  the  history  of  litera 
ture.  The  extent  of  its  research  was  uni 
versally  admired,  and  its  style  at  once  modest 
and  dignified,  and  associated  with  a  sound 
judgment,  followed  the  subject  without  preju 
dice,  or  those  affectations  which  are  the  beset 
ting  sins  of  writers  on  taste.  He  illustrates 
the  work  by  the  personal  history  of  the  authors 
mentioned,  and  this  again  by  the  history  of 
the  times  in  which  they  lived.  The  History 
was  translated  into  the  Spanish  and  German 
languages. 

Besides  this  important  work,  Mr.  Ticknor 
has  published,  the  Remains  of  Nathaniel 
Appleton  Haven,  with  a  Memoir ;  and  a  Life 
of  Lafayette,  enlarged  from  his  article  in  the 
North  American  Review,  that  has  passed 
through  several  editions,  and  was  translated 
in  France  and  Germany.  He  has  also  Avritten 
one  of  the  most  admirable  pieces  of  biography, 
a  Life  of  his  friend,  Wm.  H.  Prescott;  the  first 
edition  was  published  in  1864,  sumptuously 
in  4to.,  and  has  passed  through  several  editions 
in  8vo. 

He  has  written  a  number  of  articles  for 
periodicals,  and  also  taken  great  interest  in 
the  cause  of  education.  His  noble  library,  one 
of  the  finest  in  the  country,  particularly  on 
certain  subjects,  has  always  been  opened  to  the 
scholar  in  search  of  anything,  which  its  treas 
ures  could  impart. 


588 


GEORGE     TICKNOR. 


DON  QUIXOTE. 

FROM   HISTORY  OF   SPANISH   LITERATURE. 

AT  the  very  beginning  of  his  work,  Cervantes 
announces  it  to  be  his  sole  purpose  to  break  down 
the  vogue  and  authority  of  books  of  chivalry,  and, 
at  the  end  of  the  whole,  he  declares  anew,  in  his 
own  person,  that  "  he  hud  had  no  other  desire  than 
to  rentier  abhorred  of  men  the  false  and  absurd 
stories  contained  in  hooks  of  chivalry  ;"  exulting  in 
his  success,  as  an  achievement  of  no  small  moment. 
And  such,  in  fact,  it  was;  for  we  have  abundant 
proof  tint  the  fanaticism  for  these  romances  was 
so  great  in  Spain,  during  the  sixteenth  century, 
as  to  have  become  matter  of  alarm  to  the  more  ju 
dicious.  At  last,  they  were  deemed  so  noxious, 
that,  in  1553,  they  were  prohibited  by  law  from 
being  printed  or  sold  in  the  American  colonies,  and 
in  1555  the  same  prohibition,  and  even  the  burn 
ing  of  all  copies  of  them  extant  in  Spain  itself,  was 
earnestly  asked  for  by  the  Cortes.  i'lie  evil,  in 
fact,  had  become  formidable,  and  the  wise  began 
to  see  it. 

To  destroy  a  passion  that  had  struck  its  roots  so 
deeply  in  the  character  of  all  classes  of  men,  to 
break  up  the  only  reading  which  at  that  time  could 
be  considered  widely  popular  and  fashionable,  was 
certainly  a  bold  undertaking,  and  one  that  marks 
;i  lything  rather  than  a  scornful  or  broken  spirit, 
or  a  want  of  faith  in  wlvit  is  most  to  be  valued  in 
our  common  nature.  The  great  wonder' is,  that 
Cervantes  succeeded.  But  that  he  did  there  is  no 
question.  No  book  of  chivalry  was  written  after 
the  appearance  of  Don  Quixote,  in  1605  ;  and  from 
the  frame  date,  even  those  already  enjoying  the  great 
est  favor  ceased,  with  one  or  two  unimportant  excep 
tions,  to  be  reprinted  ;  so  that,  from  that  time  to 
the  present,  they  have  been  constantly  disappear 
ing,  until  they  are  now  among  the  rarest  of  literary 
curiosities  ; — a  solitary  instance  of  the  power  of 
genius  to  destroy,  by  a  single  well-timed  blow,  an 
entire  department,  and  that,  too,  a  flourishing  and 
f.ivored  one,  in  the  literature  of  a  great  and  proud 
nation. 

.The  general  plan  Cervantes  adopted  to  accom 
plish  this  object,  without,  perhaps,  foreseeing  its 
whole  course,  and  still  less  all  its  result?,  was  sim 
ple  as  well  as  original.  In  1605,  he  published  the 
First  Part  of  Don  Quicote,  in  which  a  country 
gentleman  of  La  Mancha — full  of  genuine  Castil- 
ian  honor  and  enihusi&tm,  gentle  and  dignified  in 
his  character,  trusted  by  his  friends,  and  loved  by 
his  depiMilants — is  represented  as  so  completely 
crazed  by  long  reading  the  most  famous  books  of 
chivalry,  that  he  believes  them  lobe  true,  and  feels 
himself  called  on  to  become  the  impossible  knight- 
errant  they  describe, — nay,  actually  goes  forth  into 
the  world  to  defend  the  oppressed  and  avenge  the 
injured,  like  the  heroes  of  his  romances. 

To  complete  his  chivalrous  equipment, — which 
he  had  begun  by  fitting  up  for  himself  a  suit  of 
armor  strange  to  his  century, — he  took  an  esquire 
out  of  his  neighborhood  ;  a  middle-aged  peasant, 
ignorant  and  cre.lulous  to  excess,  but  of  great 
good- nature  ;  a  glutton  and  a  liar;  selfish  and 


gross,  yet  attached  to  his  master ;  shrewd  enough 
occasionally  to  see  the  folly  of  their  position,  but 
always  amusing,  and  sometimes  mischievous,  in 
his  interpretations  of  it.  These  two  sally  forth 
from  their  native  village  in  search  of  adventures, 
of  which  the  excited  imagination  of  the  knight, 
turning  windmills  into  giants,  solitary  inns  into 
castles,  and  galley-slaves  into  oppressed  gentlemen, 
finds  abundance  wherever  he  goes;  while  the  es 
quire  translates  them  all  into  the  plain  prose  of 
truth  with  an  admirable  simplicity,  quite  uncon 
scious  of  its  own  humor,  and  rendered  the  more 
striking  by  its  contrast  with  the  lofty  and  courteous 
dignity  and  magnificent  illusions  of  the  superior 
personage.  There  could,  of  course,  be  but  one 
consistent  termination  of  adventures  like  these. 
The  knight  and  his  esquire  suffer  a  series  of  ridi 
culous  discomfitures,  and  are  at  last  brought  home, 
like  madmen,  to  their  native  village,  where  Cer 
vantes  leaves  them,  with  an  intimation  that  the 
story  of  their  adventures  is  by  no  means  ended. 
*  ****** 

The  latter  half  of  Don  Quixote  is  a  contradiction 
of  the  proverb  Cervantes  ril.es  in  it, — that  second 
parts  were  never  yet  good  for  much.  It  is,  in  fact, 
better  than  the  tinst.  It  shows  more  freedom  and 
vigor;  and,  if  the  carricature  is  sometimes  pushed 
to  the  very  verge  of  what  is  permitted,  the  inven 
tion,  the  style  of  thought,  and,  indeed,  the  mater 
ials  throughout,  are  richer,  and  the  finish  is  more 
exact.  The  character  of  Samson  Carrasco,  for  in 
stance,  is  a  very  happy,  though  somewhat  bold, 
addition  to  the  original  persons  of  the  drama  ;  and 
the  adventures  at  the  castle  of  the  Duke  and 
Duchess,  where  Don  Quixote  is  fooled  to  the  top 
of  his  bent;  the  managements  of  Sancho  as  gov 
ernor  of  his  island  ;  the  visions  and  dreams  of  the 
cave  of  Montesinos;  the  scenes  with  Koque  Guin- 
art,  the  freebooter,  and  with  Gines  de  Passamonte, 
the  galley-slave  and  puppet-show  man  ;  together 
with  the  mock-heroic  hospitalities  of  Don  Antonio 
Moreno  at  Barcelona,  and  the  final  defeat  of  the 
knight  there,  are  all  admirable.  In  truth,  every 
thing  in  this  Second  Part,  especially  its  general 
outline  and  tone,  show  that  time  and  a  degree  of 
success  he  had  not  before  known  had  ripened  and 
perfected  the  strong  manly  sense  and  sure  insight 
into  human  nature  which  are  visible  everywhere 
in  the  works  of  Cervantes,  and  which  here  become 
a  part,  as  it  were,  of  his  peculiar  genius,  whose 
foundations  had  been  laid,  dark  and  deep,  amidst 
the  trials  and  sufferings  of  his  various  life. 

But  throughout  both  parts,  Cervantes  shows  the 
impulses  and  instincts  of  an  original  power  with 
most  distinctness  in  his  development  of  the  charac 
ters  of  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  ;  characters  in 
whose  contrast  and  opposition  is  hidden  the  full 
spirit  of  his  peculiar  humor,  and  no  small  part  of 
what  is  most  characteristic  of  the  entire  fiction. 
They  are  his  prominent  personages.  He  delights, 
therefore,  to  have  them  as  much  as  possible  in  the 
front  of  his  scene.  They  grow  visibly  upon  his 
favor  as  he  advances,  and  the  fondness  of  his  liking 
for  them  makes  him  constantly  produce  thorn  in 
lights  and  relations  as  little  foreseen  by  himself  as 


GEORGE     TICKNOR. 


they  are  by  his  readers.  The  knight,  -/vho  seems 
to  have  been  originally  intended  for  a  parody  of 
the  Amadis,  becomes  gradually  a  detached,  separ 
ate,  and  wholly  independent  personage,  into  whom 
is  infused  so  much  of  a  generous  and  elevated  na 
ture,  such  gentleness  and  delicacy,  such  a  pure 
sense  of  honor,  anil  such  a  warm  love  for  whatever 
is  noble  and  good,  that  we  feel  almost  the  same 
attachment  to  him  that  the  barber  and  the  curate 
did,  and  are  almost  as  ready  as  his  family  was  to 
mourn  over  his  death. 

The  case  of  S.incho  is  again  very  similar,  and 
perhaps  in  some  respects  stronger.  At  lirst,  he  is 
introduced  as  the  opposite  of  Don  Quixote,  and 
used  merely  to  bring  out  his  master's  peculiarities 
in  a  more  striking  relief.  It  is  not  until  we  have 
gone  through  nearly  half  of  the  First  Part  that  he 
utters  one  of  those  proverbs  which  form  afterwards 
the  staple  of  his  conversation  and  humor ;  and  it 
is  not  till  the  opening  of  the  Second  Part,  and, 
indeed,  not  till  he  comes  forth,  in  all  his  mingled 
shrewdness  and  credulity,  as  governor  of  Barataria, 
that  his  character  is  quite  developed  and  completed 
to  the  full  measure  of  its  grotesque,  yet  congruous, 
proportions. 

Cervantes,  in  truth,  came,  at  last,  to  love  these 
creations  of  his  marvellous  power,  as  if  they  were 
real,  familiar  personages,  and  to  speak  of  them  and 
treat  them  with  an  earnestness  and  interest  that 
tend  much  to  the  illusion  of  his  readers.  Both  Don 
Quixote  and  Sancho  are  thus  brought  before  us, 
like  such  living  realities,  that,  at  this  moment,  the 
figures  of  the  crazed,  gaunt,  dignified  knight  and 
of  his  round,  selfish,  and  most  amusing  esquire 
dwell  bodied  forth  in  the  imaginations  of  more, 
among  all  conditions  of  men  throughout  Christen 
dom,  than  any  other  of  the  creations  of  human 
talent.  

PRESCQTTS  METHOD  OF  LIVING. 

FROM   TKE   SAME. 

THAT  Mr.  Prescott,  under  his  disheartening  in 
firmities, — I  refer  rjot  only  to  his  imperfect  sight,  but 
to  the  rheumatism  from  which  he  was  seldom  wholly 
free, — should,  at  the  age  of  tive-and-twenty  or 
thirty,  with  no  help  but  this  simple  apparatus, 
have  aspired  to  the  character  of  an  historian  deal 
ing  with  events  that  happened  in  times  and  coun 
tries  far  distant  from  his  own,  and  that  are  re 
corded  chiefly  in  foreign  languages  and  by  authors 
whose  conflicting  testimony  was  often  to  be  recon 
ciled  by  laborious  comparison,  is  a  remarkable  fact 
in  literary  history.  It  is  a  problem  the  solution 
of  which  was,  I  believe,  never  before  undertaken ; 
certainly  never  before  accomplished.  Nor  do  I 
conceive  that  he  himself  could  have  accomplished 
it,  unless  to  his  uncommon  intellectual  gifts  had 
been  added  great  animal  spirits,  a  strong,  persistent 
will,  and  a  moral  courage  which  was  to  be  daunted 
by  no  obstacle  that  he  might  deem  it  possible  to 
remove  by  almost  any  amount  of  effort. 

That  he  was  not  insensible  to  the  difficulties  of 
his  undertaking,  we  have  partly  seen,  as  we  have 
witnessed  how  his  hopes  fluctuated  while  he  was 


struggling  through  the  arrangements  for  beginning 
to  write  his"  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,"  and,  in  fact, 
during  the  whole  period  of  its  composition.  But 
he  showed  the  same  character,  the  same  fertility 
of  resource,  every  day  of  his  life,  and  provided, 
both  by  forecast  and  self-sacrifice,  against  the  em 
barrassments  of  his  condition  as  they  successively 
presented  themselves. 

The  first  thing  to  be  done,  and  the  thing  always 
to  be  repeated  day  by  day,  was  to  strengthen,  as 
much  as  possible,  what  remained  of  his  sight,  and 
at  any  rate,  to  do  nothing  that  should  tend  to  ex 
haust  its  impaired  powers.  In  1821,  when  he  was 
still  not  without  some  hope  of  its  recovery,  he 
made  this  memorandum.  "  I  will  make  it  my 
principal  purpose  to  restore  my  eye  to  its  primitive 
vigor,  and  will  do  nothing  habitually  that  can  se 
riously  injure  it."  To  this  end  he  regulated  his 
life  with  an  exactness  that  I  have  never  known 
equalled.  Especially  in  whatever  related  to  the 
daily  distribution  of  .his  time,  whether  in  regard  to 
his  intellectual  labors,  to  his  social  enjoyments,  or 
to  the  care  of  his  physical  powers,  including  his 
diet,  he  was  severely  exact, — managing  himself, 
indeed,  in  this  last  respect,  under  the  general  di 
rections  of  his  wise  medical  adviser,  Dr.  Jackson, 
but  carrying  out  these  directions  with  an  ingenuity 
and  fidelity  all  his  own. 

Fie  was  an  early  riser,  although  it  was  a  great 
effort  for  him  to  be  such.  From  boyhood  it  seemed 
to  be  contrary  to  his  nature  to  get  up  betimes  in 
the  morning.  He  was,  therefore,  always  awaked, 
and  after  silently,  and  sometimes  slowly  and  with 
reluctance,  counting  twenty,  so  as  fairly  to  arouse 
himself,  he  resolutely  sprang  out  of  bed  ;  or,  if  he 
failed,  he  paid  a  forfeit,  as  a  memento  of  his  weak 
ness,  to  the  servant  who  knocked  at  his  chamber- 
door.  His  failures,  however,  were  rare.  "When 
he  was  called,  he  was  told  the  state  of  the  weather 
and  of  the  thermometer.  This  was  important,  as 
he  was  compelled  by  his  rheumatism — almost 
always  present,  and,  when  not  so,  always  appre 
hended — to  regulate  his  dress  with  care;  and,  find 
ing  it  difficult  to  do  so  in  any  other  way,  he  caused 
each  of  its  heavier  external  portions  to  be  marked 
by  his  tailor  with  the  number  of  ounces  it  weighed, 
and  then  put  them  on  according  to  the  tempera 
ture,  sure  that  their  weight  would  indicate  the 
measure  of  warmth  and  protection  they  would 
afford. 

As  soon  as  he  was  dressed,  he  took  his  early 
exercise  in  the  open  air.  This,  for  many  years, 
was  done  on  horseback,  and,  as  he  loved  a  spirited 
horse  arid  was  often  thinking  more  of  his  intellec 
tual  pursuits  than  of  anything  else  while  he  was 
riding,  he  sometimes  caught  a  fall.  But  he  was  a 
good  rider,  and  was  sorry  to  give  up  this  form  of 
exercise  and  resort  to  walking  or  driving,  as  he  did, 
by  order  of  his  physican,  in  the  last  dozen  years 
of  his  life.  No  weather,  except  a  severe  storm, 
prevented  him  af,  any  period  from  thus,  as  he  called 
it,  "  winding  himself  up."  Even  in  the  coldest  of 
our  very  cold  winter  mornings,  it  was  his  habit,  so 
long  as  he  could  ride,  to  see  the  sun  rise  on  a  par 
ticular  spot  three  or  four  miles  from  town.  In  a 


590 


GEORGE     TICKNOR. 


letter  to  Mrs.  Ticknor,  who  was  then  in  Germany, 
dated  March,  1836, — at  the  end  of  a  winter  mem 
orable  for  its  extreme  severity, — he  says,  "  You 
will  give  me  credit  for  some  spunk  when  I  tell  you 
that  I  have  not  been  frightened  by  the  cold  a  sin 
gle  morning  from  a  ride  on  horseback  to  Jamaica 
Plain  and  back  again  before  breakfast.  My  mark 
has  been  to  see  the  sun  rise  by  Mr.  Greene's  school, 
if  you  remember  where  that  is."  When  the  rides 
here  referred  to  were  taken,  the  thermometer  was 
often  below  zero  of  Fahrenheit. 

On  his  return  home,  after  adjusting  his  dress 
anew,  with  reference  to  the  temperature  within 
doors,  he  sat  down,  almost  always  in  a  very  gay 
humor,  to  a  moderate  and  even  spare  breakfast, — 
a  meal  he  much  liked,  because,  as  he  said,  he 
could  then  have  his  family  with  him  in  a  quiet 
way,  and  so  begin  the  day  happily.  From  the 
breakfast-table  he  went  at  once  to  his  study. 
There,  while  busied  with  what  remained  of  his  toilet, 
or  with  the  needful  arrangements  for  his  regular 
occupations,  Mrs.  Prescott  read  to  him,  generally 
from  the  morning  papers,  but  so*netimes  from  the 
current  literature  of  the  day-^Kt  a  fixed  hour — 
seldom  later  than  ten — his  reader,  or  secretary, 
came.  In  this,  as  in  everything,  he  required 
punctuality ;  but  he  noted  tardiness  only  by  look 
ing  significantly  at  his  watch ;  for  it  is  the  testi 
mony  of  all  his  surviving  secretaries,  that  he  never 
spoke  a  severe  word  to  either  of  them  in  the  many 
years  of  their  familiar  intercourse. 

When  they  had  met  in  the  study,  there  was  no 
thought  but  of  active  work  for  about  three  hours. 
His  infirmities,  however,  were  always  present  to 
warn  him  how  cautiously  it  must  be  done,  and  he 
was  extremely  ingenious  in  the  means  he  devised 
for  doing  it  without  increasing  them.  The  shades 
and  shutters  for  regulating  the  exact  amount  of 
light  which  should  be  admitted  ;  his  own  position 
relatively  to  its  direct  rays,  and  to  those  that  were 
reflected  from  surrounding  objects ;  the  adaptation 
of  his  dress  and  of  the  temperature  of  the  room  to 
his  rheumatic  affections  ;  and  the  different  contri 
vances  for  taking  notes  from  the  books  that  were 
read  to  him,  and  for  impressing  on  his  memory, 
with  the  least  possible  use  of  his  sight,  such  por 
tions  of  each  as  were  needful  for  his  immediate 
purpose, — were  all  of  them  the  result  of  painstak 
ing  experiments,  skilfully  and  patiently  made. 
But  their  ingenuity  and  adaptation  were  less  re 
markable  than  the  conscientious  consistency  with 
which  they  were  employed  for  forty  years. 

He  never  liked  to  work  more  than  three  hours 
consecutively.  At  one  o'clock,  therefore,  he  took 
a  walk  of  about  two  miles,  and  attended  to  any 
little  business  abroad  that  was  incumbent  on  him, 
coming  home  generally  refreshed  and  exhilarated, 
and  ready  to  lounge  a  little  and  gossip.  Dinner 
followed,  for  the  greater  part  of  his  life  about  three 
oY.lock,  although,  during  a  few  years,  he  dined  in 
winter  at  five  or  six,  which  he  preferred,  and  which 
he  gave  up  only  because  his  health  demanded  the 
change.  In  the  summer  he  always  dined  early,  so 
as  to  have  the  late  afternoon  for  driving  and  exer- 
-jse  during  our  hot  season. 


He  enjoyed  the  pleasures  of  the  table,  and  even 
its  luxuries,  more  than  most  men.  But  he  re 
stricted  himself  carefully  in  the  use  of  them,  ad 
justing  everything  with  reference  to  its  effect  on 
the  power  of  using  his  eye  immediately  afterwards, 
and  especially  on  his  power  of  using  it  the  next 
day.  Occasional  indulgence  when  dining  out  or 
with  friends  at  home  he  found  useful,  or  at  least 
not  injurious,  and  was  encouraged  in  it  by  h<* 
medical  counsel.  But  he  dined  abroad,  as  he  diu 
everything  of  the  sort,  at  regulated  intervals,  and 
not  only  determined  beforehand  in  what  he  should 
deviate  from  his  settled  habits,  but  often  made  a 
record  of  the  result  for  his  future  government. 

The  most  embarrassing  question,  however,  as 
to  diet,  regarded  the  use  of  wine,  which,  if  at  first 
it  sometimes  seemed  to  be  followed  by  bad  conse 
quences,  was  yet,  on  the  whole,  found  useful,  and 
was  prescribed  to  him.  To  make  everything  cer 
tain,  and  settle  the  precise  point  to  which  he  should 
go,  he  instituted  a  series  of  experiments,  and  be 
tween  March,  1818,  and  November,  1820, — a 
period  of  two  years  and  nine  months, — he  recorded 
the  exact  quantity  of  wine  that  he  took  every  day, 
except  the  few  days  when  he  entirely  abstained.  It 
was  Sherry  or  Madeira.  In  the  great  majority  of 
cases — four  fifths,  I  should  think — it  ranged  from 
one  to  two  glasses,  but  went  up  sometimes  to  four 
or  five,  and  even  to  six.  He  settled  at  last,  upon 
two,  or  two  and  a  half  as  the  quantity  best  suited 
to  his  case,  /and  persevered  in  this  as  his  daily 
habit,  until  the  last  year  of  his  life,  during  which 
a  peculiar  regimen  was  imposed  upon  him  from 
the  peculiar  circumstances  of  his  health.  In  all 
this  I  wish  to  be  understood  that  he  was  rigorous 
with  himself, — much  more  so  than  persons  thought 
who  saw  him  only  when  he  was  dining  with 
friends,  and  when,  but  equally  upon  system  arid 
principle,  he  was  much  more  free. 

He  generally  smoked  a  single  weak  cigar  after 
dinner,  and  listened  at  the  same  time  to  light 
reading  from  Mrs.  Prescott.  A  walk  of  two  miles 
— more  or  less — followed  ;  but  always  enough, 
after  the  habit  of  riding  was  given  up,  to  make 
the  full  amount  of  six  miles  walking  for  the  day's 
exercise,  and  then,  between  five  and  eight,  he  took 
a  cup  of  tea,  and  had  his  reader  with  him  for  work 
two  hours  more. 

The  labors  of  the  day  were  now  definitively  ended. 
He  came  down  from  his  study  to  his  library,  and 
either  sat  there  or  walked  about  while  Mrs.  Pres 
cott  read  to  him  from  some  amusing  book,  gener 
ally  a  novel,  and,  above  all  other  novels,  those  of 
Scott  and  Miss  Edgeworth.  In  all  this  he  took 
great  solace,  He  enjoyed  the  room  as  well  as  the 
reading,  and,  as  he  moved  about,  would  often 
stop  before  the  books, — especially  his  favorite  books, 
— and  be  sure  that  they  were  all  in  their  proper 
places,  drawn  up  exactly  to  the  front  of  their  re 
spective  shelves,  like  soldiers  on  a  dress-parade, — 
sometimes  speaking  of  them,  and  almost  to  them, 
as  if  they  were  personal  friends.  At  half  past  ten, 
having  first  taken  nearly  another  glass  of  wine,  he 
went  to  bed,  fell  asleep  quickly,  and  slept  soundly 
and  well. 


EDWARD    HITCHCOCK. 


[Born  1793.    Died  1864.] 


EDWARD  HITCHCOCK,  D.  D.,  LL.D.,  an  eminent 
Geologist,was  born  at  Deerfield,  Mass.,  May  24, 
1793;  became  a  teacher  in  1816,  and  was 
afterwards  pastor  of  the  Congregational  Church 
at  Conway,  Mass. ;  Professor  of  Chemistry  and 
Natural  History  in  Amherst  College,  1825 ; 
appointed  to  make  a  Geological  Survey  of 
Mass.,  in  1830  and  1837  5  President  of  Amherst 
College,  and  Professor  of  Natural  Theology 
and  Geology,  1844,  which  he  resigned  in  1854; 
Agricultural  Commissioner  for  Mass.,  to  visit 
the  Agricultural  Schools  of  Europe,  1850. 

Among  Dr.  Hitchcock's  early  literary  labors 
were  the  preparation  of  an  almanac  for  four 
years,  1815-18;  and  the  composition  of  a 
Tragedy,  the  Downfall  of  Bonaparte.  He  has 
since  then  give-n  to  the  world  a  number  of 
works  which  have  conferred  upon  him  a 
distinguished  reputation  both  in  Europe  and 
America.  The  following  are  their  titles : 
Geology  of  the  Connecticut  Valley;  Catalogue 
of  Plants  within  twenty  miles  of  Amherst ; 
Dyspepsia  forestalled  and  resisted  ;  An  Argu 
ment  for  early  Temperance  ;  Four  Reports  on 
the  Geology,  Zoology,  and  Botany  of  Massa 
chusetts  :  A  Wreath  for  a  Tomb ;  Elementary 
Geology,  which  passed  through  many  editions 
in  this  country  and  England,  where  it  was 
edited  by  Dr.  J.  Pye  Smith,  and  highly  praised 
by  Dr.  Mantell,  Dr.  Buckland,  and  other  emi 
nent  Geologists  ;  Fossil  Footsteps  in  the  U.  S.; 
History  of  a  Zoological  Temperance  Conven 
tion  in  Central  Africa ;  Religious  Lectures  on 
the  Phenomena  of  the  four  seasons ;  The 
Religion  of  Geology  and  its  connected  Sci 
ences,  reprinted  in  several  editions  in  England  ; 
Report  on  the  Agricultural  Schools  of  Europe  ; 


Memoir  of  Mary  Lyon ;  Lectures  on  Diet, 
Regimen,  and  Employment;  Outlines  of  the 
Geology  of  the  Globe,  and  of  the  United  States 
in  particular  ;  Religious  Truth  illustrated  from 
Science;  Illustrations  of  Surface  Geology; 
Report  to  the  Massachusetts  Government  on 
the  Ichnology  of  New  England;  Report  on 
the  Geology  of  Vermont  in  1860 ;  and  his 
last  work,  Reminiscences  of  Amherst  College, 
historical,  scientific,  biographical,  and  auto 
biographical ;  also,  of  other  and  wider  Life 
Experiences.  This  work,  including  an  account 
of  the  growth  and  development  of  the 
College,  its  museums  and  scientific  resources, 
with  much  of  a  personal  character,  is  a  most 
valuable  contribution  to  the  history  of  educa 
tion  in  America.  The  list  of  his  publications 
exhibits  an  extraordinary  degree  of  intellectual 
activity,  continued  through  a  long  life,  and 
includes  171  articles,  24  being  distinct  vol 
umes,  and  the  remainder,  contributions  to 
reviews,  pamphlets,  occasional  sermons,  etc., 
about  eight  thousand  pages.  Most  of  his 
writings,  he  adds,  were  produced  "  not  with 
the  expectation  that  they  would  go  down  to 
posterity,  but  to  aid  a  little  in  advancing 
present  knowledge — in  adding  some  items  that 
should  go  into  the  general  stock ;  so  that, 
although  the  works  themselves  should  be 
forgotten,  some  feeble  influence,  at  least,  might 
remain  upon  the  great  cause  of  learning  and 
religion."  He  had  hoped  to  write  a  great 
work  on  Natural  Theology.  His  health  grad 
ually  failing,  for  the  last  few  years  of  his  life, 
though  his  intellectual  activity  continued  un 
abated,  he  died  at  Amherst,  Feb.  27, 1864,  aged 
seventy. 


SCIENCE  AND  THE  BIBLE. 

FROM   THE  RELIGIOX   OF  GEOLOGY. 

IF  the  geological  interpretation  of  Genesis  be 
true,  then  it  should  be  taught  to  all  classes  of  the 
community,  It  is,  indeed,  unwise  to  alter  received 
interpretations  of  Scripture  without  very  strong 
reasons.  We  should  be  satisfied  that  the  new 
light,  which  has  come  to  us,  is  not  that  of  a  trans 


ient  meteor,  but  of  a  permanent  luminary.  We 
should,  also,  be  satisfied,  that  the  proposed  change 
is  consistent  with  the  established  rules  of  philology. 
If  we  introduce  change  of  this  sort  before  these 
points  are  settled,  even  upon  passages  that  have  no 
connection  with  fundamental  moral  principles,  we 
shall  distress  many  an  honest  and  pious  heart,  and 
expose  ourselves  to  the  necessity  of  further  change 
But  on  the  other  hand,  if  we  delay  the  change 


891 


592 


EDWARD     HITCHCOCK. 


long  after  these  points  are  fairly  settled,  we  shall 
excite  the  suspicion  that  we  dread  to  have  the 
light  of  science  fall  upon  the  Bible.  Nor  let  it  be 
forgotten  how  disastrous  has  ever  been  the  influ 
ence  of  the  opinion  that  theojogi>\ns  teach  one 
thing,  and  men  of  science  another.  Now,  in  the 
cnse  under  consideration,  is  there  any  reason  to 
doubt  the  high  antiquity  of  the  globe,  as  demon 
strated  by  geology  ?  If  any  point,  not  capable  of 
mathematical  demonstration  in  physical  science, 
is  proved,  surely  this  truth  is  established.  And 
how  easily  reconciled  to  the  inspired  record,  by  an 
interpretation  entirely  consistent  with  the  rules  of 
philology,  and  with  the  scope  of  the  passage,  and 
the  tenor  of  the  Bible  !  It  seems  to  me  far  more 
natural,  and  easy  to  understand,  than  that  inter 
pretation  which  it  became  necessary  to  introduce 
when  the  Copernican  system  was  demonstrated  to 
be  true.  The  latter  must  have  seemed  to  conflict 
strongly  with  the  natural  arid  most  obvious  mean 
ing  of  certain  passages  of  the  Bible,  at  a  time  when 
men's  minds  were  ignorant  of  astronomy,  and,  I 
may  add,  of  the  true  mode  of  interpreting  the  lan 
guage  of  Scripture  respecting  natural  phenomena. 
Nevertheless,  the  astronomical  exegesis  prevailed, 
and  every  child  can  now  see  its  reasonableness. 
So  it  seems  t»  me  that  the  child  can  easily  appre 
hend  the  geological  interpretation  and  its  reasons. 
Why,  then,  should  it  not  be  taught  to  children, 
that  they  may  not  be  liable  to  distrust  the  whole 
Bible,  when  they  come  to  the  study  of  geology  1 
I  rejoice,  however,  that  the  fears  and  prejudices  of 
the  pious  and  the  learned  are  so  fast  yielding  to 
evidence;  and  I  anticipate  the  period,  when,  on 
this  subject,  the  child  will  learn  the  same  thing  in 
the  Sabbath  school  and  the  literary  institution. 
Nay,  I  anticipate  the  time  as  not  distant,  when 
the  high  antiquity  of  the  glol>£  will  be  regarded  as 
no  more  opposed  to  the  Bible  than  the  earth's 
revolution  round  the  sun  and  on  its  axis.  Soon 
shall  the  horizon,  where  geology  and  revelation 
meet,  be  cleared  of  every  cloud,  and  present  only 
an  unbroken  and  magnificent  circle  of  truth. 


GEOLOGY  AND  RELIGION. 

FROM  THE   SAME. 

IF  we  may  trust  the  facts  and  reasonings  of  ge 
ology  as  to  the  antiquity  of  the  globe,  the  mind  is 
almost  overwhelmed  in  attempting  to  run  back 
over  the  mighty  periods  of  its  existence.  Chrono 
logy  has  no  measuring  line  long  enough  to  stretch 
over  them  ;  and  Imagination  tires  on  her  wing  in 
attempting  the  daring  flight.  And  yet  all  along 
that  almost  interminable  line  we  discover  the  foot 
steps  of  Jehovah.  In  every  change,  mechanical, 
chemical,  or  organic, — and  how  numerous  they 
have  been  ! — we  see  the  energizing  and  controlling 
power  of  Divinity.  Every  step  is  but  the  develop 
ment  of  some  plan  worthy  of  infinite  Wisdom  ; 
every  new  tableau  in  the  opening  series  gives  a 


brighter  display,  till  the  harmonies  become  com 
plete  in  man. 

From  the  past  we  may  derive  at  least  a  strxig 
presumption  as  to  the  future.  If  in  all  past  periods 
change  has  been  the  higher  and  controlling  law 
of  our  world, — the  essential  means  of  its  prescva- 
tion  and  of  the  happiness  of  sentinent  beings, — if, 
in  fact,  it  is  the  great  law  of  the  material  universe, 
what  reason  have  we  to  suppose  that  the  process 
will  stop  now?  Rather  may  we  presume  that 
other  changes  are  to  succeed.  And  since  we  know 
of  no  example  of  the  annihilation  of  a  particle  of 
matter,  but  only  of  its  metamorphosis,  where 
shall  we  set  limits  to  the  expanding  series  1  Why 
may  not  change,  through  all  eternity,  be,  as  in  all 
past  time  it  has  been,  an  essential  means  of  hap 
piness  to  created  natures'? 

Thus  standing  on  this  middle  point  of  existence 
which  we  now  occupy,  we  can  look  back  through 
the  glass  which  geology  holds  before  us,  almost  to 
the  birth  of  time,  and  see  successive  systems  rising 
and  gradually  unfolding  the  great  plans  and  pur 
poses  of  Jehovah ;  and  as  we  turn  the  glass  forward, 
imagination  can  discover  no  end  to  the  develop 
ments  that  are  to  follow.  We  can  see  many  links 
of  the  chain,  and  we  know  that  it  has  a  begin 
ning;  but  the  extremities  lie  too  deeply  buried  in 
the  past  and  the  future  to  be  seen  by  mortal 
vision. 

Are  not  these  ennobling  views  1  Do  they  not 
give  us  exalted  conceptions  of  God's  government 
and  operations  1  What  wider  vistas  into  space 
does  astronomy  open  than  this  its  kindred  science 
opens  into  duration  1  What  Christian  will  hesitate 
to  give  up  his  soul  to  the  liberalizing,  purifying, 
and  elevating  influences  of  these  grand  disclosures  ? 
For  having  felt  their  interest  and  power  on  earth, 
he  may  surely  hope  that  their  deeper  and  more 
thorough  study  will  form  a  part  of  the  employments 
and  enjoyments  of  heaven. 

From  all  that  has  been  advanced  we  mny  safely 
say,  that  no  other  science,  nay,  perhaps  not  all  the 
other  sciences,  touch  religion  at  so  many  points  as 
geology.  And  at  what  connecting  point  do  we 
discover  collision  1  If  upon  a  few  of  them  some 
obscurity  still  rests,  yet  with  nearly  all  how  clear 
the  harmony — how  strong  the  mutual  corrobora- 
tion  !  With  how  much  stronger  faith  do  we  cling 
to  the  Bible  when  we  find  so  many  of  its  principles 
thus  corroborated  !  From  many  a  science  has  the 
supposed  viper  come  forth  and  fastened  itself  upon 
the  hand  of  Christianity.  But  instead  of  falling 
down  dead,  as  an  unbelieving  world  expected,  how 
calmly  have  they  seen  her  shake  off  the  beast  and 
feel  no  harm  !  Surely  it  is  time  that  unbelievers, 
like  the  ancient  heathen,  should  confess  the  divin 
ity  of  the  Bible,  when  they  see  how*  invulnerable 
it  is  to  every  assault.  Surely  it  is  time  for  the  be 
liever  to  cease  fearing  that  any  deadly  influence 
will  emanate  from  geology  and  fasten  itself  upon 
his  faith,  and  learn  to  look  upois  this  science  only 
as  an  auxiliary  and  friend. 


SAMUEL    GRISWOLD    GOODRICH. 


[Born  1793     Died  I860.] 


SAMUEL  G.  GOODRICH,  better  known  as  Peter 
Parley,  the  most  prolific  and  popular  of 
American  authors,  was  born  at  Ridgefield, 
Conn.,  August  19,  1*793.  He  commenced  in 
early  life  the  publication  of  historical,  geo 
graphical,  and  other  school  books  at  Hartford, 
and  became,  in  the  same  department,  a  writer 
so  prolific,  that  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  even 
name  them  here,  but  he  published  a  list  and  a 
full  account  of  them,  together  with  a  list  of 
spurious  works  claimed  to  be  written  by  him, 
in  an  Appendix  to  his  Recollections  of  a  Life 
time,  the  bare  recital  of  the  titles  alone  occu 
pying  six  closely  printed  pages.  "  I  stand  be 
fore  the  public,  as  the  author  and  editor  of 
about  170  volumes — 116  bearing  the  name  of 
Peter  Parley.  Of  all  these  about  7,000,000  of 
volumes  have  been  sold  ;  about  300,000vols. 
are  now  sold  annually.''  They  may  be  summed 
up  as  follows  : — Miscellaneous  works,  includ 
ing  14  vols.  of  the  Token,  30  vols. ;  School 
books,  27  vols. ;  Peter  Parley's  Tales,  36  vols.  ; 
Parley's  Historical  Compends,  36  vols.  ;  Par 
ley's  Miscellanies,  70  vols. 

In  1823-1824,  he  visited  Europe,  and  on  his 
return  established  himself  as  a  publisher  in 
Boston,  where  he  commenced  the  Token, 
which  he  edited  for  a  number  of  years,  the 
contributions  and  illustrations  being  the  pro 
ductions  of  American  authors  and  artists;  Mr. 
Goodrich  furnishing  poems  and  sketches, 
and  rendering  a  further  service  to  the  public, 
by  his  encouragement  of  young  and  unknown 
authors,  among  whom  were  Everett,  Longfel 
low,  Sedgwick,  Sigourney,  Willis,  and  Nathan 
iel  Hawthorne,  the  finest  of  whose  Twice  Told 
Tales  were  first  told  in  the  Token.  The  famous 
Peter  Parley  series  was  commenced  about  the 
same  time  ;  Mr.  Goodrich  turning  to  good  ac 
count,  in  his  little  square  volumes,  his  recent 
travels  in  Europe,  and  his  tact  in  arrangement 
and  illustration.  The  Geography  was  an  es 
pecial  favorite. 

He  has  found  time,  amid  his  constant  labor 

as   a   compiler,   to   assert    his   claims   as   an 

original  author,  by  the  publication,  in  1837, 

of  The  Outcast  and  other  Poems ;  in  1841,  of 

75 


a  selection  of  his  contributions  to  the  Token, 
Sketches  from  a  Student's  Window ;  and  in 
1851,  by  an  elegantly  illustrated  edition  of  his 
Poems.  In  1838,  Mr.  Goodrich  published  Fire 
side  Education,  a  volume  of  judicious  counsel 
to  parents,  presented  in  a  popular  and  attrac 
tive  manner,  composed  in  sixty  days,  while  the 
author  was  occupied  with  important  duties 
as  a  member  of  the  Massachusetts  Senate. 

He  was  editor  of  Parley's  Magazine  for  one 
year,  a  work  which  he  started,  but  was  obliged 
to  give  up  from  ill  health  and  an  affection  of 
his  eyes.  He  began  Merry's  Museum,  and 
continued  it  from  1841  to  1854. 

In  1851,  President  Fillmore  appointed  Mr. 
Goodrich  Consul  to  Paris.  In  1855,  he  re 
turned  to  New  York,  where  he  resided  until 
his  death,  which  occurred  from  heart  disease, 
suddenly,  on  the  9th  of  May,  1860. 

While  in  Paris,  he  made  arrangements  for 
the  translation  and  introduction  of  his  Peter 
Parley  series  into  France. 

On  his  return  from  France,  he  published  in 
1856,  two  most  interesting  volumes  of  auto-i 
biographical  Recollections  of  a  Life-time ;  or, 
Men  and  Things  I  have  seen,  historical,  bio 
graphical,  anecdotical,  and  descriptive.  Com 
mencing  with  an  easy  colloquial  narrative  of 
the  experiences  of  his  boyhood  in  Connecticut, 
presenting  many  curious  details  of  a  simplicity 
which  has  almost  passed  away.  As  he  pro 
ceeds,  various  New  England  personages  of 
consequence  are  brought  upon  the  scene,  and 
we  have  some  valuable  notices  of  the  war  of 
1812.  The  literary  men  of  that  time  are 
introduced.  Then  comes  the  author's  first 
journey  to  England,  and  his  acquaintance 
with  various  celebrities.  His  active  literary 
career  at  hom^  succeeds,  followed  by  his  con 
sulship  at  Paris,  which  included  the  period  of 
the  revolution  of  1848. 

While  in  Paris,  he  purchased  electrotypes  of 
a  number  of  beautiully  engraved  cuts  of  Ani 
mals  and  Birds,  etc.,  for  which  he  prepared  the 
letter  press  of  an  Illustrated  Natural  History; 
it  was  published  in  two  elegant  imperial  8vo. 
volumes  in  K59,  meeting  with  a  large  sale. 


594 


SAMUEL     GRISWOLD     GOODRICH. 


THE  COUP  D'ETAT. 

FROM   RECOLLECTIONS   OF   A   LIFE-TIME. 

ON  Monday  evening,  the  1st  of  December,  1852, 
I  was  present  at  the  Ely&ge,  and  was  then  first 
introduced  to  Louis  Napoleon.  The  room  was 
tolerably  full,  the  company  consising,  as  is  usual  in 
such  cases,  of  diplomats,  military  officers,  and  court 
officials,  with  a  sprinkling  of  citizens  in  black  coats 
— for  hitherto  the  requisition  of  a  court  uniform 
had  not  been  imposed.  This,  you  will  remember, 
was  under  the  Republic  ;  the  rule  which  raised  the 
black  coat  to  a  question  of  state,  grew  out  of  the 
Empire.  Nevertheless,  I  was  forcibly  struck  by  the 
preponderance  of  soldiers  in  the  assembly,  and  I 
said  several  times  to  my  companions,  that  it  seemed 
more  like  a  camp  than  a  palace.  The  whole  scene 
was  dull;  the  President  himself  appeared  preoccu 
pied,  and  was  not  master  of  his  usual  urbanity; 
Gen.  Magnan  walked  from  room  to  room  with  a 
ruminating  air,  occasionally  sending  his  keen 
glances  around,  as  if  searching  for  something  which 
he  could  not  find.  There  was  no  music,  no  dan 
cing.  That  gayety  which  almost  always  pervades 
a  festive  party  in  Paris,  was  wholly  wanting. 
There  was  no  ringing  laughter,  no  merry  hum  of 
conversation.  I  noticed  all  this,  but  I  did  not  sus 
pect  the  cause.  At  eleven  o'clock  the  assembly 
broke  up,  and  the  guests  departed.  At  twelve, 
the  conspirators  gathered  for  their  several  tasks, 
commenced  their  operations. 

About  four  in  the  morning,  the  leading  mem 
bers  of  the  Assembly  were  seized  in  their  beds, 
and  hurried  to  prison.  Troops  were  distributed  at 
various  points,  so  as  to  secure  the  city.  When 
the  light  of  day  came,  proclamations  were  posted 
at  the  corners  of  the  streets  announcing  to  the 
citizens  that  the  National  Assembly  was  dissolved, 
that  universal  suffrage  was  decreed,  that  the  Re 
public  was  established !  Such  was  the  general 
unpopularity  of  the  Assembly,  that  the  first  im 
pression  of  the  people  was  that  of  delight  at  its 
overthrow.  Throughout  the  first  day,  the  streets 
of  Paris  were  like  a  swarming  hive,  filled  with 
masses  fof  people,  yet  for  the  most  part  in  good- 
humor.  The  second  day  they  had  reflected,  and 
began  to  frown,  but  yet  there  was  no  general  spirit 
of  revolt.  A  few  barricades  were  attempted,  but 
the  operators  were  easily  dispersed.  The  third  day 
came,  arid  although  there  was  some  agitation 
among  the  masses,  there  was  evidently  no  prepara 
tion,  no  combination  for  general  resistance.  As 
late  as  ten  o'clock  in  the  forenoon,  I  met  one  of 
the  republicans  whom  I  knew,*and  asked  him 
what  was  to  be  done.  His  reply  was : 

"We  can  do  nothing :  our  leaders  are  in  prison ; 
we  are  bound  hand  and  foot.  I  am  ready  to  give 
my  life  at  the  barricades,  if  with  the  chance  of 
benefit ;  but  I  do  not  like  to  throw  it  away.  We 
can  do  nothing !" 

Soon  after  this,  I  perceived  heavy  columns  of 
troops,  some  four  thousand  men,  marching  through 
the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  and  then  proceeding  along  the 
Boulevards  toward  the  Porte  St.  Denis.  These 
were  soon  followed  by  a  body  of  about  a  thousand 
hor.se.  I  was  told  that  similar  bodies  were  moving 


to  the  same  point  through  other  avenues  of  the 
city.     In  a  short  time  the  whole  Boulevaid,  from 
the  Rue  de  la  Paix  to  the  Place  de  la  Bastille,  a'i 
extent  «f  two  miles,  was  filled  with  troops.     My 
office  was  on  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens,  and  was 
now  fronted  by  a  dense  body  of  lancers,  each  man 
with  his  cocked   pistol  in  his  hand.     Except  the 
murmur  of  the  horses'  hoofs,  there  was  a  general 
stillness  over  the  city.     The  sidewalks  were  filled 
with  people,  and  though  there  was  no  visible  cause 
for    alarm,  there  was   still  a  vague  apprehension 
which  cast  pallor  and  gloom  upon  the  faces  of  all. 
Suddenly  a  few  shots  were  heard  in  the  direc 
tion   of  the   Boulevard   Montmartrc,  and  then   a 
confused  hum,  and  soon  a  furious  clatter  of  hoofs. 
A  moment   after,  the  whole  body  of  horse  started 
into  a  gallop,  and  rushed  by  as  if  in  flight ;  pres 
ently  they  halted,  however,  wheeled  slowly,  and 
gradually  moved  back,  taking  up  their  former  po 
sition.     The  men  looked  keenly  at  the  houses  on 
either  side,  and  pointed  their  pistols  threateningly 
at  all  whom  they  saw  at  the  windows.     It  after 
ward  appeared,  that  when   the  troops  had   been 
drawn  out  in  line  and  stationed  along  the  Boule 
vard,  some  half  dozen  shots  were  fired  into  them 
from  the   tops  of  buildings  and  from  windows , 
this  created   a  sudden  panic;  the  troops  ran,  and 
crowding   upon   others,  caused   the  sudden  move 
ment  I  have  described.     In  a  few  moments,  the 
heavy,  sickening  sound  of  muskets  came  from  the 
Porte  St.  Denis.     Volley  succeeded  volley,  and  after 
some  time  the  people  were  seen  rushing  madly  along 
the  pavements  of  the  Boulevard  as  if  to  escape.  The 
gate  of  our  hotel  was  now  closed,  and  at  the  earn 
est  request   of   the  throng  that  had   gathered  for 
shelter  in   the  court  of  the   hotel,  I  put  out  the 
«  Stars  and  Stripes  " — the  first  and  last  time  that 
I  ever  deemed   it  necessary.      The  dull  roar   of 
muskets,  with   the   occasional   boom   of  cannon, 
continued    at   intervals   for  nearly  half  an  hour. 
Silence  at  last  succeeded,  and  the  people  ventured 
into   the  streets.     About  four  in  the  afternoon,  I 
walked  for  a  mile  along  the  Boulevard.    The  pave 
ments  were  strewn  with  the  fragments  of  shattered 
windows,  broken  cornices,  and  shivered  doorways. 
Many    of  the   buildings,  especially    those   on    the 
southern  side  of  the  street,  were  thickly  spatteied 
with  bullet-marks,  especially  around  the  windows. 
One  edifice  was  riddled  through  and  through  with 
cannon-shot.     Frequent  spots  of  blood  stained  the 
sidewalk,  and  along  the  Boulevard  Montmartre, 
particularly  around  the  doorways,  there  were  pools 
like  those  of  the  shambles  ;  it  being  evident  that 
the  reckless  soldiers  had  shot  down  in  heaps  the 
fugitives  who,  taken   by  surprise,  strove  to  obtain 
shelter  at  the  entrances  of  the  hotels   upon  the 
street.     It  was  a  sight  to  sicken  the  heart,  especi 
ally  of  an  American,  who  is  not  trained  to  these 
scenes  of  massacre.    Toward  evening  a  portion  of 
Uie  troops  moved  away ;  the  rest  remained,  and 
bivouacked  in  the  streets  for  the  night.     At  ten 
o'clock,  1  again  visited  the  scene,  and  was  greatly 
struck  with  the  long  line  of  watch-fires,  whose  fit 
ful  lights,  reflected   by  dark  groups  of  armed  men, 
only  rendered    the   spectacle   more   ghastly    and 
gloomy. 


HENRY    C.    CAREY. 


[Born  1793.] 


THIS  prolific  and  able  writer  on  Political 
Economy,  whose  praise  is  in  both  hemispheres, 
is  the  son  of  Matthew  Carey,  who  was  born  in 
Dublin,  in  1760,  and  emigrating  to  this 
country  early  in  life,  became  an  extensive 
publisher,  which  business  he  carried  on  suc 
cessfully  for  nearly  half  a  century ;  upon  retir 
ing  from  active  trade,  as  an  eminent  philan 
thropist  aiding  the  poor  and  the  suffering,  and 
an  active  public  spirited  citizen,  he  maintained 
the  same  eminence  as  he  had  attained  in  the 
publishing  business;  he  died  in  1839.  He  was 
the  author  of  several  works  which  enjoyed 
considerable  popularity  in  their  day.  His  son, 
Henry  C.  Carey,  was  born  in  Philadelphia,  in 
1793,  and  succeeded  his  father  in  business  in 
1821,  and  continued  in  this  pursuit  till  1838. 
He  established  the  system  of  trade  sales  among 
publishers. 

Mr.  Carey  inherited  an  inclination  to  inves 
tigate  subjects  in  connection  with  political 
economy,  and  in  1836  published  an  Essay  on 
the  Rate  of  Wages,  which  in  1840  was 
expanded  into  the  Laws  of  Wealth  ;  o-r,  Princi 
ples  of  Political  Economy,  3  vols.,  8vo.  The 
novel  positions  assumed,  at  once  attracted  the 
attention  of  the  European  political  economists, 
and  from  m&ny  of  them  elicited  the  warmest 
praise  ;  it  was  published  in  Italian  at  Turin, 
and  in  Swedish  at  Upsal.  Bastiat  has  taken 
from  Carey,  ideas  that  he  had  developed  and 
had  presented  to  his  readers  with  so  much 
skill,  and  with  such  an  imposing  mass  of  facts, 
as  in  truth  to  leave  in  suspense  the  decision  of 
even  the  most  accomplished  student  of  his 
works.  Carey,  and  after  him,  Bastiat,  have 
thus  introduced  a  formula  in  relation  to  the 
measure  of  Value,  that  I  believe  is  destined  to 
be  universally  adopted.  In  1838,  Mr.  Carey 
published  The  Credit  System  in  France,  Great 
Britain,  and  the  United  States.  In  1840, 
Answers  to  the  Questions,  What  constitutes 
currency?  What  are  the  causes  of  its  unsteadi 
ness  ?  etc.  In  1848,  the  Past,  the  Present, 
and  the  Future.  The  design  of  this  work  is 
to  show  that  men  are  everywhere  now  doing 
precisely  as  has  heretofore  been  done,  and  that 


they  do  so  in  obedience  to  a  great  and  universal 
law,  directly  the  reverse  of  that  taught  by  Ric- 
ardo,  Malthus,  and  their  successors.  It  was  also 
republished  in  Swedish,  at  Stockholm,  and  ex 
cited  great  attention  abroad.  For  several  years 
Mr.  Carey  contributed  all  the  leading  articles, 
and  others,  to  the  Plough,  the  Loom  and  the 
Anvil,  which  were  afterwards  collected  in  a 
volume,  entitled  the  Harmony  of  Interests  ;  and 
others  in  a  pamphlet,  called  the  Prospect,  agri 
cultural,  manufacturing,  commercial,  and  finan 
cial,  at  the  opening  of  1851.  He  issued  in  1853, 
The  Slave-Trade,  domestic  and  foreign ;  and, 
Letters  on  International  Copyright.  In  1804,  the 
North  and  the  South,  and  in  1858,  Principles  of 
Social  Science,  3  vols.,  8vo.,  and  Letters  to  the 
President  of  the  U.  S.,  one  vol.,  12mo.  ;  a 
Series  of  Letters  on  topics  of  Political  Economy, 
addressed  to  W.  C.  Bryant,  in  1860;  and 
another  series  to  Hon.  Schuyler  Colfax,  in  1865. 
Most  of  Mr.  Carey's  works  have  been  translated 
into  Russian,  Swedish,  German,  French,  and 
Italian,  and  have  commanded  attention,  not 
only  from  the  vigor  with  which  his  ideas  are 
expressed,  but  from  the  novelty  and  ability 
of  his  propositions,  placing  him  among  the 
very  first  of  political  economists. 

In  his  great  work,  Principles  of  Social  Science, 
the  doctrines  of  all  his  previous  publications, 
and  the  fruits  of  a  quarter  of  a  century's  studies 
are  digested,  systematized,  and  condensed.  Mr. 
Carey,  not  only  in  his  own  country,  but  through 
out  Europe,  where  his  writings  have  been  exten 
sively  studied,  is  the  acknowledged  founder 
and  head  of  a  new  school  of  Political  Economy. 
The  doctrines  which  he  proclaimed  are  emi 
nently  hopeful,  progressive,  arfd  democratic, 
and  those  who  accepted  them,  are  with  a 
fulness  of  significance  styled  of  the  American 
school.  For  an  able  discrimination  between 
his  system  and  that  in  undisputed  sway  when 
he  began  his  contributions  to  social  science, 
see  an  article  in  Allibone's  Dictionary,  I.,  339. 
Mr.  Carey  has  resided  in  Philadelphia  all  his  life ; 
is  a  gentleman  of  most  polished  and  rrbane 
manners,  and  of  erect  form,  showing  great 
vigor  of  constitution  and  intellect. 

£95 


596 


HENRY     C.    CAREY. 


THE     WARRIOR-CHIEF    AND    THE 
TRADER. 

THE  object  of  the  warrior-chief  being  that  of 
preventing  the  existence  of  any  motion  in  society 
except  that  which  centres  in  himself,  he  monopo 
lizes  land,  and  destroys  the  power  of  voluntary 
association  among  the  men  he  uses  as  his  instru 
ments.  The  soldier,  obeying  the  word  of  com- 
mmd,  is  so  far  from  holding  himself  responsible  to 
G  >J  or  man  for  the  observance  of  the  rights  of 
person  or  of  property,  that  he  glories  in  the  extent 
of  his  robberies  and  in  the  number  of  his  murders. 
The  man  of  the  Rocky  Mountains  adorns  his 
person  with  the  scalps  of  his  butchered  enemies ; 
while  the  more  civilized  murderer  contents  himself 
with  adding  a  ribbon  to  the  decoration  of  his  coat ; 
but  both  are  savages  alike.  The  trader — equally 
with  the  soldier  seeking  to  prevent  any  movement 
except  that  which  centres  in  himself — also  uses 
irresponsible  machines.  The  sailor  is  among  the 
most  brutalized  of  human  beings,  bound,  like  the 
soldier  to  obey  orders,  at  the  risk  of  having  his 
back  seamed  by  the  application  of  the  whip.  The 
human  machines  used  by  war  and  trade  are  the 
only  ones,  except  the  negro  slave,  who  are  now 
flogged. 

The  soldier  desires  labor  to  be  cheap,  that 
recruits  may  readily  be  obtained.  The  great  land 
owner  desires  it  may  be  cheap,  that  he  may  be 
enabled  to  appropriate  to  himself  a  large  proportion 
of  the  proceeds  of  his  land  ;  and  the  trader  desires 
it  to  be  cheap,  that  he  may  be  enabled  to  dictate 
the  terms  upon  which  he  will  buy  as  well  as  those 
upon  which  he  will  sell. 

The  object  of  all  being  thus  identical, — that  of 
obtaining  power  over  their  fellow-men, — it  is  no 
matter  of  surprise  that  we  find  the  trader  and  the 
sol.Jier  so  uniformly  helping  and  being  helped  by 
each  other.  The  bankers  of  Rome  were  as  ready 
to  furnish  material  aid  to  Csesar,  Pompey,  and 
Augustus,  as  are  now  those  of  London,  Paris, 
Amsterdam,  and  Vienna  to  grant  it  to  the  Empe 
rors  of  France,  Austria,  and  Russia ;  and  as  indif 
ferent  as  they  in  relation  to  the  end  for  whose 
attainment  it  was  destined  to  be  used.  War  and 
trade,  thus  travel  together,  as  is  shown  by  the  his 
tory  of  the  world.  The  only  difference  between 
wars  made  for  the  purposes  of  conquest,  and  those 
for  the  maintenance  of  monopolies  of  trade,  being 
that  the  virulence  of  the  latter  is  much  greater 
than  is  that  of  the  former.  The  conqueror,  seek 
ing  political  power,  is  sometimes  moved  by  a  desire  to 
improve  the  condition  of  his  fellow-men  ;  but  the 
trader,  in  pursuit  of  power,  is  animated  by  no  other 
idea  than  that  of  buying  in  the  cheapest  market 
and  selling  in  the  dearest, — cheapening  merchan 
dise  in  the  one,  even  at  the  cost  of  starving  the 
producers,  and  increasing  his  price  in  the  other, 
even  at  the  cost  of  starving  the  consumers.  Both 
profit  by  whatever  tends  to  diminution  in  the 
power  of  voluntary  association  and  consequent 


decline  of  commerce.  The  soldier  forbids  the 
holding  of  meetings  among  his  subjects.  The 
slave-owner  interdicts  his  people  from  assembling 
together,  except  at  such  times  and  in  such  places 
as  meet  his  approbation.  The  shipmaster  rejoices 
when  the  men  of  England  separate  from  each 
other,  and  transport  themselves  by  hundreds  of 
thousands  to  Canada  and  Australia,  because  it 
enhances  freights ;  and  the  trader  rejoices,  because 
the  mere  widely  men  are  scattered,  the  more  they 
need  the  service  of  the  middle-man,  and  the  richer 
and  more  powerful  does  he  become  at  their 
expense. 


MAN  THE  SUBJECT  OF  SOCIAL 
SCIENCE. 

MAN,  the  molecule  of  society,  is  the  subject  of 
social  science.  In  common  with  all  other  animals, 
he  requires  to  eat,  drink,  and  sleep ;  but  his 
greatest  need  is  that  of  association  with  his  fellow- 
men.  Dependent  upon  the  experience  of  himself 
and  others  for  all  his  knowledge,  he  requires 
language  to  enable  him  either  to  record  the  results 
of  his  own  observation,  or  to  profit  by  those  of 
others;  and  of  language  there  can  be  none  with 
out  association.  Without  language,  he  must  re 
main  in  ignorance  of  the  existence  of  powers 
granted  to  him  in  lieu  of  the  strength  of  the  ox 
and  the  horse,  the  speed  of  the  hare,  and  the 
sagacity  of  the  elephant,  and  must  remain  below 
the  level  of  the  brute  creation.  To  have  language, 
there  must  be  association  and  combination  of  men 
with  their  fellow-men  ;  and  it  is  on  this  condition 
only  that  man  can  be  man ;  on  this  alone  that  we 
can  conceive  of  the  being  to  which  we  attach  the 
idea  of  man.  "  It  is  riot  good,"  said  God,  "  that 
man  should  live  alone ;"  nor  do  we  ever  find  him 
doing  so, — the  earliest  records  of  the  world  ex 
hibiting  to  us  beings  living  together  in  society, 
and  using  words  for  the  expression  of  their  ideas. 
Language  escapes  from  man  at  the  touch  of 
nature  herself;  and  the  power  of  using  words  is 
his  essential  faculty,  enabling  him  to  maintain 
commerce  with  his  fellow-inen,  and  fitting  him  for 
that  association  without  which  language  cannot 
exist.  The  words  "  society  "  and  "  language  " 
convey  to  the  mind  separate  and  distinct  ideas ; 
and  yet  by  no  effort  of  the  mind  can  we  conceive 
the  existence  of  the  one  without  the  other. 

The  subject  of  social  science,  then,  is  man,  the 
being  to  whom  have  been  given  reason  and  the 
faculty  of  individualizing  sounds  so  as  to  give  ex 
pression  to  every  variety  of  idea,  and  who  has 
been  placed  in  a  position  to  exercise  that  faculty. 
Isolate  him,  and  with  the  loss  of  the  power  of 
speech  he  loses  the  power  to  reason,  and  with  it 
the  distinctive  quality  of  man.  Restore  him  to 
society,  and  with  the  return  of  the  power  of  speech 
he  become  again  the  reasoning  man. 


HORACE    MANN, 


[Born  1796.    Died  1859.] 


THIS  distinguished  friend  of  education  was 
born  at  Franklin,  Mass.,  May  4,  1796;  he 
graduated  at  Brown  University,  1819  ;  acted 
there  as  tutor  till  1822  ;  elected  representative 
to  the  State  Legislature  for  Dedham,  in  1828, 
and  for  Suffolk,  1836-39;  Secretary  of  Mass. 
Board  of  Education,  1837-48;  and  in  the  latter 
year  succeeded  John  Q.  Adams  in  the  National 
House  of  Representatives.  In  1853,  Mr.  Mann 
was  elected  President  of  Antioch  College,  at 
Yellow  Springs,  Ohio,  and  acted  also  as  Pro 
fessor  of  Political  Economy,  Intellectual  and 
Moral  Philosophy,  Constitutional  Law  and 
Natural  Theology.  The  college  was  open  to 
both  sexes,  and  had  400  pupils  in  1854,  one- 
third  of  whom  were  females  ;  under  the  rule 
of  Mr.  Mann,  it  had  immediate  and  continued 
success. 

Mr.  Mann  is  chiefly  known  as  a  writer, 
through  his  valuable  series  of  twelve  Annual 
Education  Reports,  stored  with  ingenious  and 
pertinent  discussion  of  the  various  means  and 
machinery  to  be  employed  in  the  work  of 
popular  education,  both  intellectual  and 
physical.  Through  these  he  has  identified 
himself  with  the  progress  of  the  public  school 
system  of  Massachusetts.  He  published  as 
part  of  this  series  his  Report  of  an  educational 
Tour  in  Germany,  Britain,  et  .,  made  in  1843. 
'  He  was  eminent  as  n  reformer  and  philan 
thropist,  lecturing  on  temperance  and  kindred 
subjects.  His  lectures  and  addresses  were 
vigorous  and  energetic,  delivered  in  a  familiar 
colloquial  manner.  In  appearance,  he  was  tall, 
very  erect,  and  remarkably  slender,  with  silvery 
gray  hair,  animated  and  expressive  features, 
light  complexion,  and  rapid  pace.  As  an 
orator,  his  smooth,  flowing  style,  musical  voice, 


and  graceful  manner,  with  fertility,  amplitude, 
and  energy  of  diction,  often  adorned  his  subject 
with  a  graceful,  rushing  eloquence,  that  capti 
vated  the  breathless  audience. 

Horace  Mann  died  at  Yellow  Springs,  in  his 
64th  year,  August  2,  1859.  A  posthumous 
volume  of  Twelve  Sermons,  delivered  by  him 
to  the  pupils,  as  head  of  this  institution,  bears 
witness  to  his  interest  in  education,  to  which 
he  had  mainly  devoted  his  life.  The  life  of 
Horace  Mann,  by  his  widow,  Mrs.  Mary  Mann, 
8vo.,  Boston,  1865,  traces  his  career  with 
minuteness,  and  is  a  valuable  contribution  to 
biographical  literature  and  the  histpry  of  the 
times. 

His  published  works,  besides  the  Reports, 
are  :  Form  and  Arrangement  of  School- 
houses  ;  Lectures  on  Education  ;  A  Few 
Thoughts  for  a  Young  Man  when  Entering 
upon  Life,  25,000  copies  sold  ;  Mann  and 
Chase's  (Pliny  E.)  Arithmetic  practically 
applied,  3  vols.  ;  Letters  and  Speeches  on 
Slavery ;  A  Few  Thoughts  on  the  Power  and 
Duties  of  Woman ;  Report  of  the  Educational 
Census  of  Great  Britain  in  1851;  and  various 
orations  and  addresses  in  pamphlet  form ; 
Tracts  on  Temperance  Subjects  ;  he  also  edited 
10  vols.  of  the  Common  School  Journal, 
Boston,  1839-48. 

Edward  Everett,  speaking  of  Horace  Mann, 
said,  "  he  will  be  remembered  till  the  history 
of  Massachusetts  is  forgotten,  as  one  of  her 
greatest  benefactors." 

Mrs.  Mann,  formerly  Miss  Mary  Peabody, 
also  published,  Christianity  in  the  Kitchen  ;  a 
physiological  Cook  Book,  1857,  12mo. ;  and  a 
Primer  of  reading,  drawing,  and  spelling,  on 
a  new  plan,  16mo. 


THE  CHOICE. 

FROM  THOUGHTS  FOR  A  YOUNG  MAN. 

ENDUED,  then,  with  these  immortal  and  energetic 
capacities  to  soar  or  sink ;  with  these  heights  of  glory 
above  him,  and  this  abysm  of  wretchedness  below 
him  ;  whitherward  shall  a  young  man  set  his  face, 
and  how  shall  ht  order  his  steps  ? 


There  is  a  time  when  the  youthful  heir  of  a 
throne  first  comes  to  a  knowledge  of  his  mighty  pre 
rogatives  ;  when  he  first  learns  what  strength  there 
is  in  his  imperial  arm,  and  what  happiness  or  woe 
wait  upon  his  voice.  So  there  must  be  a  time 
when  the  vista  of  the  future,  with  all  its  possibil 
ities  of  glory  and  of  shame,  first  opens  upon  the 
vision  of  youth.  Then  is  he  summoned  to  make 


597 


598 


HORACE     MANN. 


his  choice  between  truth  and  treachery  ;  between 
honor  and  dishonor;  between  purity  and  profligacy ; 
between  moral  life  and  moral  death.  And  as  he 
doubts  or  balances  between  the  heavenward  and 
the  hellward  course ;  as  he  struggles  to  rise  or  con 
sents  to  fall;  is  there,  in  all  the  universe  of  God,  a 
spectacle  of  higher  exultation  Or  of  deeper  pathos  ! 
Within  him  are  the  appetites  of  a  brute  and  the 
attributes  of  an  angel  ;  and  when  these  meet  in 
council  to  make  up  the  roll  of  his  destiny  and  seal 
his  fate,  shall  the  beast  hound  out  the  seraph  ! 
Shall  the  young  man,  now  conscious  of  the  large 
ness  of  his  sphere  and  of  the  sovereignty  of  his 
choice,  wed  the  low  ambitions  of  the  world,  and 
seek,  with  their  emptiness,  to  fill  his  immortal  de 
sires  1  Because  he  has  a  few  animal  wants  that 
must  be  supplied,  shall  he  become  all  animal, — an 
epicure  and  an  inebriate, — and  blasphemously 
make  it  the  first  doctrine  of  his  catechism, — "  the 
Chief  End  of  Man," — to  glorify  his  stomach  and 
to  enjoy  it?  Because  it  is  the  law  of  self-preserva 
tion  that  he  shall  provide  for  himself,  and  the  law 
of  religion  that  he  shall  provide  for  his  family  when 
he  has  one,  must  he,  therefore,  cut  away  all  the 
bonds  of  humanity  that  bind  him  to  his  race,  for 
swear  charity,  crush  down  every  prompting  of 
benevolence,  and  if  he  can  have  the  palace  and 
the  equipage  of  a  prince,  and  the  table  of  a  Sybar 
ite,  become  a  blind  man,  and  a  deaf  man,  and  a 
dumb  man,  when  he  walks  the  streets  where  hun 
ger  moans  and  nakedness  shivers]  Because  he 
must  earn  his  bread  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow, 
must  he,  therefore,  become  a  devotee  of  Mammon, 
and  worship  the  meanest  god  that  dwells  in  Ere 
bus  ?  Because  he  has  an  instinct  for  the  approval 
of  his  fellow-men,  and  would  aspire  to  the  honors 
of  office,  shall  he,  therefore,  supple  his  principles 
so  that  they  may  take  tin-  Protean  shape  of  every 
popular  clamor ;  or  poise  lii.s  soul  on  what  the 
mechanicians  call  a  universal  joint,  which  turns 
in  every  direction  with  indiscriminate  facility  ? 
Because  absurd  notions,  descending  to  us  from  the 
worst  and  the  weakest  of  men,  have  created  facti 
tious  distinctions  between  employments,  shall  he 
seek  a  sphere  of  life  for  which  he  is  neither  fitted 
by  nature  nor  by  culture,  and  spoil  a  good  cobbler 
by  becoming  a  poor  lawyer ;  or  commit  the  double 
injustice  of  robbing  the  mountain  goats  of  a  herd  s- 
man  to  make  a  faithless  shepherd  in  the  Lord's 
pastures'?  Let  the  young  man  remember  there  is 
nothing  derogatory  in  any  employment  which 
ministers  to  the  well-being  of  the  race.  It  is  the 
spirit  that  is  carried  into  an  employment  that  ele 
vates  or  degrades  it.  The  ploughman  that  turns 
the  clod  may  be  a  Cincinnatus  or  a  Washington, 
or  he  may  be  brother  to  the  clod  he  turns.  It  is 
every  way  creditable  to  handle  the  yard-stick  and 
to  measure  tape;  the  only  discredit  consists  in  hav 
ing  a  soul  whose  range  of  thought  is  as  short  as 
the  stick  and  as  narrow  as  the  tape.  There  is  no 
glory  in  the  act  of  affixing  a  signature  by  which 
the  treasures  of  commerce  are  transferred,  or 
treaties  between  nations  are  ratified  ;  the  glory  con 
sists  in  the  rectitude  of  the  purpose  that  approves 
the  one,  and  the  grandeur  of  the  philanthropy 


that  sanctifies  the  other.  The  time  is  soon  com 
ing,  when,  by  the  common  consent  of  mankind,  it 
will  be  esteemed  more  honorable  to  have  be^n 
John  Pounds,  putting  new  and  beautiful  souls  into 
the  ragged  children  of  the  neighborhood,  while  he 
mended  their  fathers'  shoes,  than  to  have  sat  upon 
the  British  throne.  The  time  now  is,  when,  if 
Queen  Victoria,  in  one  of  her  magnificent  "  Prog 
resses  "  through  her  realms,  were  to  meet  that 
more  than  American  queen,  Miss  Dix,  in  her  "cir 
cumnavigation  of  charity  "  among  the  insane,  the 
former  should  kneel  and  kiss  the  hand  of  the  lat 
ter  ;  and  the  ruler  over  more  than  a  hundred  mil 
lions  of  people  should  pay  homage  to  the  angel 
whom  God  has  sent  to  the  maniac. 

No  matter  what  may  be  the  fortunes  or  the  ex 
pectations  of  a  young  man,  he  has  no  right  to  live 
a  life  of  idleness.  In  a  world  so  full  as  this  of  in 
citements  to  exertion  and  of  rewards  for  achiev- 
ment,  idleness  is  the  most  absurd  of  absurdities 
and  the  most  shameful  of  shames.  In  such  a 
world  as  ours,  the  idle  man  is  not  so  much  a  biped 
as  a  bivalve  ;  and  the  wealth  which  breeds  idleness, 
— of  which  the  English  peerage  is  an  example, 
and  of  which  we  are  beginning  to  abound  in  speci 
mens  in  this  country, — is  only  a  sort  of  human 
oyster-bed  where  heirs  and  heiresses  are  planted, 
to  spend  a  contemptible  life  of  siothfulness  in  grow 
ing  plump  and  succulent  for  the  grave-worm's 
banquet. 


TEMPERANCE   IN  EATING. 

FROM    THE    SAME. 

VASTLY  less  depends  upon  the  table  to  which  we 
sit  down,  than  upon  the  appetite  which  we  carry 
to  it.  The  palled  epicure,  who  spends  five  dollars 
for  his  dinner,  extracts  less  pleasure  from  his  meal 
than  many  a  hardy  laborer  who  dines  for  a  shilling. 
The  desideratum  is,  not  greater  luxuries,  but  livelier 
papillae;  and  if  the  devotee  of  appetite  would  pro 
pitiate  his  divinity  aright,  he  would  not  send  to 
the  Yellowstone  for  buffaloes'  tongues,  nor  to 
France  for  pate  defois  yras,  but  would  climb  a 
mountain,  or  swing  an  axe.  With  health,  there  is 
no  end  to  the  quantity  or  the  variety  from  which 
the  palate  can  extract  its  pleasures.  Without 
health,  no  delicacy  that  nature  or  art  produces  can 
provoke  a  zest.  Hence,  when  a  man  destroys  his 
health,  he  destroys,  so  far  as  he  is  concerned, 
whatever  of  sweetness,  of  flavor  and  of  savor,  the 
teeming  earth  can  produce.  To  him  who  has 
poisoned  his  appetite  by  excesses,  the  luscious  pulp 
of  grape  or  peach,  the  nectareous  juices  of  orange 
or  pineapple,  are  but  a  loathing  and  a  nausea. 
He  has  turned  gardens  and  groves  of  delicious 
fruit  into  gardens  and  groves  of  ipecac,  and  aloes. 
The  same  vicious  indulgences  that  blasted  his 
health,  blasted  all  orchards  and  cane-fields  also. 
Verily,  the  man  who  is  physiologically  "wicked  " 
does  not  live  out  half  his  days ;  nor  is  thio  the 
worst  of  his  punishment,  for  he  is  more  than  half 
dead  while  he  appears  to  live. 


JOHN    GORHAM    PALFREY. 


[Born  1796.] 


JOHN  GORHAM  PALFREY,  the  son  of  a  Boston 
merchant,  was  born  in  that  city,  May  2,  1796. 
He  was  fitted  for  college  at  Exeter  Academy; 
graduated  at  Harvard  in  1815;  studied  theol 
ogy,  and  in  1818,  was  ordained  over  the 
Brattle  Street  Church,  Boston,  where  he  con 
tinued  till  1831,  when  he  was  appointed 
Dexter  Professor  of  Sacred  Literature  in  Har 
vard.  For  six  years  he  was  editor  of  the 
North  American  Review  ;  and  delivered  a 
course  of  lectures  before  the  Lowell  Institute, 
on  the  Evidences  of  Christianity,  which  were 
published  in  2  vols.,  8vo.  He  also  published 
Lectures  on  Hebrew  Scriptures,  4  vols. ;  and 
Sermons  on  Duties  of  Private  Life ;  Papers  on 
the  Slave  Power ;  Discourses  on  Intemperance  ; 
The  New  Testament  conformed  to  Griesbach's 
Standard  Greek  Text ;  Grammar  of  Chaldee, 


Syriac,  Samaritan,  and  Rabbinical ;  Relation 
between  Judaism  and  Christianity ;  Official 
Reports  of  the  Statistics  of  Mass.,  in  8vo.  vols., 
1845-48  ;  A  History  of  New  England  during  the 
Stuart  Dynasty,  3  vols.,  8vo. ;  also,  an  abridged 
edition  of  the  same  in  2  vols.,  crown,  8vo., 
New  York,  1866.  Mr  Palfrey,  at  various  times, 
has  published  many  pamphlet  orations,  ser 
mons,  etc.,  on  temperance,  slavery,  historical, 
and  religious  subjects. 

His  History  of  New  England  will  doubtless 
be  the  established  history  of  that  portion  of 
our  country.  It  evinces  a  noble  and  hearty 
appreciation  of  the  early  settlers  of  New 
England,  guided  by  cool,  impartial  reason, 
and  exhibiting  throughout  extensive  research 
and  a  careful  collation  of  facts. 


LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS. 

7ROM   HISTORY  OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

THE  narrow  peninsula,  sixty  miles  long,  which 
terminates  in  Cape  Cod,  projects  eastwarclly  from 
the  mainland  of  Massachusetts,  in  shape  resembling 
the  human  arm  bent  rectangularly  at  the  elbow 
and  again  at  the  wrist.  In  the  basin  enclosed 
landward  by  the  extreme  point  of  this  projection, 
in  the  roadstead  of  what  is  now  Provincetown,  the 
Mayflower  dropped  her  anchor  at  noon  on  a  Satur 
day  near  the  close  of  autumn. 

In  the  afternoon,  «  fifteen  or  sixteen  men,  well 
armed,"  were  sent  on  shore  to  reconnoitre  and  col 
lect  fuel.  They  returned  at  evening,  reporting 
that  they  had  seen  neither  person  nor  dwelling,  but 
that  the  country  was  well  wooded,  and  that  the 
appearance  as  to  soil  was  promising. 

Having  kept  their  Sabbath  in  due  retirement, 
the  men  began  the  labors  of  the  week  by  land 
ing  a  shallop  from  the  ship  and  hauling  it  up  the 
beach  for  repairs,  while  the  women  went  on  shore 
to  wash  clothes.  While  the  carpenter  and  his  men 
were  at  work  on  the  boat,  sixteen  others,  armed 
and  provisioned,  with  Standish  for  their  command 
er,  se-t  off  on  foot  to  explore  the  country.  The  only 
incident  of  this  day  was  the  sight  of  five  or  six 
savages,  who  on  their  approach  ran  away  too 
swiftly  to  be  overtaken.  At  night,  lighting  a  fire 
and  setting  a  guard,  the  party  bivouacked  at  the 
distance,  as  they  supposed,  of  ten  miles  from  their 
vessel.  Proceeding  southward  next  morning,  they 


observed  marks  of  cultivation,  some  heaps  of  earth, 
which  they  took  for  signs  of  graves,  and  the  re 
mains  of  a  hut,  with  "  a  great  kettle,  which  had 
been  some  ship's  kettle."  In  a  heap  which  they 
opened,  they  found  two  baskets  containing  four  or 
five  bushels  of  Indian  corn,  of  which  they  took  as 
much  as  they  could  carry  away  in  their  pockets 
and  in  a  kettle.  Further  on,  they  saw  two  canoes, 
and  "  an  old  fort  or  palisado,  made  by  some  Christ 
ians,"  as  they  thought.  The  second  night,  which 
was  rainy,  they  encamped  again,  with  more  pre 
cautions  than  before.  On  Friday  evening,  having 
lost  their  way  meanwhile,  and  been  amused  by  an 
accident  to  Bradford,  who  was  caught  in  an  In 
dian  deer-trap,  they  returned  to  their  friends"  both 
weary  and  welcome,  and  delivered  in  their  corn 
into  the  store  to  be  kept  for  seed,  for  they  knew 
not  how  to  come  by  any,  and  therefore  were  very 
glad,  proposing,  so  soon  as  they  could  meet  with 
any  of  the  inhabitants  of  that  place,  to  make  their 
large  satisfaction. 

The  succeeding  week  was  spent  in  putting  their 
tools  in  order  and  preparing  timber  for  a  new  boat. 
During  this  time,  which  proved  to  be  cold  and 
stormy,  much  inconvenience  was  experienced  from 
having  to  wade  "  a  bow-shot"  through  the  shallow 
water  to  the  shore ;  and  many  took  "  coughs  and 
colds,  which  afterwards  turned  to  the  scurvy."  On 
Monday  of  the  week  next  following,  twenty -four 
of  the  colonists,  in  the  shallop,  which  was  now  re 
fitted,  set  out  for  an  exploration  along  the  coast, 
accompanied  by  Jones,  the  shipmaster,  and  ten  of 


GOO 


JOHN     G.    PALFREY. 


his  people,  in  the  long-boat.  That  day  and  the 
following  night  they  suffered  from  a  cold  snow 
storm,  and  were  compelled  to  run  into  the  shore 
for  security.  The  next  day  brought  them  to  the 
harbor  to  which  the  preceding  journey  by  land  had 
been  extended,  now  named  by  them  Cold  Harbor, 
and  ascertained  to  have  a  depth  of  twelve  feet  of 
water  at  flood-tide.  Having  slept  under  a  shelter 
of  pine-trees,  they  proceeded  to  make  an  examina 
tion  of  the  spot  as  to  its  fitness  for  their  settlement ; 
in  doing  which,  under  the  snow-covered  and  frozen 
surface,  they  found  another  parcel  of  corn  and  a 
hag  of  beans.  These  spoils  they  sent  back  in  the 
shallop  with  Jones  and  sixteen  of  the  party,  who 
were  ill,  or  worn  out  with  exposure  and  fatigue. 
Marching  inland  five  or  six  miles,  thev  found  a 
grave  with  a  deposit  of  personal  articles,  as  "  bowls, 
trays,  dishes,"  "  a  knife,  a  pack-needle,"  •<  a  little 
bow,"  and  some  "strings  and  bracelets  of  fine 
white  beads."  Two  wigwams  were  seen,  which 
appeared  to  have  been  recently  inhabited.  Return 
ing  to  their  boat  in  the  evening,  the  party  hastened 
to  rejoin  their  friends. 

The  question  was  discussed  whether  they  should 
make  a  further  examination  of  the  coast,  or  sit 
down  at  the  harbor  which  had  been  visited.  The 
land  about  it  had  been  under  cultivation.  The  site 
appeared  healthy,  and  convenient  for  defence,  as 
well  as  for  taking  whales,  of  which  numbers  were 
daily  seen.  The  severity  of  the  winter  season  was 
close  at  hand,  and  the  delay,  fatigue,  and  risk  of 
further  explorations  were  dreaded.  But  on  the 
whole,  the  uncertainty  as  to  an  adequate  supply  of 
water,  with  the  insufficiency  of  the  harbor,  which, 
though  commodious  for  boats,  was  too  shallow  for 
larger  vessels,  was  regarded  as  a  conclusive  objec 
tion,  and  it  was  resolved  to  make  a  further  exami 
nation  of  the  bay.  The  mate  of  the  Mayflower 
had  told  them  of  Agawam,  now  Ipswich,  as  a  good 
harbor,  with  fertile  land,  and  facilities  for  fishing. 
But,  as  things  stood,  it  was  thought  too  distant  for 
a  visit. 

As  soon  as  the  state  of  the  weather  permitted,  a 
party  of  ten,  including  Carver,  Bradford,  and  others 
of  the  principal  men,  set  off  with  eight  seamen  in 
the  shallop  on  what  proved  to  be  the  final  expedi 
tion  of  discovery.  The  severity  of  the  cold  was 
extreme.  "  The  water  froze  on  their  clothes,  and 
made  them  many  times  like  coats  of  iron."  Coast 
ing  along  the  cape  in  a  southerly  direction  for  six 
or  seven  leagues,  they  landed  and  slept  at  a  place 
where  ten  or  twelve  [ndians  had  appeared  on  the 
shore.  The  Indians  ran  away  on  being  approached, 
and  at  night  it  was  supposed  that  it  was  their  fires 
which  appeared  at  four  or  five  miles'  distance. 
The  next  day,  while  part  of  the  company  in  the 
shallop  examined  the  shore,  the  rest  ranging  aoout 
the  country  where  are  now  the  towns  of  Wellfleet 
and  Eastham,  found  a  burial-place,  some  old  wig 
wams,  and  a  small  store  of  parched  acorns,  buried 
in  the  ground  ;  but  they  met  with  no  inhabitants. 
The  following  morning,  at  daylight,  they  had  just 
ended  their  prayers,  and  were  preparing  breakfast 


at  their  camp  on  the  beach,  when  they  heard  a 
yell,  and  a  flight  of  arrows  fell  among  them.  The 
assailants  turned  out  to  be  thirty  or  forty  Indians, 
who,  being  fired  upon,  retired.  Neither  side  had 
been  harmed.  A  number  of  the  arrows  were 
picked  up,  "  some  whereof  were  headed  with  brass, 
others  with  hart's  horn,  and  others  with  eagles' 
claws." 

Getting  on  board,  they  sailed  all  day  along  the 
shore  in  a  storm  of  snow  and  sleet,  making,  by  their 
estimate,  a  distance  of  forty  or  fifty  miles,  without 
discovering  a  harbor.  In  the  afternoon,  the  gale 
having  increased,  their  rudder  was  disabled,  and 
they  had  to  steer  with  oars.  At  length  the  mast 
was  carried  away,  and  they  drifted  in  the  dark 
with  a  flood-tide.  With  difficulty  they  brought  up 
under  the  lee  of  a  "  small  rise  of  land."  Here  a 
part  of  the  company,  suffering  from  wet  and  cold, 
went  on  shore,  though  not  without  fear  of  hostile 
neighbors,  and  lighted  a  fire  by  which  to  pass  the 
inclement  night.  In  the  morning,  "  they  found 
themselves  to  be  on  an  island  secure  from  the  In 
dians,  where  they  might  dry  their  stuff,  fix  their 
pieces,  and  rest  themselves ;  and,  this  being  the 
last  day  of  the  week,  they  prepared  there  to  keep 
the  Sabbath." 

"  On  Monday,  they  sounded  the  harbor,  and 
found  it  fit  for  shipping,  and  marched  also  into  the 
land,  and  found  divers  corn-fields  and  liltle  run 
ning  brooks,  a  place,  as  thev  supposed,  fit  for  situa 
tion  ; so  they  returned  to  thoir  ship  again 

with  this  news  to  the  rest  of  their  people,  which 
did  much  comfort  their  hearts."  Such  is  the  re 
cord  of  that  event  which  has  made  the  twenty- 
second  of  December  a  memonible  day  in  the 
calendar.  *  * 

These  were  discouraging  circumstances,  but  far 
worse  troubles  were  to  come.  The  labor  of  pro 
viding  habitations  had  scarcely  begun,  when  sick 
ness  set  in,  the  consequence  of  exposure  and  bad 
food.  Within  four  months  it  carried  off  nearly 
half  their  number.  Six  died  in  December,  eight 
in  January,  seventeen  in  February,  and  thirteen 
in  March.  At  one  time  during  the  winter,  only 
six  or  seven  had  strength  enough  left  to  nurse  the 
dying  and  bury  the  dead.  Destitute  of  every 
provision  which  the  weakness  and  the  daintiness 
of  the  invalid  require,  the  sick  lay  crowded  in  the 
unwholesome  vessel,  or  in  half-built  cabins  heaped 
around  with  snow-drifts.  The  rude  sailors  refused 
them  even  a  share  of  those  coarse  sea-stores  which 
would  have  given  a  little  variety  to  their  diet,  till 
disease  spread  among  the  crew,  and  the  kind  min 
istrations  of  those  whom  they  had  neglected  and 
affronted  brought  them  to  a  better  temper.  The 
dead  were  interred  in  a  bluff  by  the  water-side, 
the  marks  of  burial  being  carefully  effaced,  lest  the 
natives  should  discover  how  the  colony  had  been 
weakened.  The  imagination  vainly  tasks  itself  to 
comprehend  the  horrors  of  that  fearful  winter. 
The  only  mitigations  were,  that  the  cold  was  of 
less  severity  than  is  usual  in  the  place,  and  that 
there  was  not  an  entire  want  of  food  or  shelter. 


ALBERT    BARNES. 


[Bom  1798.] 


THIS  eminent  Commentator  was  born  in 
Rome,  New  York,  Dec.  1,  1798.  He  worked 
with  his  father  in  the  tannery  until  he  was 
seventeen  years  old,  when  he  entered  Fail-field 
Academy,  Conn.,  where  he  remained  until 
1819.  He  entered  the  Senior  Class  in  Hamil 
ton  College,  and  graduated  in  July,  1820. 
He  had  intended  studying  law,  but  feeling  it 
his  duty  to  study  theology,  he  went  to  the 
Theological  Seminary  at  Princeton;  he  re 
mained  three  years,  and  was  licensed  to 
preach  April  23,  1823,  by  the  Presbytery  of 
NCAV  Brunswick.  After  preaching  at  various 
places,  he  took  charge  of  the  First  Presbyte 
rian  Church  in  Morristown,  N.  J.,  Feb.  25, 
1825.  In  1830,  he  accepted  a  call  from  the 
First  Presbyterian  Church,  in  Philadelphia, 
and  was  installed  June  25th.  In  both  churches 
his  ministry  was  highly  prosperous,  and  his 
people  became  devotedly  attached  to  him. 

In  1835,  George  Junkin,  D.  D.,  preferred 
against  Mr.  Barnes  charges  of  heresy,  based 
on  his  Commentaries  on  the  Epistle  to  the 
Romans.  The  Presbytery  sustained  Mr. 
Barnes,  and  Dr.  Junkin  appealed  to  the  Synod 
of  Philadelphia.  The  Synod  sustained  the 
appeal,  and  suspended  Mr.  Barnes  from  the 
ministry  "  until  he  should  give  evidence  of 
repentance";  Mr.  Barnes  appealed  to  the 
General  Assembly  that  met  at  Pittsburgh, 
May,  1836,  and  the  Assembly  restored  him  to 
his  functions  by  a  large  majority. 

During  his  residence  at  Morristown,  Mr. 
Barnes  commenced  a  series  of  Commentaries 
on  the  New  Testament,  designed  for  Sunday 
School  teachers  and  family  reading.  The 
volume  upon  Matthew  was  published  in  1832, 
and  was  followed,  at  various  times,  by  ten 
other  volumes,  until  the  New  Testament  was 
completed.  After  he  had  commenced,  hearing 
that  the  Rev.  James  W.  Alexander  was  engaged 
on  a  similar  work,  he  wrote  to  him,  proposing 
to  abandon  his  project  in  favor  of  his  friend. 
On  Dr.  Alexander's  reply — that  in  consequence 
of  his  feeble  health  he  desired  to  transfer  his 
work  to  the  able  hand  already  occupied  on  the 
same  project,  Mr.  Barnes  determined  to  con- 
76 


tinue.  The  work  met;  with  so  favorable  a 
reception  that  the  author  enlarged  his  desfgn, 
and  has  since  annotated  several  books  of  the 
Old  Testament,  with  the  same  distinguished 
success.  Besides  eleven  volumes  on  the  New 
Testament,  he  has  published  Notes  on  Isaiah, 
3  vols.,  Job,  2  vols.,  Daniel,  1  vol.,  Psalms,  3 
vols.,  all  maintaining  his  high  reputation  for 
profound  and  varied  scholarship. 

He  also  published  an  edition  of  Butler's 
Analogy,  with  an  Introduction  of  rare  ability ; 
Sermons  on  Revivals ;  Practical  Sermons ;  Epis 
copacy  tested  by  Scripture;  the  Way  of  Salva 
tion;  Tracts  on  Temperance,  and  Slavery; 
the  Supremacy  of  the  Laws  ;  Inquiry  into  the 
Scriptural  Views  of  Slavery;  the  Church  and 
Slavery  ;  Inquiries  and  Suggestions  in  Regard 
to  the  Foundation  of  Faith  in  the  Word  of  God ; 
Life  at  Three-score,  a  sermon  ;  the  Atonement 
in  its  Relations  to  Law  and  Government ;  Manual 
of  Family  Prayers  ;  Miscellaneous  Essays  and 
Reviews,  2  vols. ;  and  Evidences  of  Christianity. 

His  Commentaries  are  eminently  practical, 
and  among  the  best  works  of  the  kind  in  the 
language.  The  high  estimation  in  which  they 
are  held  by  the  religious  world,  is  evinced  by 
the  numerous  editions  which  have  been  pub 
lished  in  England  as  well  as  in  this  country. 
More  than  a  million  volumes  have  been  sold 
in  this  country,  and  probably  many  more  in 
England.  The  wonder  that  he  was  able  to 
write  so  much,  and  so  well,  without  interfer 
ing  with  his  daily  duties,  is  explained  in  his 
"  Life  at  Three-Score,"  where  he  says :  "All 
my  Commentaries  on  the  Scriptures  have  been 
written  before  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning." 
He  was  always  an  early  riser,  and  a  man  of 
method,  and  laid  down  his  pen  as  the  clock 
struck  nine,  even  if  in  the  middle  of  a  sen 
tence.  He  has  repeatedly  refused  the  title  of 
D.  D.  from  conscientious  motives. 

Possessed  naturally  of  a  clear  and  vigorous 
understanding,  his  opinions  are  uniformly  ex 
pressed  in  a  brief,  perspicuous  manner.  They 
are  characterized  by  good  sense,  earnest  piety, 
and  the  natural  graces  of  a  style  remarkable 
for  its  simplicity  and  ease. 

601 


602 


ALBERT     BARNES. 


LIFE  AT  THREE-SCORE  AND  TEN. 

FROM  "LIFE  AT  THREE-SCORE  AND  TEN." 

To  him,  however,  who  has  reached  the  period 
of  Three-Score  and  Ten  years,  no  such  change  is 
possible ;  no  such  new  plan  is  to  be  entered  on. 
The  purpose  of  life  is  accomplished ;  the  changes 
have  been  all  passed  through.  There  is  no  new 
profession  to  be  chosen ;  there  are  no  new  plans  to  be 
formed ;  there  is  no  new  distinction  to  be  acquired  ; 
there  are  no  books  to  be  written,  no  houses  to  be 
built,  no  fields  to  be  cultivated,  no  forests  to  be 
levelled,  no  works  of  art  to  be  entered  on.  Painful 
as  the  thought  may  be,  society,  and  the  business 
walks  of  life,  have  no  place  for  the  old  man; 
there  is  no  place  for  him  in  the  social  circles  of  the 
gay,  in  the  mercantile  calling,  at  the  bar,  in  the 
medical  profession,  in  the  pulpit,  on  the  bench,  in 
the  senate  chamber,  in  embassies  to  foreign  courts. 
Distinctions  and  honors  are  no  longer  to  be  divided 
between  him  and  his  competitors ;  and  the  accu 
mulating  wealth  of  the  world  is  no  more  to  be  the 
subject  of  partnership  between  him  and  others. 
Without  plan  now  excrpt  as  to  the  future  world ; 
his  old  companions,  rivals  and  friends  having 
fallen  by  the  way ;  the  active  pursuits  of  life,  and 
the  offices  of  trust  and  honor  now  in  other  hands  ; 
the  busy  world  not  caring  for  his  aid,  and  hoping 
nothing  from  him,  it  is  his  now,  except  as  far  as 
the  friends  of  earlier  years  may  have  been  spared 
to  him,  or  as  he  may  have  secured  the  respect  of 
the  new  generation  that  is  coming  on  the  stage  of 
action,  to  tread  his  solitary  way,  already  more 
than  half  forgotten,  to  the  grave.  He  has  had  his 
day,  and  the  world  has  nothing  more  to  give  him 
or  to  hope  from  him. 

Most  men  in  active  life  look  forward,  with 
fond  anticipation,  to  a  time  when  the  cares  of  life 
will  be  over,  and  when  they  will  be  released  from 
its  responsibilities  and  burdens ;  if  not  with  an  ab 
solute  desire  that  such  a  time  should  come,  yet 
with  a  feeling  that  it  will  be  a  relief  when  it  does 
come.  Many  an  hour  of  anxiety  in  the  counting 
room  ;  many  an  hour  of  toil  in  the  workshop  or 
on  the  farm ;  many  an  hour  of  weariness  on  the 
bench ;  many  a  burdened  hour  in  the  great  offices 
of  state,  and  many  an  hour  of  exhaustion  and 
solicitude  in  professional  life,  is  thus  relieved  by  the 
prospect  of  rest — of  absolute  rest — of  entire  free 
dom  from  responsibility.  What  merchant  and 
professional  man,  what  statesman,  does  not  look 
forward  to  such  a  time  of  repose,  and  anticipate  a 
season — perhaps  a  long  one — of  calm  tranquillity 
before  life  shall  end ;  and  when  the  time  ap- 
oroaches,  though  the  hope  often  proves  fallacious, 
yet  its  approach  is  not  unwelcome.  Diocletian 
and  Charles  V.  descended  from  their  thrones  to 
seek  repose,  the  one  in  private  life,  and  the  other 
in  a  cloister;  and  the  aged  judge,  merchant  or 
pastor,  welcomes  the  time  when  he  feels  that  the 
burden  which  he  has  long  borne  may  be  com 
mitted  to  younger  men. 

Yet  when  the  time  comes,  it  is  different  from 
what  had  been  anticipated.  There  is,  to  the  sur 
prise,  perhaps  of  all  such  men,  this  new — this 


strange — idea ;  an  idea  which  they  never  had  be 
fore,  and  which  did  not  enter  into  their  anticipa 
tions  :  that  they  have  now  nothing  to  live  for  ;  that 
they  have  no  motive  for  effort ;  that  they  have  no 
plan  or  purpose  of  life.  They  seem  now  to  them 
selves,  perhaps  to  others,  to  have  no  place  in  the 
world ;  no  right  in  it.  Society  has  no  place  for 
them,  for  it  has  nothing  to  confer  on  them,  and 
they  can  no  longer  make  a  place  for  themselves. 
General  Washington,  when  the  war  of  Indepen 
dence  was  over,  and  he  had  returned  to  Mount 
Vernon,  is  said  to  have  felt  "  lost,"  because  he 
had  not  an  army  to  provide  for  daily ;  and 
Charles  V.,  so  far  from  finding  rest  in  his  cloister 
as  such,  amused  himself,  as  has  been  commonly 
supposed,  in  trying  to  make  clocks  and  watches 
run  together,  and  so  far  from  actually  withdraw 
ing  from  the  affairs  of  state, — miserable  in  his 
chosen  place  of  retreat — still  busied  himself  with 
the  affairs  of  Europe,  and  sought  in  the  con 
vent  at  Yuste  to  govern  his  hereditary  dominions 
which  he  had  professedly  resigned  to  his  son,  and 
as  far  as  possible  still  to  control  the  empire  where 
he  had  so  long  reigned.  The  retired  merchant,  un 
used  to  reading,  and  unaccustomed  to  agriculture 
or  the  mechanical  arts,  having  little  taste,  it  may 
be,  for  the  fine  arts  or  for  social  life,  or  oppor 
tunity  for  indulging  in  those  tastes,  finds  life  a 
burden,  and  sighs  for  his  old  employments  and 
associations,  for  in  his  anticipations  of  this  period 
he  never  allowed  the  idea  to  enter  his  mind  that 
he  would  then  have  really  closed  all  his  plans  of 
life ;  that  he  would  have  nothing  to  do ;  that  as 
he  had  professedly  done  with  the  world,  so  the 
world  has  actually  done  with  him. 

How  great,  therefore,  is  the  difference  in  the 
condition  of  a  man  of  twenty  and  one  of  seventy 
years !  To  those  in  the  former  condition  the 
words  of  Milton  in  relation  to  our  first  parents 
when  they  went  out  from  Eden  into  the  wide 
world  may  not  improperly  be  applied : — 

"The  world  was  all  before  them  then,  where  to  choose 
Their  place  of  rest,  and  Providence  their  guide;" 

those,  in  the  other  case,  have  nothing  which  they 
can  choose.  There  is  nothing  before  them  but 
the  one  path — that  which  leads  to  the  grave — to 
another  world.  To  them  the  path  of  wealth,  of 
fame,  of  learning,  of  ambition,  is  closed  forever. 
The  world  has  nothing  more  for  them  ;  they  have 
nothing  more  for  the  world. 

If  an  inference  should  be  drawn  from  these 
remarks,  it  should  not  be  one. of  melancholy  and 
gloom.  There  are  cheerful  views  which  an  aged 
man  may  take  of  life,  perhaps  not  less  cheerful 
than  those  which  are  taken  in  early  years.  If 
early  life  is  full  of  hope,  it  is  also  often  full  of 
anxiety  and  uncertainty ;  if  in  advanced  life  the 
world  has  now  nothing  to  offer  to  a  man,  it  may  be 
that  much  is  gained  by  being  free  from  the  cares, 
the  burdens,  and  the  anxieties  of  earlier  years ;  if 
to  such  an  one  this  world  has  nothing  now  to 
give,  there  may  be  much  more  than  it  ever  gave 
even  in  anticipation,  and  infinitely  more  than  it 
has  given  in  reality,  in  the  hope  of  the  life  to 
come. 


JACOB    ABBOTT. 


[Born  1803.] 


KEY.  JACOB  ABBOTT  was  born  in  Hallowell, 
Maine,  in  1803,  and  entered  Bowdoin  College 
at  twelve  years  of  age.  After  graduating,  he 
studied  theology  at  Andover,  and,  on  com 
pleting  his  three  years'  course  there,  was  ap 
pointed  tutor,  and  afterwards  Professor  of 
Mathematics,  in  Amherst  College,  which 
station  he  filled  with  great  success.  Thence 
he  was  called  to  the  pastoral  charge  of  the 
Elliott  Street  Congregational  Church,  Boston. 
Mr.  Abbott  was  very  successful  as  a  teacher 
in  his  well-known  Mount  Vernon  School  for 
Young  Ladies,  in  Boston ;  and  at  a  later  pe 
riod,  when  associated  with  his  brother,  John 
S.  C.  Abbott,  in  the  Houston  and  Bleecker 
Street  Schools,  in  New  York.  Since  then  he 
has  devoted  his  time  entirely  to  writing,  and 
has  acquired  a  high  reputation  as  the  author 
of  a  variety  of  works  having  for  their  object 
the  moral  and  religious  training,  and  the  in 
tellectual  instruction  of  the  young. 

His  first  important  literary  work,  The 
Young  Christian,  appeared  in  Boston,  in  1825; 
it  was  followed  in  the  series  by  The  Corner 
Stone,  The  Way  to  do  Good,  and  Hoaryhead 
and  McDonner.  The  Young  Christian  series 
has  enjoyed  not  only  a  wide  circulation  in 
this  country,  but  numerous  editions  have 
been  issued  in  England,  Scotland,  France, 
and  Germany,  translated  into  various  lan 
guages  of  Europe  and  Asia.  He  wrote  The 


Teacher,  Moral  Influences  employed  in  Uie  In 
struction  and  Government  of  the  Young,  12mo. 

When  these  were  completed,  Mr.  Abbott 
commenced  the  Hollo  Series  of  Juvenile  writ 
ings,  which  reached  24  vols.,  consisting  of 
the  Hollo  Books,  14  vols.;  the  Lucy  Books,  6 
vols.;  and  the  Jonas  Books,  in  4  vols.  The 
Marco  Paul  Series  followed,  in  6  vols.,  and 
subsequently  the  Franconia  Stories,  in  10  vols. 
A  series  of  Illustrated  Histories,  extending 
now  to  30  vols.,  appeared  in  rapid  succession 
from  the  press  of  Harpers,  tastefully  printed, 
and  with  the  particular  topic  attractively  set 
forth  in  a  fluent,  easy  narrative.  Harper's 
Story  Books,  a  series  of  narratives  written  to 
certain  cuts,  were  published  in  36  thin  vol 
umes  ;  also,  uniform  in  style,  The  Little 
Learner  Series,  5  vols.,  and,  The  Rainbow  and 
Lucky  series,  5  vols.  He  published  a  nar 
rative  of  his  travels,  entitled,  A  Summer  in 
Scotland.  He  commenced,  in  1870,  a  new 
series  under  the  title  of  The  Juno  Stories,  in 
4  vols. 

Mr.  Abbott  has  great  skill  as  a  story-teller 
for  the  young.  He  avoids  particularly  all 
ambiguity  and  obscurity.  His  page  is  neither 
encumbered  by  superfluous  matter,  nor  defi 
cient  in  the  necessary  fulness  of  explanation. 
No  writer  of  original  works  for  children,  in 
this  country,  has  attained  to  a  wider  popu 
larity  or  greater  sale 


DOING  OUR  FATHER'S  BUSINESS. 

FROM  THE  CORNER-STONE. 

IF  you  look  into  the  Bible,  to  your  Savior,  for 
an  example,  you  will  see  that  the  first  principle  of 
action  which  he  announced  was,  that  he  was  do 
ing  his  Father's  business.  But  you  say  perhaps 
that  he  was  sent  from  heaven  to  do  a  great  work 
here,  which  you  can  not  do.  "  I  can  not  go,"  you 
say,  "  from  place  to  place,  preaching  the  gospel 
mul  working  miracles,  and  giving  sight  to  the 
blind  and  healing  the  sick.  I  would  do  it  if  I 
could." 

It  is  true  you  can  not  do  that.  That  is,  you 
cnn  not  do  your  Father's  business  in  the  same  way 
precisely,  that  Christ  did  it.  Or,  to  explain  it  more 
tViilv,  Go,|  has  a  "rent  deal  of  business  to  be  done 


in  this  world,  and  it  is  of  various  kinds,  and  the 
particular  portion  allotted  to  each  person  depends 
upon  the  circumstances  in  which  each  one  is 
placed.  You  cannot  do  exactly  what  Christ  did 
while  he  was  here,  but  you  can  do  what  he  would 
have  done  had  he  been  in  your  place.  You  can 
not  make  a  blind  man  happy  by  restoring  his 
sight,  but  you  can  make  your  little  sister  happy 
by  helping  her  up  kindly  when  she  has  fallen 
down  ;  and  that  last  is  your  Father's  business  as 
much  as  the  other.  His  business  here  is  to  make 
every  one  happy,  and  to  relieve  every  one's  suffer 
ing.  You  can  not  persuade  great  multitudes  of 
men  to  love  and  obey  God,  as  Christ  endeavored 
to  do,  but  you  may  lead  your  brothers  and  sisters 
to  him,  by  your  silent  influence  and  happy  exam 
ple.  So  you  can  bear  sufferings  patiently,  and 


b'04 


JACOB  ABBOTT. 


take  injuries  meekly,  and  thus  exhibit  the  charac 
ter  which  God  desires  that  men  should  everywhere 
see.  The  light  which  you  thus  let  shine  may  be 
a  feeble  light,  and  it  may  illuminate  only  a  narrow 
circle  around  you ;  but  if  it  is  the  light  of  genuine 
piety,  it  will  be  in  fact  the  glory  of  God  ;  and  if  it 
is  your  great  object  to  let  this  light  shine,  you  are 
about  your  Father's  business  as  truly  as  Jesus  was, 
when  he  preached  to  the  thronging  multitude,  or 
brought  Lazarus  from  the  tomb. 

It  is  very  difficult  for  an  observer  to  know  whe 
ther  an  individual  is  acting  for  God  or  for  himself. 
A  Christian  merchant,  for  instance,  who  feels  that 
he  holds  a  stewardship,  will  be  as  industrious,  as 
enterprising,  and  as  persevering  in  his  plans  as  any 
other  merchant.  Only  he  acts  as  agent,  while 
the  other  acts  as  principal.  So  a  boy  may  be 
amiable  and  gentle  and  kind  without  any  regard 
to  God,  or  any  desire  to  carry  on  his  plans.  But 
God  sees  very  clearly  who  is  working  for  him,  arid 
who  is  not;  and  there  is  not  one,  and  there  never 
has  been  one,  in  any  age,  who,  if  he  had  been  in 
clined  to  enter  God's  service,  would  not  have 
found  enough  to  do  for  him,  had  he  been  disposed 
to  do  it.  The  example  of  Jesus  Christ  in  this  re 
spect  is  an  example  for  all  mankind.  It  is  in 
tended  for  universal  imitation,  and  they  who  pass 
through  life  without  imitating  it,  must  find  them 
selves  condemned  when  they  come  to  their  ac 
count. 

And  how  strange  it  is,  that  there  should  be  found 
so  very  few  willing  to  do  the  work  of  God  in  this 
world.  Even  of  those  few,  most,  instead  of  enter 
ing  into  it  heart  and  soul,  do  just  enough  to  satisfy 
what  they  suppose  to  be  the  expectations  of  their 
Christian  brethren.  A  lady  will  spend  her  life, 
engrossed  with  such  objects  of  interest  as  new  fur 
niture,  and  fashionable  dress,  and  the  means  of 
securing  the  admiration  of  others,  for  herself  or  her 
children.  She  thinks  for  days  and  weeks  of  pro 
curing  some  new  article  of  furniture,  not  for  com 
fort  or  convenience,  but  for  show ;  and  when  at 
last  the  long-expected  acquisition  is  made,  she  is 
pleased  and  delighted,  as  if  one  of  the  great  objects 
of  her  existence  had  been  accomplished.  She 
spends  hours  in  deciding  upon  the  color  or  texture 
of  a  ribbon,  which  as  soon  as  it  is  chosen  will 
begin  to  fade,  and  after  a  very  brief  period  fall  into 
contempt  and  be  rejected  ;  or  she  pursues,  month 
after  month,  and  year  after  year,  what  she  calls 
the  pleasures  of  society,  which  pleasures  are  often 
a  compound  of  pride,  vanity,  envy,  jealousy,  and 
ill-will.  Her  husband,  perhaps,  in  the  mean-time 
devotes  himself  to  pursuits  equally  unworthy  an 
immortal  mind.  They  do  good  occasionally,  as 
opportunities  occur,  and  call  themselves  Christians; 
but  they  seem  to  have  no  idea,  that  God  has  any 
great  work  in  life  for  them  to  do. 

Has  he  work  for  them  to  do?  Yes;  there  is  a 
world  to  be  restored  to  holiness  and  happiness,  and 
he  asks  their  help  in  doing  it.  He  has  put  their 
children  almost  completely  in  their  power,  so  that 
the  eternal  happiness  of  these  children  might  be 
almost  certainly  secured,  and  has  given  them  con 


nections  with  society,  of  which  they  might  avail 
themselves  in  working  most  efficiently  for  him.  If 
they  would  take  hold  of  this  enterprise,  they  would 
have  some  elevated  and  ennobling  object  before 
them.  They  would  see,  one  after  another,  those 
connected  with  them,  returning  to  God.  They 
would  see  their  children  growing  up  in  piety. 
Every  night,  they  would  feel  that  they  had  been 
living  during  the  day  for  God ;  and  whatever 
might  be  their  difficulties  and  trials,  they  would  be 
relieved  from  all  sense  of  responsibility  and  care. 
Instead  of  feeling  gloomy  and  sad,  as  their  children 
were  gradually  separated  from  them,  or  were  one 
by  one  removed  by  death,  and  as  they  themselves 
were  gradually  drawing  toward  the  close  of  life, 
they  would  find  their  interest  in  their  great  busi 
ness  growing  stronger  and  stronger  as  they  ap 
proached  the  change  which  would  bnng  them 
more  directly  into  connection  with  their  Father. 

The  offer,  on  the  part  of  our  Maker,  to  take  us 
into  his  service,  in  this  world,  is  in  fact  the  only 
plan  which  can  give  human  life  any  real  dignity, 
or  substantial  value.  Without  it  all  human  em 
ployments  are  insignificant,  all  pleasure  is  insipid, 
and  life  is  a  sterile  waste,  void  of  verdure  or  bloom. 
Without  this,  there  is  an  entire  disproportion  be 
tween  the  lofty  powers  and  capacities  of  human 
nature,  and  the  low  pursuits  and  worthless  objects 
which  are  before  it  in  its  present  home.  An  im 
mortal  spirit,  capable  of  thoughts  which  explore 
the  universe,  and  of  feelings  and  desires  reaching 
forward  to  eternity,  spending  life  in  seeing  how 
many  pieces  of  stamped  metal  it  can  get  together ! 
a  mind  made  in  the  image  of  God,  and  destined  to 
live  as  long  as  he,  buried  for  years  in  thoughts 
about  the  size  and  beauty  of  a  dwelling  which  is 
all  the  time  going  to  decay,  or  about  the  color  and 
fashion  of  dress,  or  the  hues  and  carvings  of  rose 
wood  or  mahogany  ! 

But  let  no  one  understand  me  to  condemn  the 
enjoyments,  which  come  to  us  through  the  arts 
and  refinements  of  life.  It  is  making  these  things 
the  great  object  of  existence, — it  is  the  eager  pur 
suit  of  them,  as  the  chief  business  of  life,  which  the 
example  of  our  Savior  and  the  principles  of  the 
gospel  condemn.  These  arts  and  refinements  are 
intended  to  add  to  human  happiness.  They  will 
make  the  most  rapid  progress  in  those  countries 
where  Christianity  most  perfectly  prevails.  Jems 
Christ  had  a  love  for  beauty,  both  of  nature  ;u  J 
art;  he  admired  the  magnificent  architecture  of 
the  temple,  and  deeply  lamented  the  necessity  of 
its  overthrow,  and  his  dress  was  at  least  of  such  a 
character,  that  the  disposal  of  it  was  a  subject  of 
importance  to  the  well-paid  soldiers  who  crucified 
him.  Yes,  the  universal  reign  of  Christianity  will 
be  the  reign  of  taste,  and  refinement,  and  the  arts; 
but  while  the  enjoyments  of  men  will  be  increased 
in  a  tenfold  degree  from  these  and  other  sources, 
their  hearts  will  be  set  far  less  on  them,  than  they 
are  now.  These  enjoyments  will  be  recreations 
by  the  way,  to  cheer  and  refresh  those  whose 
hearts  are  mainly  bent  on  accomplishing  the  objects 
of  their  Father  in  Heaven. 


HORACE    BUSHNELL. 


[Born  1804.] 


HORACE  BUSHNELL,  the  now  eminent  theolo 
gian  was  born  in  1804,  in  New  Preston  or 
Washington,  Litchfield  Co.,  Conn.  He  was  as 
a  boy  employed  in  a  fulling  mill  in  the  village. 
He  graduated  at  Yale  College  in  1827,  was 
engaged  as  literary  editor  of  the  Journal  of 
Commerce  in  New  York,  and  in  1829,  was 
tutor  in  Yale.  In  1831,  he  studied  for  the 
law,  but  deserted  it  for  theology.  In  May, 
1833,  he  assumed  the  duties  of  Pastor  of  the 
North  Congregational  Church,  at  Hartford. 
At  this  time  he  contributed  to  the  religious 
periodicals,  and  delivered  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa 
oration  at  New  Haven,  to  the  Class  of  1837, 
on  the  Principles  of  Greatness. 

He  commenced  the  publication  of  his 
theological  works  in  1847,  with  his  Views  of 
Christian  Nurture,  and  of  subjects  adjacent 
thereto,  in  which  he  presented  his  views  of 
the  spiritual  economy  of  revivals,  and  marks 
out  the  philosophical  limitations  to  a  system 
which  had  been  carried  to  excess.  In  1849, 
he  published,  God  in  Christ,  three  Discourses 
on  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity,  that  created 
a  great  deal  of  discussion,  and  much  opposition 
from  some  of  his  Congregational  brethren,  and 
was  the  cause  of  his  being  brought  before  the 
Ministerial  Association.  The  main  points  of 
his  defence  were  presented  in  his  new  volume, 
Christ  in  Theology ;  or,  Character  of  Jesus,  in 
1851. 

He  has  also  achieved  distinguished  success 
in  the  philosophical  essay,  in  which  he  mingles 
subtle  and  refined  speculation  with  the  aifairs 
of  every-day  life,  in  a  manner  peculiarly  his 
own.  The  titles  of  these  essays  show  the 
bent  of  his  mind  ;  On  Taste  and  Fashion ;  the 
Moral  Tendencies  and  Results  of  Human  His 
tory  ;  Work  and  Play  ;  Unconscious  Influence  ; 
the  Day  of  Roads  ;  The  Northern  Iron  ;  Bar 
barism  the  First  Danger ;  Religious  Music  ; 
Politics  under  the  Law  of  God.  In  1849,  Dr. 


Bushnell  pronounced  an  oration,  The  Fathers 
of  New  England,  before  the  New  York  New 
England  Society;  and  in  1851,  Speech  for 
Connecticut,  before  the  Legislature. 

In  1858,  he  published  Sermons  for  the  New 
Life,  12mo.,  which  is  marked  by  the  spiritual 
ity,  elevated  views,  ingenious  illustration,  and 
fervid  eloquence  which  characterize  all  his 
writings.  In  the  same  year,  Nature  and  the 
Supernatural,  as  together  constituting  the  one 
System  of  God,  12mo.,  undertaken  mainly  to 
establish  the  credibility  and  historic  fact  of 
what  is  supernatural  in  the  Christian  Gospels. 
In  1860,  he  issued  Christian  Nurture,  12mo., 
thirteen  discourses  on  the  theory  and  practice 
of  Christianity,  with  especial  relation  to  the 
family,  being  an  enlarged  edition  of  a  previous 
work  of  the  same  title.  In  1864,  he  collected 
a  number  of  the  essays  we  have  mentioned 
above,  under  the  title  of  Work  and  Play,  or 
Literary  Varieties,  12mo.,  all  of  a  historical, 
literary,  or  philosophical  character.  The 
same  year  he  published,  Christ  and  his  Sal 
vation,  a  series  of  twenty-one  Sermons  vari 
ously  related  to  the  subject.  In  1865,  he 
issued,  The  Vicarious  Sacrifice,  grounded  on 
Principles  of  Universal  Obligation,  12mo.  ; 
and  in  1869,  Moral  Uses  of  Dark  Things  ;  and, 
Women's  Suffrage,  the  Reform  against  Nature. 
The  latter  upon  a  topic,  at  the  time,  much 
discussed  by  the  press ;  the  author,  takes 
ground  that  this  new  reform  against  nature, 
is  an  attempt  to  make  trumpets  out  of  flutes, 
and  sunflowers  out  of  violets. 

Dr.  Bushnell's  writings  have  attracted 
considerable  attention  among  theologians, 
from  the  bold  and  original  manner  in  which 
he  has  presented  views  of  the  doctrines  of  the 
Calvinistic  faith.  The  dissertation  prefixed 
to  his  volume  "  God  in  Christ,"  contains  the 
germ  of  most  of  what  are  considered  his  theo>- 
logical  Deculiarities. 


USES  OF  PHYSICAL  DANGER. 

FROM  MORAL  USES  OF  DARE  THINGS. 

ABOUT  the  highest  exhibition  of  power  obtained 


or  obtainable  by  man,  is  discovered  in  the  com 
mand  or  sovereign  mind-grapple  he  learns  how  to 
maintain  over  causes  infinitely  above  him,  as  re 
spects  their  physical  efficiency.  He  is  not  only 

605 


606 


HORACE    BUSHNELL. 


not  cowed  before  the  tremendous  forces  of  the  cre 
ation  of  God,  but  he  steals  their  secret,  and  by 
means  of  it  he  actually  takes  them  into  service. 
And  in  doing  it  he  is  often  moved  by  the  stimula 
tion  of  danger,  going  directly  into  the  chambers 
where  the  danger  lurks,  and  working  in  close  pre 
cinct  with  it.  His  most  striking  contrivances,  com 
binations,  tools,  machines,  operations,  discoveries, 
are  ways  found  out  by  his  intelligence  for  keeping 
at  bay,  or  reducing  to  subserviency,  forces  that 
would  otherwise  crush  him.  As  he  must  go 
mining  underground,  in  halls  that  are  filled  with 
combustible,  explosive  gas,  he  learns  by  a  little  ex 
periment  how  to  fence  about  his  light  with  a  fine 
wire-gauze,  when  he  has  a  safety-lamp  that  com 
mands  the  gas  to  be  harmless ;  and  walking  there 
underground,  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of 
death,  with  it  in  hand,  he  fears  no  evil.  Beset  by 
a  dreadful  plague,  that  breathes  infection  round 
him  year  by  year,  carrying  off  a  third  part  of  the 
world's  children,  he  learns  to  steal  a  poison  from 
one  of  his  domesticated  animals,  and,  vaccinated 
with  a  touch  of  this,  he  goes,  and  lets  them  go, 
directly  into  the  bad  exposure,  doing  it  as  securely 
as  if  the  plague-infection  were  wholly  at  his  bid 
ding.  The  wild,  half-demoniacal  terrors  of  al 
chemy  attract  his  search  instead  of  repelling  it, 
and  chemistry  is  the  result.  The  sea  is  a  terrible 
devouring  element,  and  the  mariner  goes  coasting 
cautiously  along  the  frightful  shores  for  long  ages, 
fearing  not  only  the  rocks  and  winds,  but  vastly 
more  that  he  shall  wander  into  unknown  regions, 
and  be  never  able  to  find  where  he  is,  or  by  what 
course  to  reach  his  home.  By  and  by  it  is  discov 
ered,  by  explorative  genius  groping  far  away  among 
the  stars,  that  by  angle  and  distance  and  calculated 
tables  and  observations,  the  random  ship  that  was 
can  find  her  place,  at  almost  any  time,  within  a 
mile,  and  set  her  course  with  reliable  precision  for 
any  country  or  harbor  on  the  globe.  The  sea 
again  he  finds  a  yawning  gulf  between  him  and 
the  world  ;  he  searches  it  out  with  his  mind  as  the 
fishes  can  not  with  their  fins,  maps  the  still  bottom, 
draws  his  wire  along  it,  and  then  sits  down  to 
think  and  talk  serenely  through  three  thousand 
miles  of  wave  and  storm.  Still  more  sublime,  be 
cause  vastly  more  complex,  is  that  wonderful  com 
bination  of  study  and  experience  by  which  human 
society  learns  to  organize  itself  in  law  and  govern 
ment,  so  as  to  keep  in  safe  control  those  worst  in 
festations  of  danger  that  are  created  by  social  wrong 
and  passion.  The  problem  is,  how  to  distribute 
selfishness,  and  set  bad  power  in  balance,  so  as  to 
keep  it  safe  in  the  maintenance  of  order  and  justice. 
A  very  cheap,  small  thing  it  is  to  make  out  navi 
gation  tables,  even  though  we  go  to  the  stars  for 
our  data ;  but  to  make  out  safe  navigations  for  so 
ciety,  and  steer  the  ark  of  liberty  through  the  peril 
ous  seas  of  wrong  and  passion — this,  alas !  is  an 
art  that  comes  more  slowly ;  and  yet  it  comes ! 
We  shall  have  it  by  and  by,  the  world  over.  And 
yet  all  these  and  other  puttings  forth  of  skill  and 
adaptive  discovery,  in  the  nature-field  of  our  life, 
are  only  types  of  that  vastly  higher  and  more  quali 
fied  intelligence  by  which  we  are  to  get  the  worlds 


of  spirit  and  religion  into  our  command,  and  bring 
the  powers  of  the  world  to  come  into  our  service 
In  its  highest  view,  the  great  problem  of  religion, 
it  is  true,  is  not  safety,  but  righteousness — how  to 
be  right  with  God  ;  how  a  soul  in  evil  may  come 
up  out  of  evil  into  God's  acceptance  and  friend 
ship,  as  being  co-ordinate  with  him  in  character. 
And  yet  the  first  impulse  to  this  is  the  felt  insecu 
rity  of  evil,  set  home  and  seconded  by  all  the  perils 
of  time.  From  that  humble  beginning  the  soul  is 
to  get  spring,  and  then,  by  its  divine  explorations 
of  study,  and  faith,  and  sacrifice,  it  is  to  climb  up 
into  God's  eternity,  appropriating  all  the  grandest 
truths  and  powers  and  celestial  navigations  of  his 
realms.  Nowhere  does  he  engineer  so  loftily  and 
ascend  to  such  a  grade  of  intelligence  as  here. 
We  have  almost  no  conception  of  intelligence, 
what  it  can  contrive,  and  seize,  and  command,  till 
we  follow  it  up  hither  into  this  diviner  field. 
Think  what  we  may  of  fear,  and  danger,  and  the 
weakness  of  all  such  initiations  of  motive,  they  do 
in  fact  prepare  us  to  exactly  that  which  is  the 
crown  of  intelligence,  and  without  which  it  has  no 
crown 


USES  OF  WINTER. 

FROM   THE   SAME. 

THE  contrast  observable  here  between  summer 
and  winter  life,  in  respect  to  the  habit  or  capacity 
of  reflection,  is  specially  remarkable.  Self-indul- 
gence,  luxury,  and  a  free  bathing  of  sensation  in 
the  world's  temperatures  and  odors  make  soft  mo 
tive  for  us  in  the  summer,  and  luil  us  in  a  soften 
ing  element.  We  seek  the  out-door  shade  and 
open  air,  and  the  motion  of  our  being  is  outward, 
away  from  its  own  center.  The  songs  of  the 
morning  are  music  in  our  ear.  The  air  is  laden 
with  incense.  Scenes  of  beauty  open  to  the  eye, 
and  we  fill  ourselves  all  day  with  images  of  fresh 
ness  and  life.  All  which  is  of  the  highest  use — it 
is  even  necessary  to  the  furniture  of  the  mind, 
But  it  requires  a  time  of  reflection  afterward,  to 
enable  us  to  realize  the  moral  benefits  prepared. 
After  the  mind  has  received  the  summer  into  its 
storehouse,  then  it  wants  the  winter,  as  a  time  where 
in  to  review  and  con  over  its  stores.  Then  let  the 
summer  wane,  and  the  autumnal  frost  begin  to 
whiten  the  plain.  Let  the  songs  be  hushed,  the 
verdure  fall  off,  and  the  scented  air  breathe  only 
cold.  Let  the  snows  spread  their  blanket  over  the 
dead  world,  and  the  wintry  blasts  howl  vengefuily 
and  wild.  Now  the  senses  lose  their  objects,  and 
the  man,  not  as  being  moved  inwardly,  but  frost- 
nipped  rather  without,  gathers  in  his  mind  to  re 
flection.  And  there  he  finds  gathered  in  also  all 
the  images  of  the  creation,  himself  among  them 
present  also  to  himself.  Their  meanings,  moni 
tions,  suggestions,  and  the  matter-forms  of  thought 
there  is  in  them,  throng  in  to  his  aid.  He  hears 
the  whispers  of  his  conscience,  and  thinks  of  other 
worlds.  Every  prospect  without  forbidding  arid 
desolate,  and  the  in-door  fire  more  attractive  in  his 
evenings  than  any  walk  abroad,  he  is  shut  up,  in 


HORACE     BUSHNELL. 


a  sense,  even  wontedly,  to  his  chamber,  and  to 
thoughts  that  relate  to  his  own  being  and  well- 
being.  If  he  ever  cogently  and  closely  thinks,  it 
will  probably  be  now.  If  he  is  ever  seriously  bent 
to  the  very  highest  concernments  of  his  nature,  he 
is  likely  to  be  so  now.  There  is  more  of  tone  in 
his  moral  perceptions  than  at  other  times.  Truth 
is  seen  more  clearly,  an  J  his  soul  rings  like  a  bell 
under  its  touch,  because  he  is  undiverted  by  things 
without,  and  thought  is  single  in  its  action. 

Now,  it  is  well  understood  that  the  mind  never 
attains  to  great  intellectual  strength  without  first 
forming  a  habit  of  reflection.  And  the  same  is 
necessary  to  a  vigorous  pronouncement  of  the 
moral  man — the  conscience,  the  spiritual  emotions, 
and  the  religious  aspirations.  Hence  the  well- 
known  superficiality  and  the  great  intellectual  and 
moral  dearth  of  the  tropical  climates.  Having  no 
winter,  they  have  no  capacity  of  deep,  well-invig 
orated  reflection,  and  no  firm  condensation  of 
thoughtful  temperament.  Their  moral  nature  es 
pecially  wants  the  true  frigorific  tension  of  a  well 
wintered  life  and  experience.  For  it  is  often  ob 
served,  partly  because  the  habit  is  more  reflective, 
and  partly  for  other  reasons,  that  men  have  a 
stronger  sense  of  principles  in  winter,  than  at  any 
other  time.  They  see  them  invested  with  a  certain 
rigor  and  severity,  like  the  season  itself.  Or,  per 
haps,  without  making  any  such  comparison,  they 
do,  by  a  certain  force  of  association,  behold  them, 
as  they  do  the  trunks  of  the  forest,  standing  in 
their  pure  anatomy,  curtained  by  no  garniture  of 
leaves,  and  stretching  their  bare,  stiff  limbs  to  the 
sky.  Hence  the  contrast  between  tropical  con 
sciences,  which  are  out-door,  self-indulgent,  unpro- 
nouncing  consciences,  and  those  which  have  been 
trained  in  the  more  rugged  and  severe  climes  of 
the  North.  Who  that  understands  the  moral  effi 
cacy  of  climates  would  undertake  to  form  a  Scotch 
people,  or  New  England  people,  as  to  the  sense  of 
principles,  in  either  Central  America  or  Jamaica  1 

In  the  same  way,  we  are  made  more  conscious 
of  our  moral  and  religious  wants  in  the  winter, 
than  we  are  in  the  softer,  balmier  seasons.  If  we 
can  judge  from  the  feeding  of  the  swine  on  the 
ripened  products  of  the  year;  the  parable  of  the 
prodigal  son  is  a  winter  parable  in  its  date.  He 
came  also  to  himself,  and  began  to  be  in  want,  be 
cause  it  was  a  time  of  short  allowance.  The  intima 
tion  therefore  is,  that  the  sense  of  guilt  and  hunger, 
in  the  moral  nature,  is  the  needed  precondition  of  all 
highest  spiritual  good  ;  and  when  but  in  the  win 
ter  shall  this  necessary  sense  of  want  be  wakened  1 
Let  every  thing  about  the  man  be  an  image  of  the 
dearth  and  coldness  of  a  cold  heart.  Surround 
him  with  winter  as  a  counterpart  to  the  winter  of 
the  mind.  Cut  him  off  from  the  diversions  and 
half-satisfactions  of  his  summer  pleasures,  take 


away  the  sceneries  and  prospects  that  relieve  the 
tedium  of  an  empty  heart.  Shut  him  up  to  him 
self,  leaving  no  resource,  save  what  he  finds  in 
himself.  And  then,  if  ever,  he  will  be  likely  to  feel 
the  stir  of  those  sublime,  everlasting  wants,  tha« 
put  all  moral  natures  reaching  after  God.  In  this 
matter,  it  is  not  the  question  simply,  what  a  cold, 
blank  soul  may  be  put  on  thinking,  by  the  experi 
ences  and  sceneries  of  winter.  We  have  a  great 
many  gospelings  that  do  not  come  to  thought,  or 
work  by  thought  at  all,  but  only  by  the  states,  or 
impressions  they  beget  in  ways  more  immediate ; 
even  as  hymss  do  not  take  our  head  by  their  mere 
creed  matter,  but  play  themselves  straightway  into 
sentiments.  And  so  it  is  that  God's  great  ordi 
nance  of  snow — the  blank  of  it,  the  white  of  it,  and 
the  cold,  and  the  readiness  to  be  dissolved  and  pass 
away — is  just  that  power  on  human  feeling  most 
profoundly  adapted  to  the  fit  movement  of  the 
soul's  immortal  want.  It  is  a  kind  of  scenery  felt 
to  be  both  congenial  and  chill ;  answering  faith 
fully  to  the  dreary  chill  of  hunger  that  pinches  the 
bosom  within. 

Analogous  to  this  effect  of  winter  and  closely 
related,  is  the  fact  that  we  are  more  capable  of  real 
izing  invisible  sceneries  and  worlds  in  the  winter, 
than  at  any  other  time.  God  is  more  vividly  im 
aged  to  the  mind,  we  can  not  but  admit,  in  the 
sceneries,  and  showers,  and  dews  of  summer.  It 
appears  to  be  intimated  also,  that  our  paradise  will 
have  tropical  attractions,  yielding  twelve  manner 
of  fruits — a  fruit  every  month — but  the  time  to  real 
ize  these  invisible  things  of  God  and  hi.s  paradise, 
is  when  a  pall  is  thrown  over  things  visible  that 
have  a  resemblance.  Thus  it  would  be  very  un 
skillful  if  any  one,  having  it  for  his  problem  how  to 
produce  the  most  vivid  impression  of  the  beauties 
of  paradise — the  river  clear  as  crystal,  the  golden 
sands,  the  trees  of  life  blooming  fast  by  the  river — 
were  to  choose  the  time  when  spring  is  bursting 
into  leaf  and  flower,  and  the  odors  are  floating,  and 
the  music  warbling  on  the  air.  In  that  case  he 
will  only  raise  an  impression  that  the  good  world's 
delectations  are  about  on  a  par  with  our  present, 
which  does  not  after  all  appear  to  be  very  superla 
tively  blessed  ;  whereas,  if  he  should  rather  choose 
the  dreary  and  bleak  winter,  when  the  creation  is 
desolate  and  bare,  he  would  call  on  our  imagina 
tions  to  paint  the  picture,  and  be  sure  that  they 
would  make  it  blessed  above  all  fact — as  superla 
tively  blessed  as  it  need  be.  It  must  also  be  re 
membered  that  the  invisible  things  of  religion  will 
be  just  as  much  more  real  in  the  winter,  as  the 
want  of  them  is  more  impressively  felt  ;  as  much 
more,  real  as  their  principles  are  more  distinctly 
apprehended  ;  as  much  more  real  as  the  power  of 
thought  is  more  separated  from  the  distractions  of 
the  senses. 


JOHN    S.    C.  ABBOTT. 


[Born  1806.] 


REV.  JOHN  S.  C.  ABBOTT,  brother  of  Rev. 
Jacob  Abbott,  was  bora  a.t  Brunswick,  Me.,  in 
1805  ;  graduated  at  Bowdoin  College,  1825,  and 
at  the  Theological  Seminary  in  Andover, 
Mass.,  1829.  He  is  a  cong?  egational  clergy 
man,  and  a  writer  of  many  successful  works 
for  the  young.  He  also  constantly  contributes 
historical  articles  to  Harper's  Magazine. 

His  principal  works  are  the  Mother  at  Home, 
first  published  in  1833  ;  a  work  of  the  utmost 
importance  to  mothers ;  it  takes  such  estimates 
of  the  maternal  character,  as  are  overwhelm 
ing  in  their  solemnity.  He  has  shown  himself 
a  master  of  his  subject,  and  has  treated  it 
with  equal  delicacy  and  force. 

This  was  followed  by  the  Child  at  Home ; 
the  duties  and  trials  peculiar  to  the  child  are 
explained  in  this  volume  in  the  same  clear  and 
and  attractive  manner  in  which  those  of  the 
mother  are  set  forth  in  "  The  Mother  at  Home." 
Kings  and  Queens,  or  Life  in  the  Palace ;  Practi 
cal  Christianity,  a  Treatise  designed  for  young 
men ;  it  is  characterized  by  the  simplicity  of 
style  and  appositeness  of  illustration  which 
make  a  book  easily  read  and  readily  understood. 
The  Histories  of  Marie  Antoinette,  Josephine, 
Mad.  Roland,  Cortez,  Henri  IV.  of  France, 
King  Philip,  and  Joseph  Bonaparte,  part  of 
Abbott's  Historical  series  by  himself  and 
brother,  published  by  Harpers. 

He  published  a  History  of  the  French  Revo 
lution  of  1789,  as  viewed  in  the  Light  of  Re 
publican  Institutions,  illustrated,  8vo.  His 
sympathies  are  strongly  on  the  side  of  the 
French  people  in  their  conflict  with  the  throne. 
He  regards  the  atrocities  committed,  as  excesses 
for  which  the  kings  and  court  minions  of  pre 
ceding  generations  were  chiefly  answerable — 
as  the  inevitable  reaction  of  a  people  sup 
pressed  and  cramped,  pillaged  and  outraged 
by  weary  centuries  of  despotism. 

His  largest  work,  however,  is  his  Life  of 
Napoleon,  in  2  vols.,  royal,  8vo.,  profusely 
illustrated,  first  issued  in  Harper's  Magazine, 


1852-1854.  This  biography  has  been  warmly 
criticized  by  the  opponents  of  Napoleon'a 
policy,  and  as  stoutly  defended  by  his  admi 
rers.  Written  in  a  popularly  attractive  style, 
with  much  success  as  a  narrative  ;  its  principal 
defect  is,  the  excessive  laudation  of  Napoleon 
as  a  demi-god,  a  hero  without  blemish.  While 
no  one  can  deny  the  extraordinary  abilities 
of  the  most  wonderful  man  that  ever  lived, 
still  every  candid  mind  must  admit  he  had  his 
faults ;  he  would  not  have  been  human,  had  it 
been  otherwise.  The  defect  of  Mr.  Abbott's 
history  is  that  he  too  much  endeavors  to  draw 
the  veil  over  the  darkest  parts  of  the  character 
of  Napoleon,  and  displaying  mostly  the  god 
like  parts  of  his  hero.  Great  hero  that  he 
was,  extraordinary  mind  as  he  possessed, 
able  to  almost  instantly  grasp  the  weightiest 
subjects  in  law,  finance,  government,  politics, 
or  military  matters,  there  was  a  certain 
amount  of  selfishness  in  his  ambition  to 
elevate  France  to  the  loftiest  pinnacle  of 
greatness  among  nations,  which  would  occas 
ionally  show  forth  in  striking  contrast  to  the 
character  of  our  own  Washington.  The  ap 
parent  aim  of  Mr.  Abbott  has  been,  not  to 
pervert  facts,  but  to  place  them  in  such  strong 
lights  and  shades,  that  the  lights  shall  play 
upon  only  such  points  as  he  wishes  to  be 
most  prominent,  and  the  reader  rises  from  its 
perusal,  so  dazzled  with  the  brilliancy  of  the 
subject,  as  hardly  to  be  able  to  see  mentally, 
anything  but  just  what  the  author  wants  him 
to,  and  that  always  is  what  will  most  redound 
to  the  glorification  of  his  hero's  character. 
The  work  had  great  and  deserved  success,  and 
was  followed  by  Napoleon  at  St.  Helena ; 
intended  to  give  the  particulars  of  his  residence 
on  that  island,  his  sayings  while  there,  and 
the  last  events  of  his  life.  It  is  an  excellent 
compilation,  and  a  necessary  conclusion  and 
accompaniment  to  the  previous  three  volumes. 
He  edited  also  the  Confidential  Correspond 
ence  of  Napoleon  and  Josephine,  2  vols.,  12mo. 


JOHN    S.    C.    ABBOTT. 


609 


THE   BATTLE  OF  WATERLOO. 

FROM  THE  LIFE  OF  NAPOLEON. 


A  SERIES  of  unparalleled  fatalities  appear  to  have 
thwarted  Napoleon's  profoundly  laid  plans  through 
out  the  whole  of  this  momentous  campaign.  The 
treachery  of  Bourmont  rescued  the  enemy  from 
that  surprise  which  would  unquestionably  have 
secured  his  destruction.  The  neglect  of  Ney  to 
take  possession  of  Quatre-Bras,  and  the  false  in 
telligence  sent  to  Napoleon  that  it  was  occupied, 
again  snatched  a  decisive  victory  from  the  Em 
peror.  And  yet  this  great  man — never  disposed 
to  quarrel  with  his  destiny — uttered  no  angry 
complaints.  He  knew  that  Ney  had  intended  no 
wrong,  and  he  lost  not  a  moment  in  useless  repin 
ing.  He  immediately  sent  a  friendly  message  to 
Ney,  and  calmly  gathered  up  his  resources  to  do 
what  he  could  under  the  change  of  circumstances. 

Night  again  came  with  its  unintermitted  storm. 
It  was  the  night  of  the  16th  of  June.  The  sol 
diers,  drenched,  hungry,  weary,  Weeding,  dying, 
in  vain  sought  repose  beneath  that  inclement  sky 
and  in  those  miry  fields.  Napoleon,  at  Ligny, 
not  ten  miles  from  Quatre-Bras,  was  a  victor. 
Ney,  repulsed  at  every  point,  slept  upon  his  arms 
before  his  indomitable  foe  at  Quatre-Bras.  Blu- 
cher,  with  his  broken  battalions,  retreated,  unop 
posed,  during  the  night,  toward  Wavre.  Wel 
lington,  informed  of  this  retreat,  fell  back  to  form 
a  junction  with  the  Prussian  army  at  Waterloo. 
Napoleon  dispatched  Marshal  Grouchy,  with 
thirty  thousand  men,  to  pursue  the  retreating 
Prussians,  to  keep  them  continually  in  sight,  to 
harass  them  in  every  way,  and  to  press  them  so 
hotly  that  they  should  not  be  able  to  march  to 
the  aid  of  Wellington. 

The  morning  of  the  17th  of  June  dawned  dis 
mally  upon  these  exhausted  and  wretched  victims 
of  war,  through  the  clouds  and  the  rain,  and  the 
still  continued  wailings  of  the  storm.  The  soldiers 
of  Grouchy  were  so  worn  down  by  the  superhu 
man  exertions  and  sufferings  of  the  last  few  days, 
that  they  were  unable  to  overtake  the  rapidly  re 
treating  Prussians.  They,  however,  toiled  along 
through  the  miry  roads  with  indomitable  energies. 
Napoleon,  leaving  Grouchy  to  pursue  the  Prus 
sians,  immediately  passed  over  to  Quatre-Bras,  to 
unite  his  forces  with  those  of  Ney,  and  to  follow 
the  retreat  of  Wellington.  Their  combined  army 
amounted  to  about  70,000  men.  With  these  the 
Emperor  followed  vigorously  in  the  track  of  Wel 
lington. 

The  Duke  had  retreated  during  the  day  toward 
Brussels,  and  halted  on  the  spacious  field  of  Wa 
terloo,  about  nine  miles  from  the  metropolis.  Here, 
having  skilfully  selected  his  ground  and  posted 
his  troops,  he  anxiously  awaited  the  arrival  of  Blu- 
cher,  to  whom  he  had  sent  urgent  dispatches  to 
hasten  to  his  aid.  Blucher  was  at  Wavre,  but  a 
few  hours'  march  from  Waterloo,  with  72,000  men. 
The  junction  of  these  forces  would  give  Welling 
ton  an  overwhelming  superiority  of  numbers.  He 
would  then  have  at  least  150,000  troops  with  whom 
to  assail  less  than  70,000. 

77 


As  night  approached,  the  troops  of  Napoleon, 
toiling  painfully  through  the  storm,  the  darkness, 
and  the  mire,  arrived  also  on  the  fatal  plain.  The 
late  hour  at  which  the  several  divisions  of  the 
French  army  reached  the  unknown  field  of  battle, 
involved  in  the  obscurity  of  darkness  and  the 
storm,  embarrassed  the  Emperor  exceedingly.  As 
the  light  was  fading  away,  he  pointed  toward 
the  invisible  sun,  and  said,  «  What  would  I  not 
give  to  be  this  day  possessed  of  the  power  of 
Joshua,  and  enabled  to  retard  thy  march  for  two 
hours !" 

Napoleon,  judging  from  the  bivouac  fires  of  the 
enemy  that  they  were  strongly  posted  and  intended 
to  give  battle,  reconnoitered  the  ground  by  groping 
over  it  on  foot,  and  posted  his  battalions  as  they 
successively  arrived.  He  immediately  sent  a  dis 
patch  to  Marshal  Grouchy,  ordering  him  to  press 
the  Prussians  vigorously,  and  to  keep  himself  in  a 
position  to  combine  with  the  Emperor's  operations. 
For  eighteen  hours  the  Emperor  had  tasted  neither 
of  sleep,  repose,  nor  nourishment.  His  clothes 
were  covered  with  mud  and  soaked  with  rain. 
But  regardless  of  exposure  and  fatigue,  he  did  not 
seek  even  to  warm  himself  by  the  fires  around 
which  his  drenched  troops  were  shivering.  All  the 
night  long  the  rain  fell  in  torrents,  and  all  the 
night  long  the  Emperor  toiled,  unprotected  in  the 
storm,  as  he  prepared  for  the  conflict  of  the 
morrow. 

Wellington's  army,  variously  estimated  at  from 
72,000  to  90,000  in  number,  was  admirably  posted 
along  the  brow  of  a  gentle  eminence,  a  mile  and 
a  half  in  length.  A  dense  forest  in  the  rear,  where 
the  ground  gradually  fell  away,  concealed  from 
the  view  and  the  shot  of  the  enemy  all  but  those 
who  stood  upon  the  brow  of  the  eminence.  Na 
poleon  established  his  troops,  estimated  at  from 
65,000  to  75,000,  within  cannon-shot  of  the  foe, 
and  on  the  gentle  declivity  of  a  corresponding  rise 
of  land,  which  extended  parallel  to  that  occupied 
by  the  English. 

The  dreadful  night  at  length  passed  away,  and 
the  morning  of  the  18th  of  June  dawned,  lurid 
and  cheerless,  through  the  thick  clouds.  It  was 
the  morning  of  the  Sabbath  day.  The  vast  field 
of  Waterloo,  plowed  and  sown  with  grain,  soaked 
by  the  rains  of  the  past  week,  and  cut  up  by  the 
wheels  and  the  tramp  of  these  enormous  armies, 
was  converted  into  a  quagmire.  The  horses  sank 
to  their  knees  in  the  humid  soil.  The  wheels  of 
the  guns,  encumbered  with  adhesive  clay,  rolled 
heavily,  axle-deep,  in  the  mire.  Under  circum 
stances  of  such  difficulty,  the  French  were  compelled 
to  attack  down  one  ridge  of  slopes,  across  a  valley, 
and  up  another  ridge,  toiling  through  the  mud, 
exposed  all  the  way  to  point-blank  discharges 
from  the  batteries  and  lines  of  the  English.  Wel 
lington  was  to  act  simply  on  the  defensive,  en 
deavoring  to  maintain  his  position  until  the  arrival 
of  Blucher. 

About  eight  o'clock  the  clouds  of  the  long  storm 
broke  and  dispersed  ;  the  sun  came  out  in  all  its 
glory,  and  one  of  the  most  bright  and  lovely  of 
summer  Sabbaths  smiled  upon  Waterloo.  The 


610 


JOHN     S.    C.    ABBOTT. 


skies  ceased  to  weep,  and  the  vail  of  clouds  was 
withdrawn,  as  if  God  would  allow  the  angels  to 
look  down  and  witness  this  awful  spectacle  of 
man's  inhumanity  to  man. 

Napoleon  assembled  most  of  his  general  officers 
around  him  to  give  them  his  final  orders.  "  The 
enemy's  army,"  said  he,  "  is  superior  to  ours  by 
nearly  a  fourth.  There  are,  however,  ninety 
chances  in  our  favor  to  ten  against  us." 

"  Without  doubt,"  exclaimed  Marshal  Ney,  who 
had  that  moment  entered,  "  if  the  Duke  of  Wel 
lington  were  simple  enough  to  wait  for  your  Maj 
esty's  attack.  But  I  am  come  to  announce  that 
his  columns  are  already  in  full  retreat,  and  are  fast 
disappearing  in  the  forest  of  Soignes." 

"  You  have  seen  badly,"  the  Emperor  replied, 
with  calm  confidence.  *'  It  is  too  late.  By  such  a 
step  he  would  expose  himself  to  certain  ruin.  He 
has  thrown  the  dice ;  they  are  now  for  us." 

At  half  past  ten  o'clock  all  the  movements  were 
made,  and  the  troops  were  in  their  stations  for  the 
battle.  Thus  far  profound  silence  had  reigned  on 
the  field,  as  the  squadrons  moved  with  noisless 
steps  to  their  appointed  stations.  The  hospitals 
were  established  in  the  rear.  The  corps  of  sur 
geons  had  spread  out  their  bandages  and  splinters, 
knives  and  saws,  and,  with  their  sleeves  rolled  up, 
were  ready  for  their  melancholy  deeds  of  mercy. 
The  Emperor  rode  along  his  devoted  lines.  Every 
eye  was  riveted  upon  him.  Every  heart  said, "  God 
bless  him  !" 

"  One  heart,"  says  Lamartine,  "  beat  between 
these  men  and  the  Emperor.  In  such  a  moment 
they  shared  the  same  soul  and  the  same  cause. 
The  army  was  Napoleon.  Never  before  was  it  so 
entirely  Napoleon  as  now.  At  such  a  moment 
he  must  have  felt  himself  more  than  a  man,  more 
than  a  sovereign.  His  army  bent  in  homage  to 
the  past,  the  present,  and  the  future,  and  welcomed 
victory  or  defeat,  the  throne  or  death  with  its  chief. 
It  was  determined  on  everything,  even  on  the  sac 
rifice  of  itself,  to  restore  him  his  empire,  or  to  ren 
der  his  last  fall  illustrious.  To  have  inspired  such 
•devotion  was  the  greatness  of  Napoleon  ;  to  evince 
it  even  to  madness  was  the  greatness  of  his  army." 
Such  is  the  reluctant  concession,  blended  with  un 
generous  slurs,  of  Napoleon's  most  uncandid  and 
most  envenomed  foe. 

The  acclamations  which  burst  from  the  lips  of 
nearly  seventy  thousand  men,  thus  inspired  with 
one  affection,  one  hope,  one  soul,  resounded  in 
prolonged  echoes  over  the  field,  and  fell  porten 
tously  on  the  ears  of  the  waiting  enemy. 

In  the  English  army  there  was  probably  not  a 
man  who  was  not  proud  of  the  renown  of  Old 
England,  and  proud  of  the  genius  of  the  Duke  of 
Wellington.  But  in  all  those  serried  ranks  there 
was  perhaps  not  one  single  private  who  loved  the 
Iron  Duke.  Indeed,  there  was  so  strong  a  sym 
pathy  with  the  Emperor,  among  the  Belgian  and 
Hanoverian  troops,  who  were  compelled  to  march 
under  the  banner  of  the  Allies,  that  the  Duke 
had  great  fears  that  they  would  abandon  him  in 
the  heat  of  battle,  and  pass  over  to  the  generous, 
sympathizing,  warm-hearted  chieftain  of  the  people 


In  reference  to  these  German  contingents,  Sir 
Walter  Scott  says — in  truthful  utterance,  though 
with  inelegant  phrase — "  They  were  .in  some 
instances  suspected  to  be  lukewarm  to  the  cause 
in  which  they  were  engaged,  so  that  it  would 
have  been  imprudent  to  trust  more  to  their  assist 
ance  and  co-operation  than  could  not  possibly  be 
avoided." 

At  eleven  o'clock  the  horrid  carnage  com 
menced.  On  either  side  everything  was  done 
which  mortal  courage  or  energy  could  accom 
plish.  Hour  after  hour  the  French  soldiers, 
shouting  "  Vive  VEmperewV  made  onset  alter 
onset,  up  to  the  very  muzzles  of  the  British  guns, 
and  were  cut  down  by  those  terrific  discharges 
like  grass  before  the  scythe.  The  demon  of  de 
struction  and  woe  held  its  high  carnival  in  the 
midst  of  the  demoniac  revelry  of  those  bloody 
hours.  Every  discharge  which  blended  its  thun 
der  with  the  roar  of  that  awful  battle,  was  send 
ing  widowhood  and  orphanage  to  distant  homes, 
blinding  the  eyes  of  mothers  and  daughters  with 
tears  of  agony,  and  darkening  once  happy  dwell 
ings  with  life-long  wretchedness. 

For  many  hours  the  whole  field  was  swept 
with  an  unintermitted  storm  of  balls,  shells,  bul 
lets,  and  grape-shot ;  while  enormous  masses  of 
cavalry,  in  fluent  and  refluent  surges,  trampled 
into  the  bloody  mire  the  dying  and  the  dead. 
There  were  now  forty  thousand  of  the  combatants 
weltering  in  gore.  The  wide-extended  field  was 
everywhere  covered  with  bodies  in  every  conceiv 
able  form  of  hideous  mutilation.  The  flash  of  the 
guns,  the  deafening  thunder  of  artillery  and  musk 
etry,  the  groans  and  the  piercing  shrieks  of  the 
wounded,  the  dense  volumes  of  smoke  which  en 
veloped  the  plain  in  almost  midnight  gloom,  the 
delirious  shouts  of  the  assailants  as  they  rushed 
upon  death,  the  shrill  whistling  of  the  missiles  of 
destruction,  and  the  wild  flight  of  the  fugitives,  as, 
in  broken  bands,  they  were  pursued  and  sabred  by 
the  cavalry,  presented  the  most  revolting  spectacle 
of  war  in  all  the  enormity  of  its  guilt  and  of  its 
fiendish  brutality.  Who,  before  the  tribunal  of 
God,  is  to  be  held  responsible  for  that  day  of 
blood  1 

In  the  midst  of  these  awful  scenes,  early  in  the 
afternoon,  as  portions  of  Wellington's  line  were 
giving  way,  and  flying  in  dismay  toward  Brussels, 
carrying  the  tidings  of  defeat,  and  when  Napoleon 
felt  sure  of  the  victory,  the  Emperor's  quick  eye 
discerned,  far  off  upon  his  right,  an  immense  mass 
of  men,  more  than  thirty  thousand  strong,  emerg 
ing  from  the  forest,  and  with  rapid  step  deploy 
ing  upon  the  plain.  At  first  Napoleon  was  san 
guine  that  it  was  Marshal  Grouchy,  and  that  the 
battle  was  decided.  But  in  another  moment  their 
artillery  balls  began  to  plow  his  ranks,  and  the 
Emperor  learned  that  it  was  Bulow,  with  the  ad 
vance-guard  of  Blucher's  army,  hastening  to  the 
rescue  of  Wellington. 

This  was  giving  the  foe  a  fearful  preponderance 
of  power.  Napoleon  had  now  less  than  sixty 
thousand  men,  while  Wellington,  with  this  rein 
forcement,  could  oppose  to  him  a  hundred  thou- 


JOHN     S.    C.    ABBOTT. 


611 


sand.  But  the  Emperor,  undismayed,  turned 
calmly  to  Marshal  Soult,  and  said,  "  We  had 
ninety  chances  out  of  a  hundred  in  our  favor  this 
morning.  The  arrival  of  Bulow  makes  us  lose 
thirty.  But  we  have  still  sixty  against  forty.  And 
if  Grouchy  sends  on  his  detachment  with  rapidity 
the  victory  will  he  thereby  only  the  more  decisive, 
for  the  corps  of  Bulow  must,  in  that  case,  be  en 
tirely  lost." 

Napoleon  was  compelled  to  weaken  his  col 
umns,  which  were  charging  upon  the  wavering 
lines  of  Wellington,  by  dispatching  ten  thousand 
men  to  beat  back  these  fresh  battalions,  thirty 
thousand  strong.  The  enthusiastic  French,  armed 
in  the  panoply  of  a  just  cause,  plunged  recklessly 
into  the  ranks  of  this  new  foe,  and  drove  him  back 
into  the  woods.  The  Emperor  with  his  dimin 
ished  columns  continued  his  terrible  charges.  He 
kept  his  eye  anxiously  fixed  upon  the  distant  hori 
zon,  expecting  every  moment  to  see  the  gleaming 
banners  of  Grouchy.  The  Marshal  heard  the  tre 
mendous  cannonade  booming  from  the  field  of 
Waterloo,  and  yet  refused,  notwithstanding  the 
entreaties  of  his  officers,  to  approach  the  scene  of 
the  terrific  strife.  He  has  been  accused  of  treason. 
Napoleon  charitably  ascribes  his  fatal  inactivity  to 
want  of  judgment.  The  couriers  sent  to  him  in 
the  morning  were  either  intercepted  by  the  enemy 
or  turned  traitors.  Grouchy  did  not  receive  the 
order.  In  the  circumstances  of  the  case,  however, 
to  every  one  but  himself  the  path  of  duty  seemed 
plain. 

General  Excelsmann,  rode  up  to  Marshal  Grou 
chy,  and  said,  "The  Emperor  is  in  action  with  the 
English  army.  There  can  be  no  doubt  of  it.  A 
fire  so  terrible  cannot  be  a  skirmish.  We  ought 
to  march  to  the  scene  of  action.  I  am  an  old  sol 
dier  of  the  army  of  Italy,  and  have  heard  General 
Bonaparte  promulgate  this  principle  a  hundred 
times.  If  we  turn  to  the  left  we  shall  be  on  the 
field  of  battle  in  two  hours."  Count  Gerard  joined 
them,  and  urged  the  same  advice.  Had  Grouchy 
followed  these  counsels,  and  appeared  upon  the 
field  with  his  division  of  thirty  thousand  men, 
probably  not  a  man  of  the  English  or  Prussian 
army  could  have  escaped  the  Emperor.  But 
Grouchy,  though  he  had  lost  sight  of  Blucher, 
pleaded  his  orders  to  follow  him,  and  refused  to 
move. 

"  Do  you  think,"  said  O'Meara  to  Napoleon  at 
St.  Helena,  "  that  Grouchy  betrayed  you  inten 
tionally  1" 

"No!  no!"  the  Emperor  promptly  replied; 
"  but  there  was  a  want  of  energy  on  his  part. 
There  was  also  treason  among  the  staff.  I  believe 
that  some  of  the  officers  whom  I  had  sent  to 
Grouchy  betrayed  me,  and  went  over  to  the  enemy. 
Of  this,  however,  I  am  not  certain,  as  I  have  never 
seen  Grouchy  since." 

As  the  French  soldiers  witnessed  the  prompt 
retreat  of  Bulow's  reinforcement,  and  the  Em 
peror  was  about  to  make  a  charge  with  the  Old 
Guard,  which  never  yet  had  charged  in  vain,  they 
deemed  the  victory  sure.  Loud  shouts  of  "Vive 
VEmpereur  /"  rang  along  their  lines,  which  rose 


above  the  roar  of  the  battle,  and  fell  ominously,  in 
prolonged  echoes,  upon  the  ears  of  the  allied  troops. 
A  panic  spread  through  the  ranks  of  Wellington's 
army.  Many  of  the  regiments  were  reduced  to 
skeletons,  and  some,  thrown  into  disorder,  were 
rushing  from  the  field  in  fugitive  bands.  The  whole 
rear  of  the  English  army  now  presented  a  tumul 
tuary  scene  of  confusion,  the  entire  space  between 
Waterloo  and  Brussels  being  filled  with  stragglers 
and  all  the  debris  of  a  routed  army. 

Wellington  stood  upon  a  gentle  eminence, 
watching  with  intense  anxiety  for  the  coming  of 
Blucher.  He  knew  that  he  could  hold  out  but  a 
short  time  longer.  As  he  saw  his  lines  melting 
away,  he  repeatedly  looked  at  his  watch,  and  then 
fixed  his  gaze  upon  the  distant  hills,  and  as  he 
wiped  the  perspiration  which  mental  anguish 
extorted  from  his  brow,  exclaimed,  "  Would  to 
Heaven  that  Blucher  or  night  would  come." 

Just  at  this  critical  moment,  when  the  Emperor 
was  giving  an  order  for  a  simultaneous  attack  by 
his  whole  force,  two  long,  dark  columns,  of  thirty 
thousand  each,  the  united  force  of  Blucher  and 
Bulow,  came  pouring  over  the  hills,  down  upon 
the  torn  and  bleeding  flank  of  Napoleon's  ex 
hausted  troops.  Thus  an  army  of  sixty  thousand 
fresh  soldiers,  nearly  equal  to  Napoleon's  whole 
force  at  the  commencement  of  the  conflict,  with 
exultant  hurrahs  and  bugle  peals,  and  thundering 
artillery,  came  rushing  upon  the  plain.  It  was 
an  awful  moment.  It  was  a  thunderbolt  of  fate. 

"  It  is  almost  certain,"  says  General  Jomini, 
who  had  deserted  to  the  Allies,  and  was  at  this 
time  aide-de-camp  to  Emperor  Alexander,  "that 
Napoleon  would  have  remained  master  of  the  field 
of  battle,  but  for  the  arrival  of  65,000  Prussians 
on  his  rear." 

The  Emperor's  wasted  bands  were  now  in  the 
extreme  of  exhaustion.  For  eight  hours  every 
physical  energy  had  been  tasked  to  its  utmost  en 
durance,  by  such  a  conflict  as  the  world  had  sel 
dom  seen  before.  Twenty  thousand  of  his  soldiers 
were  either  bleeding  upon  the  ground  or  motion 
less  in  death.  He  had  now  less  than  fifty  thou 
sand  men  to  oppose  to  one  hundred  and  fifty  thou 
sand.  Wellington  during  the  day  had  brought 
up  some  additional  forces  from  his  rear,  and  could 
now  oppose  the  Emperor  with  numbers  three  to 
one. 

The  intelligent  French  soldiers  instantly  per 
ceived  the  desperate  state  of  their  affairs.  But, 
undismayed,  they  stood  firm,  waiting  only  for  the 
command  of  their  Emperor.  The  allied  army  saw 
at  a  glance  its  advantage,  and  a  shout  of  exulta 
tion  burst  simultaneously  from  their  lips.  The 
Emperor,  with  that  wonderful  coolness  which 
never  forsook  him,  promptly  recalled  the  order  for 
a  general  charge,  and  by  a  very  rapid  and  skilful 
series  of  manoeuvres,  as  by  magic,  so  changed  the 
front  of  his  army  as  to  face  the  Prussians  advanc 
ing  upon  his  right,  and  the  lines  of  Wellington 
before  him. 

Everything  depended  now  upon  one  desperate 
charge  by  the  Imperial  Guard,  before  the  Prus 
sians,  trampling  down  their  feeble  and  exhausM 


612 


JOHN     S.    C.    ABBOTT. 


opponents,  could  blend  their  squadrons  with  the 
battalions  of  Wellington.  The  Emperor  placed 
himself  at  the  head  of  this  devoted  and  invincible 
band,  and  advanced  in  front  of  the  British  lines, 
apparently  intending  himself  to  lead  the  charge. 
But  the  officers  of  his  staff  entreated  him  to  re 
member  that  the  safety  of  France  depended  solely 
upon  him.  Yielding  to  their  solicitations,  he  re 
signed  the  command  to  Ney. 

The  scene  now  presented  was  one  of  the  most 
sublime  which  war  has  ever  furnished.  The  Im 
perial  Guard  had  never  yet  moved  but  in  the  path 
of  victory.  As  these  renowned  battalions,  in 
two  immense  columns,  descended  the  one  emi 
nence  and  ascended  the  other  to  oppose  their 
bare  bosoms  to  point-blank  discharges  from  bat 
teries  double-shotted  or  loaded  to  the  muzzle  with 
grape,  there  was  a  moment's  lull  in  the  storm  of 
battle.  Both  armies  gazed  with  awe  upon  the 
scene.  The  destinies  of  Napoleon,  of  France,  of 
Europe  were  suspended  upon  the  issues  of  a  mo 
ment.  The  fate  of  the  world  trembled  in  the 
balance.  Not  a  drum  beat  the  charge.  Not  a 
bugle  uttered  its  inspiriting  notes.  Not  a  cheer 
escaped  the  lips  of  those  proud,  determined,  in 
domitable  men.  Silently,  sternly;  unflinchingly 
they  strode  on  till  they  arrived  within  a  few  yards 
of  the  batteries  and  bayonets  which  the  genius  of 
Wellington  had  arrayed  to  meet  them.  There 
was  a  flash  as  of  intensest  lightning  gleaming 
along  the  British  lines.  A  peal  as  of  crashing 
thunder  burst  upon  the  plain.  A  tempest  of  bul 
lets,  shot,  shells,  and  all  the  horrible  missiles  of 
war,  fell  like  hailstones  upon  the  living  mass,  and 
whole  battalions  melted  away  and  were  trampled 
in  the  bloody  mire  by  the  still  advancing  host. 
Defiant  of  death,  the  intrepid  Guard,  closing  up 
its  decimated  ranks,  pressed  on,  and  pierced  the 
British,  line.  Every  cannon,  every  musket  which 
could  be  brought  to  bear,  was  directed  to  this  un 
faltering  and  terrible  foe.  Ney,  in  the  course  of  a 
few  moments,  had  five  horses  shot  beneath  him. 
Then,  with  a  drawn  sabre,  he  marched  on  foot  at 
the  head  of  his  men.  Napoleon  gazed  with  in 
tense  anxiety  upon  the  progress  of  this  heroic  band, 
till  enveloped  in  clouds  of  smoke  it  was  lost  to  sight. 

At  the  same  moment  the  Prussians  came  rush 
ing  upon  the  field,  with  infantry,  cavalry,  and  ar 
tillery,  entirely  overpowering  the  feeble  and  ex 
hausted  squadrons  left  to  oppose  them.  A  gust 
of  wind  swept  away  the  smoke,  and  as  the  anx 
ious  eye  of  Napoleon  pierced  the  tumult  of  the 
battle  to  find  his  Guard,  it  had  disappeared.  Al 
most  to  a  man  they  were  weltering  in  blood.  A 
mortal  paleness  overspread  the  cheek  of  the  Em 
peror.  The  French  army  also  saw  that  the  Guard 
was  annihilated.  An  instantaneous  panic  struck 
every  heart.  With  exultant  shouts  the  army  of 
Blucher  and  of  Wellington  rushed  upon  the  plain, 
and  a  scene  of  horror  ensued  at  which  humanity 
shudders.  The  banners  of  despotic  Prussia  and 
of  constitutional  England  blended  in  triumph,  and 
intertwined  their  folds  over  that  gory  field,  where 
the  liberties  of  Europe  were  stricken  to  the  dust. 
Blucher  and  Wellington,  with  their  dripping 


swords,  met  with  congratulations  in  the  midst  of 
the  bloody  arena.  Each  claimed  the  honor  of  the 
victory.  Together  they  had  achieved  it.  Wel 
lington's  troops  were  so  exhausted  as  to  be  unable 
to  follow  the  discomfited  army.  "  Leave  the  pur 
suit  to  me,"  said  Blucher.  "I  will  send  every 
man  and  every  horse  after  the  enemy."  He  ful 
filled  his  promise  with  a  merciless  energy  charac 
teristic  of  this  debauched  and  fierce  dragoon.  No 
quarter  was. shown.  The  unarmed  were  cut  down, 
and  even  the  prisoners  were  sabred. 

The  English  soldiers,  as  usual,  were  generous 
and  merciful  in  the  hour  of  victory.  They  dis 
persed  over  the  field  and  carried  refreshments  and 
assistance,  not  only  to  their  own  wounded  coun 
trymen,  but  also  to  their  bleeding  and  dying  foes. 

Napoleon  threw  himself  into  a  small  square, 
which  he  had  kept  as  a  reserve,  and  urged  it  for 
ward  into  the  densest  throngs  of  the  enemy.  He 
was  resolved  to  perish  with  his  Guard  Cam- 
bronne,  its  brave  commander,  seized  the  reins  of 
the  Emperor's  horse,  and  said  to  him,  in  beseech 
ing  tones,  "  Sire,  death  shuns  you.  You  will  but 
be  made  a  prisoner."  Napoleon  shook  his  head, 
and  for  a  moment  resisted.  But  then  his  better 
judgment  told  him  that  thus  to  throw  away  his 
life  would  be  but  an  act  of  suicide.  With  tears 
filling  his  eyes,  and  grief  overspreading  his  features, 
he  bowed  to  these  heroes,  ready  to  offer  themselves 
up  in  a  bloody  sacrifice.  Faithful  even  to  death, 
with  a  melancholy  cry  they  shouted,  "  Vive  VEm- 
pereur  /"  These  were  their  last  words,  their  dying 
farewell.  Silent  and  sorrowful,  the  Emperor  put 
spurs  to  his  horse,  and  disappeared  from  the  fatal 
field.  It  was  the  commencement  oi  his  journey 
to  St.  Helena. 

This  one  square,  of  two  battalions,  alone  cov 
ered  the  flight  of  the  army  as  a  gallant  rear-guard. 
The  Prussians  and  the  English  pressed  it  on  three 
sides,  pouring  into  its  bosom  the  most  destructive 
discharges.  Squadrons  of  cavalry  plunged  upon 
them,  and  still  they  remained  unbroken.  The 
flying  artillery  was  brought  up,  and  pitilessly 
pierced  the  heroic  band  with  a  storm  of  cannon 
balls.  This  invincible  square,  the  last  fragment 
of  the  Old  Guard,  nerved  by  that  soul  which  its 
Imperial  creator  had  breathed  into  it,  calmly  clos 
ing  up  as  death  thinned  its  ranks,  slowly  and 
defiantly  retired,  arresting  the  flood  of  pursuit. 
General  Cambronne  was  now  bleeding  from  six 
wounds.  But  a  few  scores  of  men,  torn  and 
bleeding,  remained  around  him.  The  English 
and  Prussians,  admiring  such  heroism,  and  weary 
of  the  butchery,  suspended  for  a  moment  their 
fire,  and  sent  a  flag  of  truce,  demanding  a  capitu 
lation.  General  Cambronne  returned  the  immor 
tal  reply,  '•'•The  Guard  dies,  but  never  surren 
ders!"  A  few  more  volleys  of  bullets  from  the 
infantry,  a  few  more  discharges  of  grape-shot  from 
the  artillery,  mowed  them  all  down.  Thus  perished, 
on  the  fatal  field  of  WTaterloo,  the  Old  Guard  of 
Napoleon.  It  was  the  creation  of  the  genius  of 
the  Emperor ;  he  had  inspired  it  with  his  own 
lofty  spirit;  and  the  fall  of  the  Emperor  M  de 
votedly  refused  to  survive 


CAROLINE    LEE    HENTZ, 


[Born  about  1805.    Died  1856.] 


MRS.  CAROLINE  LEE  HENTZ,  a  daughter  of 
Gen.  John  Whiting,  was  born  in  Lancaster, 
Mass.  In  1825,  she  married  Prof.  N.  M.  Hentz, 
a  French  gentleman,  at  that  time  associated 
with  Mr.  Geo.  Bancroft,  in  the  Round  Hill 
School  of  Northampton.  Mr.  Hentz  was  soon 
after  appointed  Professor  in  the  College  at 
Chapel  Hill,  North  Carolina,  where  they  re 
mained  for  several  years.  They  removed  to 
Covington,  Ky.,  and  afterwards  to  Cincinnati, 
0.  and  Florence,  Ala.  Here  they  conducted 
for  nine  years  a  prosperous  female  Academy, 
and  afterwards  at  Tuscaloosa,  Tuskegee,  and 
in  1848,  at  Columbus,  Ga. 

While  at  Covington,  she  wrote  for  a  prize  of 
$500,  the  tragedy  of  De  Lara,  or  the  Moorish 
Bride,  which  met  with  success  and  was  pub 
lished  at  Columbus  ;  Lamorah,  or  the  Western 
Wild,  a  Tragedy ;  Constance  of  Werdenberg,  a 
Tragedy ;  Human  and  Divine  Philosophy,  a 
poem,  and  other  poetical  pieces. 

Attention  was  first  called  to  her  as  a  novel 
ist  by  her  stories  of  Aunt  Patty's  Scrap  Bag, 
and  The  Mob  Cap  ;  each  of  which  formed  the 
title  of  a  series  of  novelettes  in  book  form, 
published  in  1846.  These  were  followed  by 
Linda,  or  the  Pilot  of  the  Belle  Creole  ;  Rena, 
or  the  Snow-Bird  ;  Marcus  Warland,  or  the 
Long  Moss  Spring ;  Eoline,  or  Magnolia  Vale  ; 
Wild  Jack  ;  Helen  and  Arthur,  or  Miss  Thnsa's 
Spinning  Wheel;  The  Planter's  Northern 
Bride  ;  Ugly  Effie,  or  the  Neglected  one  and  the 
Beauty ;  Love  after  Marriage ;  The  Banished 


Son  ;  The  Victim  of  Excitement ;  The  Parlor 
Serpent ;  The  Flowers  of  Elocution,  a  class- 
book  ;  Robert  Graham,  a  sequel  to  Linda ;  and 
Ernest  Linwood. 

The  scenes  and  incidents  of  her  stories  are 
for  the  most  part  drawn  from  the  Southern* 
States  ;  were  written  in  the  midst  of  her  social 
circle,  and  in  the  intervals  of  the  ordinary 
avocations  of  a  busy  life.  They  are  sensational 
in  their  style,  but  written  with  great  talent,  an 
excellent  finish,  and  all  with  some  good  moral 
purpose  in  view.  They  have  met  with  a 
marked  and  deserved  popularity,  so  much  so 
that  93,000  volumes  were  sold  in  three  years. 
They  still  maintain  a  certain  amount  of  their 
popularity ;  a  new  uniform  edition,  in  12  vol 
umes,  12mo.,  was  published  in  18*70. 

Her  later  years  spent  with  her  elder  children 
in  Florida,  were  shaded  by  many  cares  and 
trials,  from  the  loss  of  relatives  and  the  illness 
of  her  husband,  yet  she  employed  her  pen  to 
the  last.  Her  latest  composition,  written  five 
days  before  her  death,  was  a  short  poem, 
marking  her  pious  resignation,  entitled,  No 
Cross,  No  Crown.  She  died  from  an  attack  of 
pneumonia,  at  her  home  in  Marianna,  Florida, 
February  11,  1856. 

Professor  Hentz,  after  a  protracted  illness, 
did  not  survive  her  long,  dying,  Nov.  4,  1856. 
He  was  a  gentleman  of  fine  education,  and  of 
good  attainments  in  the  natural  sciences,  par 
ticularly  entomology. 


THE  FATAL  CONCERT. 

FROM  EOLINE; OR,  MAGNOLIA  VALE. 

GAINING  a  window  not  far  from  the  platform, 
Horace  jumped  on  to  its  sill,  and  drawing  back 
as  f.ir  as  possible  in  the  embrasure,  gazed  upon 
a  scene  which  seemed  to  him  more  like  a  dream 
of  the  imagination  than  a  living  actuality.  A 
very  elevated  platform  ran  along  the  whole 
breadth  of  the  hall,  and  was  separated  from  it  by  a 
row  of  classic  pillars,  which  were  all  decorated  for 
the  occasion  with  garlands  of  evergreen  and  flowers. 
Two  flights  of  steps,  covered  with  green  cloth,  one 
on  each  side,  led  up  to  this  elevation,  and  a  chan 
delier  suspended  above,  mingled  its  lustre  with  the 
lamps  burning  beneath. 


Miss  Manly  sat  in  the  centre  on  a  chair  raised 
so  as  to  resemble  a  throne  or  dais,  and  looked 
down  in  her  majesty  on  the  throng  below.  No 
Queen,  surrounded  by  her  court,  ever  bore  a  loftier 
presence  or  carried  herself  more  royally,  than  the 
Principal  of  the  Magnolia  Vale  Seminary.  Cer 
tainly  no  queen  ever  felt  more  proud  of  her  sub 
jects,  or  reigned  with  a  more  absolute  dominion 
over  them.  She  was  dressed  for  the  evening  with 
unusual  splendor,  and  held  her  ivory  fan  as  if  it 
were  a  sceptre.  On  each  side  of  her  the  pupils 
were  arranged  in  semicircular  order,  standing,  the 
taller  nearer  to  her,  and  gradually  diminishing  in 
height  as  they  diverged  from  the  great  central  lu 
minary.  Their  uniform  was  white  muslin,  relieved 
by  sashes  of  cerulean  hue,  and  almost  all  were 

613 


614 


CAROLINE     LEE     HENTZ. 


decorated  with  some  favorite  flower.  There  they 
stood,  these  young  girls,  in  their  while,  flowing 
robes  and  azure  ribbons,  with  their  sweet  flowers, 
all  radiant  in  juvenility  and  innocence,  so  bright, 
so  joyous,  that  it  made  one's  heart  ache  to  look  at 
them  and  think  these  morning  blossoms  of  life 
should  ever  be  exposed  te  the  mildew  and  the 
storm,  or  worse  than  all,  to  the  cold,  bitter  frost. 
In  the  centre,  just  in  front  of  Miss  Manly,  whose 
lofty  position  prevented  her  from  being  concealed, 
appeared  Eoline,  seated  at  the  piano,  in  the  same 
celestial  livery  of  white  and  blue.  The  music 
leaves  unfolded  before  her,  partially  concealed  her 
from  the  gaze  of  the  audience,  but  this  slight  screen 
did  not  intercept  the  view  of  Horace,  who  beheld 
her  with  sensations  such  as  woman  had  never  be 
fore  inspired  in  his  breast.  Never  had  she  seemed 
so  dazzlingly  fair,  so  softly,  yet  resplendentlv  lovely. 
He  looked  as  Adam  looked  when  he  beheld  the 
new-made  bride  of  Eden,  beaming  on  his  kindling 
vision.  He  was  as  one  waking  out  of  a  deep  sleep, 
by  a  flash  of  conviction,  intense  as  the  lightning, 
and  almost  as  scorching.  When  strong  passions 
have  lain  dormant  for  a  long  time  under  a  super 
incumbent  weight  of  intellect,  their  awakening  is 
the  bound  of  the  giant,  strong,  exultant  and  fear 
ful.  Horace  trembled  and  glowed  as  the  new  life 
came  rushing  and  flowing  in,  into  every  vein — 
giving  him  the  sense  of  a  new  creation.  It  flashed 
from  his  eyes — it  burned  upon  his  cheek — he  felt 
it  in  every  fibre  of  his  being.  But  the  moment 
that  revealed  Eoline  to  him,  invested  with  this 
new-born  glory,  this  moment,  the  warmest,  the 
brightest,  soon  proved  the  darkest  of  his  life.  For 
on  the  right  hand  stood  the  minstrel  lover,  with  his 
pale  alabaster  face,  brilliant  eyes,  and  romantic- 
waving  hair,  adorned  with  every  grace  that  can 
captivate  the  eye  of  woman.  And  all  the  time  he 
was  gazing,  music  was  gushing  forth  and  filling 
the  hall  and  sweeping  out  into  the  starry  night. 
They  were  singing  an  anthem  of  praise.  Hosanna 
was  the  burden  of  the  strain — "  Hosanna,"  as 
cended  clear  and  high,  as  the  highest  warblingsof 
the  flute,  from  the  lips  of  Eoline — "  Hosanna," 
repeated  the  youthful  band,  in  their  sweet,  bird-like 
contralto — "  Hosanna,"  breathed  St.  Leon,  in  his 
deep  melodious  tenor — "  Hosanna,  Hosanna,"  re 
sounded  the  whole  choir,  in  one  strong  burst  of 
jubilant  harmony,  while  the  keys  quivered  and 
sparkled  under  Eoline's  jewelled  fingers.  Horace 
listened  with  an  interest,  an  intensity  that  amounted 
to  agony.  As  one  by  one,  and  then  all  in  one,  the 
Hosannas  swept  by  him,  and  he  beheld  Eoline  the 
centre  of  that  region  of  light  ar.d  iiarmony,  she 
seemed  ,  lost  to  him  forever — lost  by  his  own  mad 
ness.  The  words  of  little  Willie  rang  in  his  ears 
— "  How  could  you  help  loving  Ela? — What  did 
you  let  her  go  away  for?"  "Because  I  was  a 
fool,  dolt,  maniac,"  thought  he,  "  and  I  deserve  to 
be  punished,  as  I  am." 

There  was  a  breathless  silence  after  the  anthem 
closed,  then  a  sudden  and  spontaneous  burst  of 
applause.  Once,  twice,  thrice  the  building  shook 
with  its  thunders.  During  the  lull  that  succeeded, 


Miss  Manly  arose.    Her  tall  figure  at  once  arrested 
every  eye. 

"  Hush,  hush,  the  Colonel  is  going  to  speak  !" 
ran  in  a  whisper  across  the  benches. 

And  truly  the  Colonel  was  going  to  make  a 
speech,  and  a  very  sensible  one,  too. 

"We  thank  the  audience,"  she  said,  bending 
graciously  forward,  and  waving  her  ivory  fan. 
"We  thank  our  friends,  for  their  manifestations  of 
approbation.  We  receive  them  in  the  spirit  of 
kindness  in  which  we  are  certain  they  burst  forth. 
But  as  the  performers  are  young  ladies  whose 
modesty  and  delicacy  we  feel  it  our  duty  to  guard, 
as  we  would  a  tender  flower,  and  as  they  must 
naturally  shrink  from  anything  like  notoriety  and 
acclamation,  we  would  most  respectfully  request, 
that  silence,  expressive  silence,  should  hereafter 
speak  their  praise." 

There  was  a  murmur,  when  Miss  Manly  re 
sumed  her  seat  after  a  dignified  bow,  and  some 
boys  put  their  hands  together  ready  to  clap,  but 
the  public  respected  Miss  Manly,  and  feared  her 
displeasure,  and  as  her  pupils  had  passed  a  splendid 
Examination,  they  were  anxious  to  conform  to  her 
wishes,  and  therefore  preserved  silence.  *  * 

The  concert  was  winding  to  a  close ;  the  last 
anthem  was  announced.  The  white-robed  choir 
again  arranged  themselves  in  a  semi-lunar  form, 
while  Eoline  and  St.  Leon  took  the  same  position 
as  at  the  opening  of  the  concert.  Miss  Manly ' 
stood  up  to  enjoy  this  last  act  of  a  triumphant 
drama.  Eoline,  who  missed  for  a  moment  the 
voice  of  St.  Leon,  looked  up  and  saw  him  leaning 
against  the  piano,  with  his  hand  pressed  against 
his  side,  and  his  face  wearing  the  pallor  of  death. 
Giving  her  one  earnest,  thrilling  glance,  hi?  eyes 
closed,  and  he  fell  back,  perfectly  insensible. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  describe  the  scene  of 
confusion  that  followed.  The  forward  pressure  of 
the  crowd  impeded  every  breath  of  air,  and  'brmed 
an  impenetrable  barrier  round  the  platform.  The 
frightened  children  condensed  themselves  tm  the 
other  side — Miss  Manly,  no  less  alarmed,  for  once 
exerting  herself  in  vain  to  call  them  to  order. 

"  Stand  back  !"  exclaimed  Eoline,  in  an  agony 
of  terror,  "  keep  back,  if  you  would  not  kill  him  ! 
He  is  not  dead.  Good  Heavens  ! — will  nobody 
help  him  1  Oh,  Horace !"  she  cried,  for  he  had 
wedged  the  crowd,  he  knew  not  how,  and  sprang 
upon  the  platform,  "  for  God's  sake  get  a  glass  of 
water !" 

"  Here  is  water !  and  here !"  cried  a  dozen  voices, 
while  Horace  knelt  and  raised  the  lifeless  St.  Leon 
on  his  arm. 

"  Carry  him  to  the  window  !"  exclaimed  a  com 
manding  voice,  while  another  strong  pair  of  arms 
surrounded  the  young  man,  "  he  will  die  for  want 
of  air." 

It  was  Doctor  Hale,  the  doctor,  par  excellence, 
of  Montebello.  whose  commands  had  the  authority 
of  Scripture.  By  the  copious  application  of  water, 
and  the  current  of  fresh  air  admitted  to  his  lungs, 
St.  Leon  revived,  so  as  to  open  his  eyes,  and  give 
evidence  of  consciousness-  -aud  that  was  all 


KICHAKD    HILDRETH. 


[Born  1807.    Died  1865.] 


RICHARD  HILDRETH,  was  born  at  Deerfield, 
Mass.,  June  28,  180*7.  He  was  the  son  of  Rev. 
Hosea  Hildreth,  who  was  called  to  Phillips 
Academy  at  Exeter,  N.  H.,  when  his  son  was 
only  four  years  old,  and  the  family  removed 
thither.  He  graduated  at  Harvard  College, 
where  he  was  distinguished  for  his  high  class- 
rank,  and  his  attainments  in  general  literature. 
He  kept  a  school  for  a  year  in  Concord,  Mass. ; 
then  studied  law,  and  was  admitted  to  practice 
at  the  Suffolk  bar,  in  1830.  In  1832,  with 
others  he  founded  the  Boston  Atlas,  upon 
which  he  was  afterwards  engaged  at  several 
periods  of  his  life. 

In  consequence  of  ill  health,  Mr.  Hildreth 
resided  in  Florida  in  1834-6.  While  there  he 
wrote  the  novel  of  Archy  Moore,  founded  upon 
incidents  of  slave  life  that  came  under  his 
observation.  Upon  his  return  it  was  pub 
lished  anonymously,  met  with  success,  and 
was  reprinted  in  England.  This  was  after 
wards  republished  in  1852,  under  the  title  of 
The  White  Slave.  In  1837-8,  he  was  the  corres 
pondent  at  Washington,  of  the  Boston  Atlas  ; 
he  returned  to  Boston  in  1838,  and  became 
the  chief  editor  of  that  paper.  He  wrote  a 
series  of  powerful  articles  against  the  annexa 
tion  of  Texas,  which  helped  to  form  public 
opinion  at  the  time.  He  also  contributed 
largely  to  the  nomination  of  Gen.  Harrison  to 
the  Presidency,  and  published  a  life  of  him  in 
one  volume,  18mo. 

Abandoning  journalism,  Mr.  Hildreth  pub 
lished  in  1840,  Despotism  in  America,  an  able 
work  on  the  moral,  political,  and  social  char 
acter  of  slavery ;  a  History  of  Banks,  advocating 
a  system  of  free  banking,  with  security  to 
bill-holders,  a  plan  since  adopted ;  and  a 
translation  from  the  French  of  Dumont,  of 
Bentham's  Theory  of  Legislation.  These  were 
followed  by  a  Letter  on  Miracles,  and  other 
controversial  pamphlets  on  various  speculative 
topics.  These  works  were  marked  by  keen 
and  vigorous  argument,  but  at  times  by  an 
unsparing  severity  of  language  that  mate 
rially  interfered  with  their  popularity. 

In   1840,  for  the  benefit  of  his  health,  Mr. 


Hildreth  went  to  Demarara,  where  he  continued 
his  literary  activity  by  editing  two  newspapers. 
Here  he  also  wrote  his  Theory  of  Morals,  pub 
lished  in  1844,  and  his  Theory  of  Politics, 
published  in  1853.  These  two  were  the  first 
of  six  treatises,  the  remaining  four  to  have 
been  on  Wealth,  Taste,  Knowledge,  and  Edu 
cation  ;  an  attempt  to  apply  to  these  subjects 
the  inductive  method  of  investigation,  which 
he  supposed,  might  be  employed  as  suc 
cessfully  in  ethical  and  kindred  science,  as 
it  has  been  in  the  domain  of  physical  discov 
eries. 

Finding  the  public  too  little  interested  in 
his  speculative  inquiries,  Mr.  Hildreth  devoted 
his  attention  to  the  History  of  the  United 
States,  the  work  upon  which  his  fame  will 
chiefly  rest.  The  first  volume  was  issued  in 
1849,  and  the  entire  work,  in  6  vols.,  in  the 
three  succeeding  years.  This  elaborate  history 
covers  the  period  beginning  with  the  settle 
ment  of  the  country,  and  concluding  with  the 
end  of  Monroe's  first  term  in  1821.  It  met 
with  criticisms  entirely  opposite  to  each  other. 
He  gave  the  history  of  the  earliest  founders 
of  the  Republic, "  in  their  own  proper  persons, 
often  rude,  hard,  narrow,  superstitious,  and 
mistaken,  but  always  earnest,  downright, 
manly,  and  sincere.  The  result  of  their  labors 
is  eulogy  enough  ;  their  best  apology  is  to  tell 
their  story  exactly  as  it  was."  He  embodied 
the  mature  results  of  long-continued  and 
exhausting  labor,  carried  on  by  a  mind  not  ill 
adapted  to  historical  inquiry,  acute,  compre 
hensive,  endowed  with  an  inflexible  honesty 
of  purpose,  and  never  avoiding  the  sober 
duties  of  the  historian  for  the  sake  of  rhetori 
cal  display.  It  is  a  plain  and  well-written 
narrative  of  public  events,  mostly  in  the  order 
of  their  occurrence,  without  any  attempt  to 
generalize  them,  or  to  deduce  from  them 
broader  lessons  of  experience.  But  the  story 
is  conscientiously — and,  as  far  as  details  go, 
thoroughly — told. 

Japan  as  it  Was  and  Is,  a  compilation  from 
the  best  works  on  that  country,  was  published 
in  1855  ;  when  he  became  a  regular  contribu- 
615 


616 


RICHARD     HILDRETH. 


tor  to  the  New  York  Tribune,  and  at  the  close 
of  the  year  removed  to  New  York. 

His  last  work,  Atrocious  Judges,  or  Lives 
of  Judges  infamous  as  tools  of  Tyrants  and 
Instruments  of  Oppression,  was  published  in 
1856;  a  selection  from  Lord  Campbell's  Lives 
of  the  Chief  Justices  and  Lives  of  the  Chancel 
lors,  with  an  Appendix. 

He  was  one  of  the  writers  for  Appleton's 
American  Cyclopedia ;  the  amount  of  literary 
drudgery  which  he  has  performed,  attests  his 


singular  mental  vigor  and  activity,  as  well  as 
the  inadequate  remuneration  of  more  congenial 
literary  labor.  In  1861,  he  was  appointed  by 
President  Lincoln,  U.  S.  Consul  at  Trieste. 
He  held  this  position  for  a  time,  till  failing 
health  compelled  him  to  relinquish  it.  He 
still  remained  abroad,  however,  gradually 
sinking,  till  his  feeble  constitution  was  ex 
hausted.  He  died  at  Florence,  Italy,  on  the 
llth  of  July,  1865. 


EFFECT    OF    AMERICAN    NAVAL 
VICTORIES. 

FROM  HISTORY  OP  THE   UNITED  STATES,  2D  SERIES. 

THE  effect  of  these  early  naval  encounters, 
whether  in  America  or  in  England,  was  very 
striking.  While  they  served  to  relieve  the  war 
party,  mortified  to  the  last  degree  by  the  imbecil 
ity  and  misfortunes  of  their  incapable  generals, 
the  Federalists  also  joined  to  extol  them  as  proofs 
that  commerce  was  best  to  be  defended  at  sea, 
and  as  justifying  their  ancient  partiality  for  a 
navy,  which  now  became  all  at  once,  in  spite  of 
old  party  prejudices,  the  general  favorite  of  the 
nation.  It  was  proclaimed,  with  many  boastings, 
that  the  downfall  of  Great  Britain  must  certainly 
be  near,  since  at  last  she  had  found  her  match  on 
the  ocean  ;  and  these  exultations  and  prophecies, 
however  extravagant,  seemed  to  be  justified  by  the 
astonishment  and  mortification  of  the  British 
themselves.  Apprehensions  were  freely  expressed 
in  their  newspapers  of  being  stripped,  «  by  a  piece 
of  striped  bunting  flying  at  the  mast-heads  of  a 
few  fir-built  frigates,  manned  by  a  handful  of 
bastards  and  outlaws" — such  being  the  polite 
terms  in  which,  with  angry  flourish,  the  American 
navy  and  people  were  described — of  that  maritime 
superiority,  into  a  confession  of  which  every  na 
tion  in  Europe  had  been  successively  beaten. 
Presently,  however,  recovering  a  little  from  their 
amazement  and  terror,  explanations  and  apologies 
were  sought  for  and  found.  The  victorious  Amer 
ican  frigates,  it  was  said,  were  larger  ships  than 
their  opponents,  with  more  men,  more  guns  by 
half  a  dozen  or  so,  and  heavier  metal,  twenty- 
fours  on  the  gun-deck  instead  of  eighteens ;  and 
it  was  even  pretended  that  they  were  chiefly 
manned  by  runaway  British  sailors.  Except  the 
British  sailors,  this  was  all  true  enough ;  but  it 
hardly  justified  the  exaggeration  that  the  American 
frigates  were  seventy-fours  in  disguise;  nor  did  it 
apply  to  the  case  of  the  Wasp  and  the  Frolic, 
which  were  equally  matched.  The  difference,  in 
deed,  was  not  so  great  as  to  have  been  much 
thought  of  in  contests  with  ships  of  any  other 
flag;  nor  was  it  at  all  sufficient  to  explain,  if 
other  things  were  equal,  such  speedy  and  total 
defeats  with  such  disparity  of  loss.  It  was  too 
plain  that  the  American  ships  were  not  only 


larger  and  stronger,  but  better  handled  and  better 
fought — a  circumstance,  on  the  supposition  of  a 
general  equality  in  skill  and  courage,  natural 
enough  in  a  few  vessels  with  reputations  to  make, 
insults  and  taunts  to  revenge,  and  sailors'  rights 
to  fight  for,  but,  even  thus  explained,  breaking 
much  too  rudely  upon  the  English  dream  of  naval 
invincibility  to  be  anywise  acceptable.  Fore 
thought,  and  with  it  a  tendency  to  see  the  gloomy 
side,  are  the  characteristics  of  the  English  mind. 
The  harm  that  a  few  frigates  could  immediately 
do  might  be  of  little  consequence ;  but  who  could 
tell  what  might  happen  in  the  future?  And, 
indeed,  even  for  the  present,  with  Bonaparte,  the 
turning  and  rapid  descent  of  whose  fortune  hardly 
yet  showed  itself,  desperately  bent  on  the  destruc 
tion  of  Britain  and  her  commerce,  what  was  not 
to  be  apprehended  from  the  springing  into  exist 
ence  of  a  new  hostile  naval  power  ] 

A  considerable  part  of  the  inhabitants  of  New 
England,  whence  in  former  wars  the  greater  pro 
portion  of  American  privateers  had  issued,  had 
now  serious  scruples  upon  that  point.  The  grow 
ing  spirit  of  civilization  and  commerce  had  begun 
to  view  this  species  of  warfare  as  little  better  than 
robbery.  Jefferson  had  testified  against  it  in  his 
model  treaty  with  Prussia,  in  which  the  contract 
ing  parties  had  mutually  renounced  this  species 
of  annoyance.  Why,  indeed,  should  not  private 
property  be  as  much  respected  on  sea  as  on  land  1 
It  shocked  the  moral  sense  of  many,  this  seizing 
and  appropriating  the  ships  of  their  late  British 
correspondents,  who,  though  nationally  enemies, 
still  remained  mercantile  and  personal  friends. 
Most  of  the  Federalist  ship-owners  and  seafaring 
people,  and  some  who  were  Democrats,  refused 
to  participate  in  what  had  so  much  the  aspect 
of  piracy.  But  the  prospect  of  plunder,  the  gloss 
of  patriotism,  the  thirst  for  revenge,  and  the 
impulse  of  necessity,  still  fitted  out  numerous 
privateers,  as  well  from  the  ports  of  Now  Eng 
land,  especially  from  Salem,  the  head-quarters 
of  the  Massachusetts  Democracy,  as  from  New 
York,  Philadelphia,  and  Baltimore.  Before  the 
close  of  the  year,  more  than  three  hundred  prizes 
had  been  made  by  the  American  cruisers,  pub 
lic  and  private,  including,  however,  a  number 
of  American  vessels  sailing  under  British  licen- 
1  ses. 


JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 

[Born  1808.] 


JOHN  G.  WHITTIER,  who  owes  his  presence 
in  this  collection,  more  to  his  celebrity  as  a 
poet,  than  to  his  merit  as  a  prose  writer,  was 
born  in  1808,  in  the  old  homestead  near 
Haverliill,  Mass. ;  where  his  ancestors  of  the 
Quaker  persuasion,  in  spite  of  Puritan  perse 
cutions,  settled  on  the  banks  of  the  Merrimack. 

He  lived  at  home  until  his  eighteenth  year, 
working  on  the  farm,  and  occasionally  at 
shoemaking,  writing  during  his  leisure  hours 
verses  for  the  Haverhill  Gazette.  He  went  to 
school  for  two  years  ;  and  afterwards  became 
editor  of  the  American  Manufacturer,  a  news 
paper  published  at  Boston  in  the  tariff  interest ; 
then  editor  of  a  paper  at  Hartford.  After  a 
few  years  spent  at  home  in  farming,  and 
representing  his  town  in  the  State  Legislature, 
he  engaged  in  the  proceedings  of  the  American 
Anti-Slavery  Society,  of  which  he  was  elected 
Secretary  in  1836,  and  edited  the  Pennsylvania 
Freeman,  in  Philadelphia,  writing  many  stir 
ring  poems  for  it,  which  were  afterward  pub 
lished  in  his  collected  poems  under  the  head 
ing  of  Voices  of  Freedom.  The  importance 
attached  to  them  by  the  abolition  party  has 
probably  thrown  into  the  shade  some  of  the 
finer  qualities  of  his  mind. 

In  1840,  Mr.  Whittier  took  up  his  residence 
at  Amesbury,  Mass.,  where  his  best  productions 
have  been  written,  and  where  he  wrote  as 
corresponding  editor,  many  articles  for  the 
National  Era,  published  at  Washington,  many 
of  which  were  collected  into  volumes.  Since 
the  establishing  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  he 
has  contributed  to  almost  every  number. 

In  1830,  he  wrote  a  memoir  prefixed  to 
Brainerd's  poems  ;  1831,  a  volume  of  poems 
and  prose  sketches,  Legends  of  New  England, 
representing  a  taste  early  formed  by  him  for 
the  quaint  Indian  and  Colonial  superstitions 
of  the  country ;  a  sequel  to  this  volume,  the 
Supernaturalism  of  New  England,  was  pub 
lished  in  1847.  Moll  Pitcher,  one  of  his  early 
poems,  was  of  a  similar  character.  So  also 
was  his  Indian  story,  Mogg  Megone,  which 
derived  its  name  from  a  leader  among  the 
Saco  Indians  in  the  war  of  1677,  and  was 
78 


published  in  1836.  In  1845,  appeared  the 
Stranger  in  Lowell,  a  series  of  sketches  of 
scenery  and  character,  suggested  by  that  great 
manufacturing  town.  In  1848,  an  octavo 
illustrated  edition  of  his  poems  was  published. 

In  1849,  appeared  his  Leaves  from  Margaret 
Smith's  Journal,  written  in  the  antique  style 
brought  into  vogue  by  the  clever  Lady  Wil- 
loughby's  Diary.  The  fair  journalist,  with  a 
taste  for  nature,  poetry,  and  character,  and 
fully  sensitive  to  the  religious  influences  of 
the  spot,  visits  New  England  in  1678,  and 
writes  her  account  of  the  manners  and  influ 
ences  of  the  time  to  her  cousin  in  England,  a 
gentleman  to  whom  she  is  to  be  married.  In 
point  of  delicacy  and  happy  description,  this 
work  is  full  of  beauties  ;  though  the  unneces 
sary  tediousness  of  its  form  will  remain  a  per 
manent  objection  to  it. 

Old  Portraits  and  Modern  Sketches,  appeared 
in  1850.  It  is  a  series  of  Prose  essays  on 
Bunyan,  Baxter,  Ellwood,  Nayler,  Andrew 
Marvell,  John  Roberts  of  the  old  time  folks ; 
and,  Hopkins,  Leggett,  Rogers,  and  Dinsmore 
for  the  moderns  ;  they  were*mostly  originally 
published  as  sketches  for  the  National  Era. 
In  the  same  year  he  published  Songs  of  Labor 
and  other  poems;  and  in  1853,  the  Chapel  of 
the  Hermits,  and  other  poems.  He  has  also 
issued,  The  Panorama  ;  Home  Ballads  ;  and,  In 
War  Time  and  other  poems,  in  1864. 

He  published  in  1866,  Literary  Recreations 
and  Miscellanies ;  most  of  the  pieces  were 
originally  written  for  newspapers  with  which 
he  had  been  connected  ;  they  were  very  varied 
in  their  character,  and  the  subject  treated  of, 
but  afford  a  good  insight  into  the  mind  of  the 
author.  His  prose  writings  have  been  col 
lected  and  published  in  two  volumes. 

His  most  popular  poems  of  any  length,  are 
Maud  Muller,  and  Snow-Bound;  the  latter 
published  in  an  illustrated  volume,  with  its 
pen  and  pencil  pictures  of  a  New  England 
family,  has  enjoyed  unbounded  and  deserved 
popularity.  The  Tent  and  the  Beach,  a  col 
lection  of  poems  was  issued  in  1868,  followed 
in  1869,  by  Ballads  of  New  England,  of  which 

617 


618 


JOHN     G.     WHITTIER. 


an    octavo   edition,    illustrated   by   American 
artists  was  published. 

Of  his  collected  poems,  various  editions,  and 
of  all  sizes  have  been  issued,  and  have  met 
with  large  sales ;  indeed,  he  may  be  said  to  be 
second  in  popularity  only  to  Longfellow, 
among  American  poets.  Though  boldness, 
energy  and  strength,  are  Whittier's  leading 
characteristics,  yet  many  of  his  prose  works 
and  poems  are  marked  by  a  tenderness,  a 
grace,  and  a  beauty,  not  exceeded  by  those  of. 
any  other  American  writer.  Of  his  later  poems, 


it  is  not  enough  to  say,  that  they  sustain  the 
author's  previous  reputation.  Several  of  them 
may  be  said  to  surpass  his  previous  efforts. 
His  verse  has  not  lost  in  power  as  it  has  been 
mellowed  by  age  and  experience.  There  is  the 
same  eye  for  nature,  love  of  the  historic 
incidents  of  the  past  of  New  England  ;  the 
same  devoted  patriotism  and  ardor  for  human 
love  and  freedom  in  the  present ;  and  there  is 
perhaps  greater  condensation,  and  a  fiery 
energy,  all  the  more  effective  for  being  con 
strained  within  the  bounds  of  art. 


PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS. 

FROM  OLD    PORTRAITS  AND   MODERN  SKETCHES. 

LTTTLE  did  the  short-sighted  persecutors  of  Bun- 
yan  dream,  when  they  closed  upon  him  the  door 
of  Bedford  jail,  that  God  would  overrule  their  poor 
spite  and  envy,  to  his  own  glory  and  the  world 
wide  renown  of  their  victim.  In  the  solitude  of 
his  prison,  the  ideal  forms  of  beauty  and  sublimity, 
which  had  long  flitted  before  him  vaguely,  like  the 
vision  of  the  Temanite,  took  shape  and  coloring ; 
and  he  was  endowed  with  power  to  reduce  them 
to  order,  and  arrange  them  in  harmonious  group 
ings.  His  powerful  imagination,  no  longer  self- 
tormenting,  but  under  the  direction  of  reason  and 
grace,  expanded  his  narrow  cell  into  a  vast  theatre, 
lighted  up  for  the  display  of  its  wonders. 

That  stony  cell  of  his  was  to  him  like  the  rock 
of  Padan-ararn  to  the  wandering  Patriarch.  He 
saw  angels  ascending  and  descending.  The 
House  Beautiful  rose  up  before  him,  and  its  holy 
sisterhood  welcomed  him.  He  looked,  with  his 
Pilgrim,  from  the  Chamber  of  Peace.  The  Valley 
of  Humiliation  lav  stretched  out  beneath  his  eye, 
and  he  heard  "  the  curious  melodious  note  of  the 
country  birds,  who  sing  all  the  day  long  in  the 
spring  time,  when  the  flowers  appear,  and  the  sun 
shines  warm,  and  makes  the  woods  and  groves  and 
solitary  places  glad."  Side  by  side  with  the  good 
Christiana  and  the  loving  Mercy,  he  walked  through 
the  green  and  lowly  valley,  "  fruitful  as  any  the 
crow  flies  over,"  through  "  meadows  beautiful  with 
lilies;"  the  song  of  the  poor  but  fresh-faced  shep 
herd  boy,  who  lived  a  merry  life,  and  wore  the 
herb  hearts-ease  in  his  bosom,  sounded  through 
his  cell  : 

"  Tie  that  is  down  need  fear  no  fall ; 
He  that  is  low  no  pride." 

The  broad  and  pleasant  "•  river  of  the  Water  of 
Life"  glided  peacefully  before  him,  fringed  "  on 
either  side  with  green  trees,  with  all  manner  of 
fruit,"  and  leaves  of  healing,  with  "  meadows 
beautified  with  lilies,  and  green  all  the  year  long;" 
he  saw  the  Delectable  Mountains,  glorious  with 
sunshine,  overhung  with  gardens  and  orchards 
and  vineyards;  and  beyond  all,  the  Land  of  Beu- 
lah,  with  its  eternal  sunshine,  its  song  of  birds,  its 
music  of  fountains,  its  purple  clustered  vines,  and 


groves  through  which  walked  the  Shining  Ones, 
silver-winged  and  beautiful. 

What  were  bars  and  bolts  and  prison  walls  to 
him,  whose  eyes  were  anointed  to  see,  and  whose 
ears  opened  to  hear,  the  glory  and  the  rejoicing  of 
the  City  of  God,  when  the  pilgrims  were  conducted 
to  its  golden  gates,  from  the  black  p.nd  bitter  river, 
with  the  sounding  trumpeters,  the  transfigured 
harpers  with  their  crowns  of  gold,  the  sweet  voices 
of  angels,  the  welcoming  peal  of  bells  in  the  holy 
city,  and  the  songs*  of  the  redeemed  ones  1  In 
reading  the  concluding  pages  of  the  first  part  of 
Pilgrim's  Progress,  we  feel  as  if  the  mysterious 
glory  of  the  Beatific  Vision  was  unveiled  before 
us.  We  are  dazzled  with  the  excess  of  light. 
We  are  entranced  with  the  mighty  melody  ;  over 
whelmed  by  the  great  anthem  of  rejoicing  spirits. 
It  can  only  be  adequately  described  in  the  language 
of  Milton  in  respect  to  the  Apocalypse,  as  «  a  seven 
fold  chorus  of  hallelujahs  and  harping  symphonies." 


AUTOBIOGRAPHIES. 

FROM   THE   SAME. 

COMMEND  us  to  autobiographies  !  Give  us  the 
veritable  notchings  of  Robinson  Crusoe  on  his 
stick,  the  indubitable  records  of  a  life  long  since 
swallowed  up  in  the  blackness  of  darkness,  traced 
by  a  hand  the  very  dust  of  which  has  become  un- 
distinguishable.  The  foolishest  egotist  who  ever 
chronicled  his  daily  experiences,  his  hopes  and 
fears,  poor  plans  and  vain  Teachings  after  happiness, 
speaking  to  us  out  of  the  Past,  and  thereby  giving 
us  to  understand  that  it  was  quite  as  real  as  our 
Present,  is  in  no  mean  sort  our  benefactor,  arid 
commands  our  attention,  in  spite  of  his  folly.  We 
are  thankful  for  .the  very  vanity  which  prompted 
him  to  bottle  up  his  poor  records,  and  cast  them 
into  the  great  sea  of  Time,  for  future  voyagers  to 
pick  up.  We  note,  with  the  deepest  interest,  that 
in  him  too  was  enacted  that  miracle  of  a  conscious 
existence,  the  reproduction  of  which  in  ourselves 
awes  and  perplexes  us.  He,  too,  had  a  mother ; 
he  hated  and  loved  ;  the  light  from  old-quenched 
hearths  shone  over  him  ;  he  walked  in  the  sun 
shine  over  the  dust  of  those  who  had  gone  before 


J'OHN    G.    WHIT  TIER. 


fi19 


him,  just  as  we  are  now  walking  over  his.  These 
records  of  him  remain,  the  footmarks  of  a  long- 
extinct  life,  not  of  mere  animal  organism,  but  of  a 
being  like  ourselves,  enabling  us,  by  studying  their 
Hieroglyphic  significance,  to  decipher  and  see 
•  clearly  into  the  mystery  of  existence  centuries  ago. 
The  dead  generations  live  again  in  these  old  self- 
biogrnphiea.  Incidentally,  unintentionally,  yet  in 
the  simplest  and  most  natural  manner,  they  make 
us  familiar  with  all  the  phenomena  of  life  in  the 
by-gone  ages.  We  are  brought  in  contact  with 
actual  llesh-and-blood  men  and  women,  not  the 
ghostly  outline  figures  which  pass  for  such,  in 
what  is  called  History.  The  horn  lantern  of  the 
biographer,  by  the  aid  of  which,  with  painful  min 
uteness,  he  chronicled,  from  day  to  day,  his  own 
outgoings  and  incomings,  making  visible  to  us  his 
pitiful  wants,  labors,  trials  and  tribulations,  of  the 
stomach  and  of  the  conscience,  sheds,  at  times,  a 
strong  clear  light  upon  contemporaneous  activities  ; 
what  seemed  before  half  fabulous,  rises  up  in  dis 
tinct  and  full  proportions;  we  look  at  statesmen, 
philosophers,  and  poets,  with  the  eyes  of  those  who 
lived  perchance  their  next  door  neighbors,  and  sold 
them  beer,  and  mutton,  and  household  stuffs,  had 
access  to  their  kitchens,  and  took  note  of  the  fash 
ion  of  their  wigs  and  the  color  of  their  breeches. 
Without  some  such  light,  all  history  would  be  just 
about  as  unintelligible  and  unreal  as  a  dimly  re 
membered  dream. 

The  journals  of  the  early  Friends  or  Quakers  are 
in  this  respect  invaluable.  Little,  it  is  true,  can  be 
said,  as  a  general  thing,  of  their  literary  merits. 
Their  authors  were  plain,  earnest  men  and  women, 
chiefly  intent  upon  the  substance  of  things,  and 
having  withal  a  strong  testimony  to  bear  against 
carnal  wit  and  outside  show  and  ornament.  Yet, 
even  the  scholar  may  well  admire  the  power  of 
certain  portions  of  George  Fox's  Journal,  where  a 
strong  spirit  clothes  its  utterance  in  simple,  down 
right  Saxon  words;  the  quiet  and  beautiful  enthu 
siasm  of  Pennington  ;  the  torrent  energy  of  Edward 
Bar  rough  ;  the  serene  wisdom  of  Penn  ;  the  logical 
acuteness  of  Barclay  ;  the  honest  truthfulness  of 
Sewell ;  the  wit  and  humor  of  John  Roberts,  (for 
even  Quakerism  had  its  apostolic  jokers  and  drab, 
coated  Robert  Halls  ;)  and  last,  not  least,  the  sim 
ple  beauty  of  Woolman's  Journal,  the  modest  rec 
ord  of  a  life  of  good  works  and  love 


MILTON  AND  ELLWOOD. 

FROM   THE   SAME. 

IN  the  meantime,  where  is  our  "  Master  Mil 
ton  ]"  We  left  him  deprived  of  his  young  com- 
pariioil  and  reader,  sitting  lonely  in  his  small  din 
ing-room,  in  Jewen  street.  It  is  now  the  year 
1665;  is  net  the  pestilence  in  London  ?  A  sinful 
and  godless  city,  with  its  bloated  bishops,  fawning 
around  the  Nell  Gwyns  of  a  licentious  and  profane 


Defender  of  the  Faith  ;  its  swaggering  and  drunken 
cavaliers  ;  its  ribald  jesters;  its  obscene  ballad-sing 
ers  ;  its  loathsome  prisons,  crowded  with  God-fear 
ing  men  and  women  ;  is  not  the  measure  of  its  in 
iquity  already  filled  up  ]  Three  years  only  have 
passed  since  the  terrible  prayer  of  Vane  went  up 
ward  from  the  scaffold  on  Tower  Hill :  "When  my 
blood  is  shed  upon  the  block,  let  it,  oh  God,  have 
a  voice  afterward  !"  Audible  to  thy  ear,  oh  bosom 
friend  of  the  martyr  !  has  that  blood  cried  i-rom 
earth;  and  now,  how  fearfully  is  it  answered! 
Like  the  ashes  which  the  Seer  of  the  Hebrews 
cast  towards  Heaven,  it  has  returned  in  boils  and 
blains  upon  the  proud  and  oppressive  city.  John 
Milton,  sitting  blind  in  Jewen  street,  has  heard  the 
toll  of  the  death  bells,  and  the  night-long  rumble 
of  the  burial-carts,  and  the  terrible  summons, 
"  BRING  OUT  YOUR  DEAD  !"  The  Angel  of  the 
Plague,  in  yellow  mantle,  purple-spotted,  walks 
the  streets.  Why  should  he  tarry  in  a  doomed 
city,  forsaken  of  God  !  Is  not  the  command,  even 
to  him,  "Arise !  and  flee  for  thy  life."  In  some 
green  nook  of  the  quiet  country,  he  may  finish  the 
great  work  which  his  hands  have  found  to  do. 
He  bethinks  him  of  his  old  friends,  the  Penning- 
tons,  and  his  young  Quaker  companion,  the  patient 
and  gentle  Ellwood. 


DEATH  OF  BAXTER. 

FROM  THF  SAME. 

THE  circumstances  of  his  trial  before  the  judicial 
monster,  Jeffries,  are  too  well  known  to  justify 
their  detail  in  this  sketch.  He  was  sentenced  to 
pay  a  fine  of  five  hundred  marks.  Seventy  years 
of  age,  and  reduced  to  poverty  by  former  persecu 
tions,  he  was  conveyed  to  the  King's  Bench  pris 
on.  Here  for  two  years  he  lay  a  victim  to  intense 
bodily  suffering.  When,  through  the  influence  of 
his  old  antagonist,  Penn,  he  was  restored  to  free 
dom,  he  was  already  a  dying  man.  But  he  came 
forth  from  prison  as  he  entered  it,  unsubdued  in 
spirit.  Urged  to  sign  a  declaration  of  thanks  to 
James  II.,  his  soul  put  on  the  athletic  habits  of 
youth,  and  he  stoutly  refused  to  commend  an  act 
of  toleration  which  had  given  freedom  not  to  him 
self  alone,  but  to  Papists  and  Sectaries.  Shaking 
off  the  dust  of  the  Court  from  his  feet,  he  retired 
to  a  dwelling  in  Charter-House  Square,  near  his 
friend  Sylvester's,  and  patiently  awaited  his  deliver 
ance.  His  death  was  quiet  and  peaceful.  "  I  have 
pain,"  he  said  to  his  friend  Mather;  "  there  is  no 
arguing  against  sense;  but  I  have  peace.  1  have 
peace."  On  being  asked  how  he  did,  he  answered, 
in  memorable  words,  "Almost  well  /" 

He  was  buried  in  Christ  Church,  where  the 
remains  of  his  wife  and  her  mother  had  been 
placed.  An  immense  concourse  attended  his  fu 
neral,  of  all  ranks  and  parties. 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES, 


[Born  1809.] 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES,  M.D.,  the  eminent 
poet,  wit,  physician,  and  lecturer,  is  the  son  of 
Rev.  Abiel  Holmes,  D.  D.,  of  Cambridge,  Mass., 
the  author  of  American  Annals.  He  was  born 
at  Cambridge,  August  29,  1809,  educated  at 
Phillips  Academy  at  Exeter,  and  graduated  at 
Harvard  in  1829.  He  studied  law  for  a  year, 
and  wrote  humorous  poems  for  the  Collegian, 
a  periodical  published  by  some  under-gradu- 
ates  of  Harvard,  in  1830,  some  of  which  were 
preserved  in  his  Collected  Poems,  as  the  Spec 
tre  Pig,  Evening  by  a  Tailor,  etc.  He  forsook 
the  law  and  poetry,  and  studied  medicine, 
which  he  went  to  Paris  to  acquire  more  per 
fectly.  Returning  home  in  1835,  he  took  his 
degree,  and  commenced  practice  in  Boston  the 
following  year. 

In  1836,  he  delivered  Poetry,  a  metrical  Es 
say  before  the  Harvard  Phi  Beta  Kappa,  which 
he  published  in  the  first  volume  of  his  acknowl 
edged  poems  in  the  same  year.  In  1838,  he 
was  elected  Professor  of  Anatomy  and  Physi 
ology,  in  the  Medical  School  of  Dartmouth 
College.  He  married  in  1840,  resigning  his 
professorship  to  establish  himself  in  practice 
in  Boston,  where  he  soon  became  a  successful 
and  fashionable  practitioner.  In  1847,  he  was 
elected  Parkman  Professor  of  Anatomy  and 
Physiology,  in  the  Medical  School  of  Harvard. 
In  1849,  he  relinquished  practice,  and  has  his 
summer  residence  at  Pittsfield,  Mass.,  on  the 
remnant  of  24,000  paternal  acres  on  the  Hou- 
satonic,  which  he  calls  Canoe  Place;  in  winter 
he  resides  at  Boston. 

Dr.  Holmes  has  written  a  number  of  prize 
medical  essays,  published  between  1838  and 
1848,  and  has  contributed  occasionally  to 
medical  journals.  No  one  is  happier  at  a  fes 
tive  occasion,  whether  literary,  medical  or  so 
cial.  His  wit,  apparently  unpremeditated, 
bubbling  over,  and  sparkling  with  true,  genu 
ine  fun,  hits  at  the  absurd,  and  in  derision  of 
quackeries  of  any  kind.  His  Terpsichore, 
Stethescope  song,  Modest  Request,  Urania,  a 
Rhymed  Lesson,  and  Astraea,  are  good  sam 
ples  delivered  on  such  occasions.  These 


peculiarities  united  with  a  vast  and  ready  store 
of  learning  on  almost  every  topic,  have  made 
him  one  of  the  most  popular  of  lecturers,  to 
which  he  devotes  much  of  his  time. 

In  1852,  he  delivered  a  course  of  lectures  on 
the  English  Poets  of  the  19th  century,  in  which 
his  style  was  precise  and  animated,  his  criticism 
bold  and  dashing,  dropping  each  poetaster  as 
he  came  across  him  with  a  felicitous  shot.  In 
look  and  manners  he  is  the  vivacious,  sparkling 
personage  his  poems  would  indicate  ;  his  smile 
is  easily  invoked  ;  he  is  fond  of  fun  and  repar 
tee,  and  his  conversation  runs  on  laden  with 
the  best  stores  from  the  whole  range  of  science 
and  society.  He  is  a  lover  of  the  fields,  trees, 
and  streams,  and  out-of-door  life,  and  of  the 
convivial  board,  where  he  is  at  home  with  his 
sallies  of  wit  and  poetry. 

It  is,  however,  as  a  prose  writer,  that  it  is  our 
duty  to  speak  of  him.  In  185*7,  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  was  started  in  Boston  as  a  vehicle  for 
the  thought  that  is  so  plentiful  in  New  England, 
and  Dr.  Holmes  was  at  once  enlisted  as  a  con 
tributor.  In  November,  he  more  fully  displayed 
his  wonderful  powers  by  commencing  a  series 
of  papers  entitled  The  Autocrat  of  the  Break 
fast  Table.  This  series  constitutes  one  of  the 
most  racy,  interesting  and  brilliant  course  of 
magazine-articles  ever  published.  For  wit, 
pathos,  profound  philosophical  speculation, 
nice  descriptive  powers,  keen  insight  into 
human  nature,  aptness  and  force  of  illustration, 
united  to  great  wealth  of  literary,  scientific,  and 
artistic  knowledge,  and  all  in  a  style  that  is  a 
model  for  the  light  essay,  these  papers  have 
given  the  author  a  very  high  rank  in  American 
literature.  The  characters  represented  around 
the  breakfast  table  assuming  an  individuality 
as  sharply  cut  and  defined  as  would  be  pre 
sented  to  the  eye  by  the  best  photograph. 
These  papers,  at  the  end  of  the  year,  were  col 
lected  into  a  volume,  illustrated  by  Hoppin, 
and  were  read  with  avidity  in  their  collected 
form  by  a  new  and  larger  circle  of  readers. 
Yielding  to  the  public  demand  for  more,  tho 
author  commenced  a  new  series  under  the  title 


OLIVER     WENDELL     HOLMES. 


of  The  Professor  at  the  Breakfast  Table, 
retaining  some  of  the  same  characters,  but 
adding  new  ones  which  awakened  as  much 
interest.  The  papers  were  a  thought  graver 
in  matter,  with  a  decided  leaning  to  theological 
discussion,  an  infusion  of  liberal  principles, 
and  a  deeper  pathos  and  interest  in  the  romance 
of  Iris,  and  a  quaint  personage,  Little  Boston, 
a  creation  dedicated  to  the  pride  and  antiquity 
of  that  renowned  city;  the  whole  enlivened  or 
rendered  pathetic  by  a  monthly  humorous  or 
serious  copy  of  verses.  These  were  col 
lected  like  their  predecessors  into  a  volume. 

Following  these,  in  the  magazine,  appeared 
the  Professor's  Story,  which,  on  its  conclusion, 
was  published  under  the  title  of  Elsie  Venner, 
a  Romance  of  Destiny,  in  2  vols.  While  this 
is  more  of  the  novel,  with  more  plot  and  char 
acter  than  the  previous  works,  it  is  a  shrewd 
sketch  of  social  life,  written  in  a  style  bright, 
pure,  and  simple,  idiomatic  in  dialogue,  and  a 


real,  life-like  work  of  fiction,  happily  relieved 
by  wit  and  humor. 

Shortly  after  this  work,  Dr.  Holmes  issued, 
in  1861,  another  volume  of  professional  writ 
ings,  Currents  and  Counter-Currents  in  Medical 
Science,  with  other  addresses  and  essays  ;  also, 
Border  Lines  in  some  Provinces  of  Medical 
Science.  These  were  followed  by  some  of  his 
miscellaneous  contributions  to  the  magazine, 
entitled  Soundings  from  the  Atlantic,  and  later 
the  Guardian  Angel,  with  a  new  Preface,  etc. 

Dr.  Holmes  is  as  genial  and  gentle,  and 
withal,  as  philosophical,  an  essayist  as  any  of 
modern  times.  He  is,  however,  somewhat  more 
than  an  essayist ;  he  is  contemplative,  discur 
sive,  poetical,  thoughtful,  philosophical,  amus 
ing,  imaginative,  tender, — never  didactic. 
This  is  the  secret  of  his  marked  success :  he 
'  interests  variously  constituted  minds  and 
various  moods  of  mind. 


CONVERSATION. 

FROM  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

NEITHER  make  too  much  of  flaws  and  occasional 
overstatements.  Some  persons  seem  to  think  that 
absolute  truth,  in  the  form  of  rigidly  stated  proposi 
tions,  is  all  that  conversation  admits.  This  is  pre 
cisely  as  if  a  musician  should  insist  on  having 
nothing  but  perfect  chords  and  simple  melodies, — 
no  diminished  fifths,  no  flat  sevenths,  no  flourishes, 
on  any  account.  Now  it  is  fair  to  say,  that,  just 
as  music  must  have  all  these,  so  conversation  must 
have  its  partial  truths,  its  embellished  truths,  its 
exaggerated  truths.  It  is  in  its  higher  forms  an 
artistic  product,  and  admits  the  ideal  element  as 
much  as  pictures  or  statues.  One  man  who  is  a 
little  too  literal  can  spoil  the  talk  of  a  whole  table 
ful  of  men  of  esprit — "  Yes,"  you  say, "  but  who 
wants  to  hear  fanciful  people's  nonsense  1  Put 
the  facts  to  it,  and  then  see  where  it  is !" — Cer- 
tninly,  if  a  man  is  too  fond  of  paradox, — if  he  is 
flighty  and  empty, — if,  instead  of  striking  those 
fifths  and  sevenths,  those  harmonious  discords, 
often  so  much  better  than  the  twinned  octaves,  in 
the  music  of  thought, — if.  instead  of  striking  these, 
he  jangles  the  chords,  stick  a  fact  into  him  like  a 
stiletto.  But  remember  that  talking  is  one  of  the 
fine  arts, — the  noblest,  the  most  important,  and  the 
most  difficult, — and  that  its  fluent  harmonies  may 
be  spoiled  by  the  intrusion  of  a  single  harsh  note. 
Therefore  conversation  which  is  suggestive  rather 
than  argumentative,  which  lets  out  the  most  of 
e;irh  bilker's  results  of  thought,  is  commonly  the 
pliMsaiitest  and  the  most  profitable.  It  is  not  easy, 
at  th«  best,  for  two  persons  talking  together  to 


make  the  most  of  each  other's  thoughts,  there  are 
so  many  of  them. 

[The  company  looked  as  if  they  wanted  an 
explanation.] 

When  John  and  Thomas,  for  instance,  are  talk 
ing  together,  it  is  natural  enough  that  among  the 
six  there  should  be  more  or  less  confusion  and 
misapprehension. 

[Our  landlady  turned  pale ; — no  doubt  she 
thought  there  was  a  screw  loose  in  my  intellects, 
— and  that  involved  the  probable  loss  of  a  boarder. 
A  severe-looking  person,  who  wears  a  Spanish 
cloak  and  a  sad  cheek,  fluted  by  the  passions  of 
the  melodrama,  whom  I  understand  to  be  the  pro 
fessional  ruffian  of  the  neighboring  theatre,  alluded, 
with  a  certain  lifting  of  the  brow,  drawing  down 
of  the  corners  of  the  mouth,  and  somewhat  rasp 
ing  voce  di  petto,  to  Falstaff 's  nine  men  in  buck 
ram.  Everybody  looked  up.  I  believe  the  old 
gentleman  opposite  was  afraid  I  should  seize  the 
carving-knife  ;  at  any  rate,  he  slid  it  to  one  side,  as 
it  were  carelessly.! 

I  think,  I  said,  I  can  make  it  plain  to  Benjamin 
Franklin  here,  that  there  are  at  least  six  personal 
ities  distinctly  to  be  recognized  as  taking  part  in 
that  dialogue  between  John  and  Thomas. 

1.  The  real  John;   known  only  to  his 
Maker. 

2.  John's  ideal  John;  never  the  real  one, 
Three  Johns.            and  often  very  unlike  him. 

3.  Thomas's  ideal  John;  never  the  real 
John,  nor  John's  John,  but  often  very 
unlike  either. 

f  1.  The  real  Thomas. 

Three  Thomases.  <  2.  Thomas's  ideal  Thomas. 
(  3.  John's  ideal  Thomas. 

Only  one  of  the  three  Johns  is  taxed  ;  only  one 


OLIVER  VENDELL   HOLMES. 


can  be  weighed  on  a  platform-balance  ;  but  the 
other  two  are  just  as  important  in  the  conversation. 
Let  us  suppose  the  real  John  to  be  old,  dull,  and 
ill-looking.  But  as  the  higher  powers  have  not 
conferred  on  men  the  gift  of  seeing  themselves  in 
the  true  light,  John  very  possibly  conceives  him 
self  to  be  youthful,  witty,  and  fascinating,  and 
talks  from  the  point  of  view  of  this  ideal.  Thomas, 
again,  believes  him  to  be  an  artful  rogue,  we  will 
say  ;  therefore  he  is,  so  far  as  Thomas's  attitude 
in  the  conversation  is  concerned,  an  artful  rogue, 
though  really  simple  and  stupid.  The  same  con 
ditions  apply  to  the  three  Thomases.  It  follows, 
that,  until  a  man  can  be  found  who  knows  him 
self  as  his  Maker  knows  him,  or  who  sees  himself 
as  others  see  him,  there  must  be  at  least  six  per 
sons  engaged  in  every  dialogue  between  two.  Of 
these,  the  least  important,  philosophically  speaking, 
is  the  one  that  we  have  called  the  real  person.  No 
wonder  two  disputants  often  get  angry,  when  there 
are  six  of  them  talking  and  listening  all  at  the 
same  time. 

[A  very  unphilosophical  application  of  the 
above  remarks  was  made  by  a  young  fellow,  an 
swering  to  the  name  of  John,  who  sits  near  me  at 
table.  A  certain  basket  of  peaches,  a  rare  vegeta 
ble,  little  known  to  boarding-houses,  was  on  its 
way  to  me  uid  this  unlettered  Johannes.  He  ap 
propriated  the  three  that  remained  in  the  basket, 
remarking  that  there  was  just  one  apiece  for  him. 
I  convinced  him  that  his  practical  inference  was 
hasty  and  illogical,  but  in  the  meantime  he  had 
eaten  the  peaches.] 


THE  INNER  NATURE. 

FROM   THE  SAME. 

EVERY  person's  feelings  have  a  front-door  and  a 
side-door  by  which  they  may  be  entered.  The 
front-door  is  on  the  street.  Some  keep  it  always 
open  ;  some  keep  it  latched  ;  some,  locked  ;  some, 
bolted, — with  a  chain  that  will  let  you  peep  in, 
but  not  get  in  ;  and  some  nail  it  up,  so  that  noth 
ing  can  pass  its  threshold.  This  front-door  leads 
into  a  passage  which  opens  into  an  ante-room, 
and  this  into  the  interior  apartments.  The  side- 
door  opeus  at  once  into  the  sacred  chambers. 

The^e  is  almost  always  at  least  one  key  to  this 
side-door.  This  is  carried  for  years  hidden  in  a 
mother's  bosom.  Fathers,  brothers,  sisters,  and 
friends,  often,  but  by  no  means  so  universally, 
have  duplicates  of  it.  The  wedding-ring  conveys 
a  right  to  one;  alas,  if  none  is  given  with  it! 

If  nature  or  accident  has  put  one  of  these  keys 
into  the  hands  of  a  person  who  has  the  torturing 
instinct,  I  can  only  solemnly  pronounce  the  words 
that  Justice  utters  over  its  doomed  victim, —  The 
Lord  have  mercy  on  your  soul !  You  will  probably 
go  mad  within  a  reasonable  time, — or,  if  you  are  a 
man,  run  off  and  die  with  your  head  on  a  curb 


stone,  in  Melbourne  or  San  Francisco. — or,  if  you 
are  a  woman,  quarrel  and  break  your  heart,  or  turn 
into  a  pale,  jointed  petrifaction  that  moves  about 
as  if  it  were  alive,  or  play  some  real  life-tragedy  or 
other. 

Be  very  careful  to  whom  you  trust  one  of  these 
keys  of  the  side-door.  The  fact  of  possessing  one 
renders  those  even  who  are  dear  to  you  very  terri 
ble  at  times.  You  can  keep  the  world  out  from 
your  front-door,  or  receive  visitors  only  when  you 
are  ready  for  them ;  but  those  of  your  own  flesh 
and  blood,  or  of  certain  grades  of  intimacy,  can 
come  in  at  the  side-door,  if  they  will,  at  any  hour 
and  in  any  mood.  Some  of  them  have  a  scale  of 
your  whole  nervous  system,  and  can  play  all  the 
gamut  of  your  sensibilities  in  semitones, —  touching 
the  naked  nerve  pulps  as  a  pianist  strikes  the  keys 
of  his  instrument.  I  am  satisfied  that  there  are 
as  great  masters  of  this  nerve  playing  as  Vieux- 
temps  or  Thalberg  in  their  lines  of  performance. 
Married  life  is  the  school  in  which  the  most  ac 
complished  artists  in  this  department  are  found. 
A  delicate  woman  is  the  best  instrument ;  she  has 
such  a  magnificent  compass  of  sensibilities  !  From 
the  deep  inward  moan  which  follows  pressure  on 
the  great  nerves  of  right,  to  the  sharp  cry  as  the 
filaments  of  taste  are  struck  with  a  crashing  sweep, 
is  a  range  which  no  other  instrument  possesses. 
A  few  exercises  on  it  daily  at  home  fit  a  man 
wonderfully  for  his  habitual  labors,  and  refresh 
him  immensely  as  he  returns  from  them.  No 
stranger  can  get  a  great  many  notes  of  torture  out 
of  a  human  soul ;  it  takes  one  that  knows  it  well, 
— parent,  child,  brother,  sister,  intimate.  Be  very 
careful  to  whom  you  give  a  side-door  key  ;  too 
many  have  them  already. 

You  remember  the  old  story  of  the  tender-hearted 
man,  who  placed  a  frozen  viper  in  his  bosom,  and 
was  stung  by  it  when  it  became  thawed  ]  If  we 
take  a  cold-blooded  creature  into  our  bosom,  better 
that  it  should  sting  us  and  we  should  die  than 
that  its  chill  should  slowly  steal  into  our  hearts  ; 
warm  it  we  never  can  !  I  have  seen  faces  of 
women  that  were  fair  to  look  upon,  yet  one  could 
see  that  the  icicles  were  forming  round  these 
women's  hearts.  I  knew  what  freezing  image  lay 
on  the  white  breasts  beneath  the  laces ! 

A  very  simple  intellectual  mechanism  answers 
the  necessities  of  friendship,  and  even  of  the  most 
intimate  relations  of  life.  If  a  watch  tells  us  the 
hour  and  the  minute,  we  can  be  content  to  carry 
it  about  with  us  for  a  life-time,  though  it  has  no 
second-hand,  and  is  not  a  repeater,  nor  a  musical 
watch, — though  it  is  not  enamelled  nor  jewelled, 
— in  short,  though  it  has  little  beyond  the  wheels 
required  for  a  trustworthy  instrument,  added  to  a 
good  face  and  a  pair  of  useful  hands.  The  more 
wheels  there  are  in  a  watch  or  a  brain,  the  more 
trouble  they  are  to  take  care  of.  The  movements 
of  exaltation  which  belong  to  genius  are  egotistic 
by  their  very  nature.  A  calm,  clear  mind,  not 
subject  to  the  spasms  and  crises  that  are  so  often 
met  with  in  creative  or  intensely  perceptive  natures, 
is  the  best  basis  for  love  or  friendship. 


ORMSBY  MCKNIGHT  MITCHEL. 


[Born  1810.    Died  1862.] 


GENERAL  MITCHELL  was  born  of  Virginia 
parentage  in  Union  Co.,  Ky.,  August  28,  1810. 
His  father  died  when  he  was  about  three 
years  old,  and  the  family  removed  to  Lebanon, 
Ohio.  There  he  received  his  first  education, 
and  at  the  age  of  thirteen  began  life  as  a  clerk 
in  a  store.  In  1825,  he  entered  West  Point; 
he  was  a  bright,  zealous  student,  and  gradu 
ated  with  credit  in  the  class  of  1829,  as  Second 
Lieutenant  of  Artillery.  He  remained  two  years 
as  assistant  professor  of  mathematics  and  was 
then  stationed  at  St.  Augustine,  Fla. 

In  1832,  he  resigned  his  military  commission, 
engaged  in  the  study  of  the  law,  was  admitted 
to  the  bar  in  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  and  practised 
for  two  years;  when  he  was  appointed  pro 
fessor  at  the  Cincinnati  College.  During  a 
portion  of  this  time  he  was  Chief  Engineer  of 
the  Little  Miami  Railroad.  In  1842,  he  delivered 
a  course  of  lectures  on  Astronomy,  and  under 
took  the  establishment  of  an  observatory  at 
Cincinnati.  He  roused  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
public,  collected  funds,  visited  Europe  to  pur 
chase  the  apparatus,  and  on  his  return  superin 
tended  the  construction  of  the  building.  At 
the  completion  in  1845,  Prof.  Mitchell  began  a 
series  of  astronomical  observations,  partly  with 
a  new  declination  apparatus  of  his  own  inven 
tion.  In  1846,  he  began  the  publication  of  the 
Siderial  Messenger.  In  1848,  he  published  a 
course  of  lectures,  delivered  in  various  cities, 
entitled  The  Planetary  and  Stellar  Worlds  ;  the 
work  was  written  with  great  vigor  and  enthu 
siasm,  met  with  considerable  success,  and  has 
become  a  standard  work  on  the  subject.  In 
the  same  year,  he  was  appointed  chief  engineer 
of  the  Ohio  and  Mississippi  railroad.  In  1859, 
he  was  Director  of  the  newly-erected  Dudley 
Observatory,  at  Albany,  retaining  supervision 
of  the  Cincinnati  Observatory.  In  1860,  he 
published  a  second  volume  of  popular  astron 
omy,  A  Concise  Elementary  Treatise  on  the 
Sun,  Planets,  Satellites,  and  Comets,  in  which 
he  presented  the  results  of  his  own  observation, 
and  the  new  methods  employed  in  the  observa 
tories  under  his  care. 

From  the  successful  prosecution  of  his  favor 


ite  science,  Prof.  Mitchell  was  now  called  by 
the  opening  of  the  great  rebellion.  He  hastened 
to  offer  his  services  to  his  country,  which  wert 
accepted,  and  he  assumed  command  of  the 
Department  of  the  Ohio,  as  Brigadier-General 
of  volunteers.  He  rendered  distinguished 
service  in  command  of  a  division  of  BuelFs 
army  in  the  advance  upon  Bowling  Green,  Ky., 
the  occupation  of  Nashville,  Tenn.,  and  the 
subsequent  movements  in  Alabama,  in  the 
spring  campaign  of  1862.  For  his  energetic 
capture  of  Huntsville,  Ala.,  he  was  made  a 
Major-General  of  volunteers.  In  the  autumn 
of  the  same  year  he  succeeded  Gen.  Hunter  at 
Hilton  Head,  S.  C.,  in  command  of  the  Depart 
ment  of  the  South.  There,  while  he  was 
engaged  with  his  habitual  ardor,  he  was 
stricken  by  yellow  fever,  and  died  after  a  few 
days'  illness,  at  Beaufort,  Oct.  30,  1862. 

Gen.  Mitchell  left  a  third  series  of  lectures, 
which  were  published  in  1863,  under  the  title 
of  The  Astronomy  of  the  Bible.  It  is  an  elo 
quent  assertion  of  the  harmony  between  science 
and  revelation,  under  the  heads  of  "  The  Astron 
omical  Evidences  of  the  Being  of  a  God ;  the 
God  of  the  Universe  is  Jehovah ;  the  Cosmogony 
as  revealed  by  the  present  state  of  Astronomy; 
the  Mosaic  account  of  Creation  ;  the  Astron 
omical  allusions  in  the  Book  of  Job ;  the 
Astronomical  Miracles  of  the  Bible." 

This  energetic  writer,  lover  of  science,  and 
devoted  Christian,  in  his  short  life,  made  a 
name  for  himself,  whi-ch  will  not  soon  sink 
into  oblivion.  His  magnetic  clock  was  first 
offered  to  the  inspection  of  his  friends  in  1848, 
and  in  1849,  he  added  another  contribution  to 
science  in  his  new  declination  apparatus. 
Besides  the  writings  mentioned  above,  he 
edited  an  edition  of  Burritt's  Geography  ofj 
the  Heavens.  His  first  work  was  reprinted  in 
England  in  two  editions.  His  noble  treatises 
on  the  most  sublime  of  studies,  are  attractive  and 
intelligible  alike  to  the  learned  and  unlearned. 

He  was  the  recipient  of  many  honors,  due 
to  his  own  merits.  He  had  filled  many  offices 
and  posts.  Few  men  of  our  age  have  exhibited 
a  more  extended  genius. 


624 


ORMSBY   MCKNIGHT   MITCHELL. 


THE  FIRST  PREDICTED  ECLIPSE. 

FROM  "PLANETARY  AND  STELLAR  WORLDS." 

RAPIDLY  have  we  traced  the  career  of  dis 
covery.  The  toil  and  watching  of  centuries  have 
been  condensed  into  a  few  moments  of  time,  and 
questions  requiring  ages  for  their  solution  have 
been  asked,  only  to  he  answered.  In  connection 
with  the  investigations  just  developed,  and  as  a 
consequence  of  their  successful  prosecution,  the 
query  arose  whether  in  case  science  had  reached 
to  a  true  exposition  of  the  causes  producing  the 
eclipse  of  the  sun,  was  it  not  possible  to  stretch 
forward  in  time,  and  anticipate  and  predict  the 
coming  of  these  dread  phenomena  1 

To  those  who  have  given  but  little  attention  to 
the  subject,  even  in  our  own  day,  with  all  the  aids 
of  modern  science,  the  prediction  of  an  eclipse, 
seems  sufficiently  mysterious  and  unintelligible. 
How  then  it  was  possible,  thousands  of  years  ago, 
to  accomplish  the  same  great  object,  without  any 
just  views  of  the  structure  of  the  system,  seems 
utterly  incredible.  Follow  me,  then,  while  I  at 
tempt  to  reveal  the  train  of  reasoning  which  led  to 
the  prediction  of  the  first  eclipse  of  the  sun,  the 
most  daring  prophecy  ever  made  by  human  genius. 
Follow  in  imagination,  this  bold  interrogator  of 
the  skies  to  his  solitary  mountain  summit — with 
drawn  from  the  world — surrounded  by  his  mys 
terious  circles,  there  to  watch  and  ponder  through 
the  long  nights  of  many — many  years.  But  hope 
cheers  him  on,  and  smooths  his  rugged  pathway. 
Dark  and  deep  as  is  the  problem,  he  sternly  grap 
ples  with  it,  and  resolves  never  to  give  over  till 
victory  crowns  his  efforts. 

He  has  already  remarked,  that  the  moon's  track 
in  the  heavens  crossed  the  sun's,  and  that  this 
point  of  crossing  was  in  some  way  intimately  con 
nected  with  the  coming  of  the  dread  eclipse. 
He  determines  to  watch  and  learn  whether  the 
point  of  crossing  was  fixed,  or  whether  the  moon 
in  each  successive  revolution,  crossed  the  sun's 
path  at  a  diiFerent  point.  If  the  sun  in  its  annual 
revolution  could  leave  behind  him  a  track  of  fire 
marking  his  journey  among  the  stars,  it  is  found 
that  this  same  track  was  followed  from  year  to 
year,  and  from  century  to  century  with  unde- 
viating  precision.  But  it  was  soon  discovered,  that 
it  was  far  different  with  the  moon.  In  case  she 
too  could  leave  behind  her  a  silver  thread  of  light 
sweeping  round  the  heavens,  in  completing  one 
revolution,  this  thread  would  not  join,  but  would 
wind  around  among"  the  stars  in  each  revolution, 
crossing  the  sun's  fiery  track  at  a  point  west  of 
the  previous  crossing.  These  points  of  crossing 
were  called- the  moon's  nodes.  At  each  revolu 
tion  the  node  occurred  further  west,  until  after  a 
cycle  of  about  nineteen  years,  it  had  circulated  in 
the  same  direction  entirely  round  the  ecliptic. 
Long  and  patiently  did  the  astronomer  watch  and 
wait,  each  eclipse  is  duly  observed,  and  its  at 
tendant  circumstances  are  recorded,  when,  at  last, 
the  darkness  begins  to  give  way  and  a  ray  of  light 
breaks  in  upon  his  mind.  He  finds  that  no  eclipse 
of  the  sun  ever  occurs  unless  the  new  moon  is 
in  the  act  of  crossing  the  sun's  track.  Here 


was  a  grand  discovery. — He  holds  the  key  which 
he  believes  will  unlock  the  dread  mystery,  and 
now,  with  redoubled  energy,  he-j-esolves  to  thrust 
it  into  the  wards  and  drive  back  the  bolts. 

To  predict  an  eclipse  of  the  sun,  he  must  sweep 
forward,  from  new  moon  to  new  moon,  until  he 
finds  some  new  moon  which  should  occur,  while 
the  moon  was  in  the  act  of  crossing  from  one  side 
to  the  other  of  the  sun's  track. — This  certainly 
was  possible.  He  knew  the  exact  period  from 
new  moon  to  new  moon,  and  from  one  crossing  of 
the  ecliptic  to  another.  With  eager  eye  he  seizes 
the  moon's  place  in  the  heavens,  and  her  age,  and 
rapidly  computes  where  she  will  be  at  her  next 
change.  He  finds  the  new  moon  occurring  fai 
from  the  sun's  track ;  he  runs  round  another  revo 
lution  ;  the  place  of  the  new  moon  falls  closer  to 
the  sun's  path,  and  the  next  yet  closer,  until  reach 
ing  forward  with  piercing  intellectual  vigor,  he  at 
last,  finds  a  new  moon  which  occurs  precisely  at 
the  computed  time  of  her  passage  across  the  sun's 
track.  Here  he  makes  his  stand,  and  on  the  day 
of  the  occurrence  of  that  new  moon,  he  announces 
to  the  startled  inhabitants  of  the  world,  that  the 
sun  shall  expire  in  dark  eclipse — Bold  prediction  ! 
— Mysterious  prophet !  with  what  scorn  must  the 
unthinking  world  have  received  this  solemn  decla 
ration.  How  slowly  do  the  moons  roll  away,  and 
with  what  intense  anxiety  does  the  stern  philoso 
pher  await  the  coming  of  that  day  which  should 
crown  him  with  victory,  or  dash  him  to  the  ground 
in  ruin  and  disgrace.  Time  to  him  moves  on 
leaden  wings ;  day  after  day,  and  at  last  hour  after 
hour,  roll  heavily  away.  The  last  night  is  gone — 
the  moon  has  disappeared  from  his  eagle  gaze  in 
her  approach  to  the  sun,  and  the  dawn  of  the 
eventful  day  breaks  in  beauty  on  a  slumbering 
world. 

This  daring  man,  stern  in  his  faith,  climbs  alone 
to  his  rocky  home,  and  greets  the  sun  as  he  rises 
and  mounts  the  heavens,  scattering  brightness  and 
glory  in  his  path.  Beneath  him  is  spread  out  the 
populous  city,  already  teeming  with  life  and  ac 
tivity.  The  busy  morning  hum  rises  on  the  still 
air  and  reaches  the  watching  place  of  the  solitary 
astronomer.  The  thousands  below  him,  uncon 
scious  of  his  intense  anxiety,  buoyant  with  life, 
joyously  pursue  their  rounds  of  business,  their 
cycles  of  amusement.  The  sun  slowly  climbs  the 
heavens,  round  and  bright  and  full-orbed.  The 
lone  tenant  of  the  mountain-top  almost  begirs  to 
waver  in  the  sternness  of  his  faith,  as  the  morning 
hours  roll  away.  But  the  time  of  his  triumph, 
long  delayed,  at  length  begins  to  dawn ;  a  pale 
and  sickly  hue  creeps  over  the  face  of  nature. 
The  sun  has  reached  his  highest  point,  but  his 
splendor  is  dimmed,  his  light  is  feeble.  At  last  it 
comes  ! — Blackness  is  eating  away  his  round  disc, 
— onward  with  slow  but  steady  pace,  the  dark 
veil,  moves  blacker  than  a  thousand  nights, — the 
gloom  deepens, — the  ghastly  hue  of  death  covers 
the  universe, — the  last  ray  is  gone,  and  horror 
reigns.  A  wail  of  terror  fills  the  murky  air, — the 
clangor  of  brazen  trumpets  resounds, — an  agony 
of  despair  dashes  the  stricken  millions  to  the 
ground,  while  that  lone  man,  erect  on  his  rocky 


ORMSBY   MCKNIGHT   MITCHEL. 


625 


summit,  with  arms  outstretched  to  heaven,  pours 
forth  the  grateful  gushings  of  his  heart  to  God, 
who  had  crowned  his  efforts  with  triumphant  vic 
tory.  :3-irch  the  records  of  our  race,  and  point 
me-,,  if  yr>u  can,  to  a  scene  more  grand,  more 
beautiful.  It  is  to  me  the  proudest  victory  that 
genius  ever  won.  It  was  the  conquering  of  nature, 
of  ignorance,  of  superstition,  of  terror,  all  at  a 
single  blow,  and  that  blow  struck  by  a  single  arm. — 
And  now  do  you  demand  the  name  of  this  won 
derful  man  !  Alas !  what  a  lesson  of  the  insta 
bility  of  earthly  f.une  are  we  taught  in  this  simple 
recital — He  who  had  raised  himself  immeasurably 
above  his  race, — who  must  have  been  regarded  by 
his  fellows  as  little  less  than  a  god,  who  had 
inscribed  his  fame  on  the  very  heavens,  and  had 
written  it  in  the  sun,  with  a  "pen  of  iron,  and 
the  point  of  a  diamond,"  even  this  one  has  per 
ished  from  the  earth — name,  age,  country,  are  all 
swept  into  oblivion,  but  his  proud  achievement 
stands.  The  monument  reared  to  his  honor 
stands,  and  although  the  touch  of  time  has  effaced 
the  lettering  of  his  name,  it  is  powerless,  and  can 
not  destroy  the  fruits  of  his  victory. 

A  thousand  years  roll  by :  the  astronomer 
stands  on  the  watch  tower  of  old  Babylon,  and 
writes  for  posterity  the  records  of  an  eclipse;  this 
record  escapes  destruction,  and  is  safely  wafted 
down  the  stream  of  time.  A  thousand  years  roll 
away:  the  old  astronomer,  surrounded  by  the 
fierce,  but  wondering  Arab,  again  writes,  and 
marks  the  day  which  witnesses  the  sun's  decay. 
A  thousand  years  roll  heavily  away :  once  more 
the  astronomer  writes  from  amidst  the  gay  throng 
that  crowds  the  brightest  capital  of  Europe.  Re 
cord  is  compared  with  record,  date  with  date,  re 
volution  with  revolution,  the  past  and  present  are 
linked  together, — another  struggle  commences, 
and  another  victory  is  won.  Little  did  the  Baby 
lonian  dream  that  he  was  observing  for  one  who 
after  the  lapse  of  three  thousand  ypars,  should  rest 
upon  this  very  record,  the  successful  resolution  of 
one  of  nature's  darkest  mysteries. 


KEPLER'S  DISCOVERY  OF  THE  THIRD 
LAW. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

NOTHING  daunted,  he  proceeded  to  investigate  the 
possible  relations  between  the  cubes  of  the  periods 
and  distances.  Here  again  he  was  foiled :  no  law 
exhibited  itself. — He  returned  ever  frfisb  to  the 
attack,  and  now  commenced  a  series  of  trials  in 
volving  the  relations  between  the  simple  periods 
and  the  squares  of  the  distances.  Here  a  ray  of 
hope  broke  in  upon  his  dim  and  darkened  path. 

No  actual  relation  existed,  yet  there  was  a  very 

distant  approximation,  enough  to  excite  hope 

He  then  tried  simple  multiples  of  the  periods  and 
the  squares  of  the  distances — all  in  vain.  He 
finally  abandoned  the  simple  periods  and  dis 
tances,  and  rose  to  an  examination  of  the  relations 
79 


between  the  squares  of  these  same  quantities — 
Gaining  nothing  here,  he  rose  still  higher,  to  tb«j 
cubes  of  the  periods  and  distances; — no  success, 
until  finally^he  tried  the  proportion  existing  be 
tween  the  squares  of  the  periods  in  which  the 
planets  perform  their  revolutions  and  the  cubes  of 
their  distances  from  the  sun — Here  was  the  grand 
secret,  but,  alas !  in  making  his  numerical  com 
putations,  an  error  in  the  work  vitiated  the  results, 
and  with  the  greatest  discovery  which  the  mind 
ever  achieved  in  his  very  grasp,  the  heart-sick  and 
toil-worn  phlilosopher  turned  away  almost  in  de 
spair  from  his  endless  research. 

Months  rolled  round,  and  yet  his  mind  with 
a  sort  of  keen  instinct,  would  recur  again  and 
again  to  this  last  hypothesis.  Guided  by  some 
kind  angel  or  spirit  whose  sympathy  had  been 
touched  by  the  unwearied  zeal  of  the  mortal, 
he  returned  to  his  former  computations,  and 
with  a  heaving  breast,  and  throbbing  heart, 
he  detects  the  numerical  error  in  his  work, 
and  commences  anew.  The  square  of  Jupiter's 
period  is  to  the  square  of  Saturn's  period  as 
the  cube  of  Jupiter's  distance  is  to  some  fourth 
term,  which  Kepler  hoped  and  prayed  might 
prove  to  be  the  cube  of  Saturn's  distance.  With 
trembling  hand,  he  sweeps  through  the  maze  of 
figures ;  the  fourth  term  is  obtained  ;  he  compares 
it  with  the  cube  of  Saturn's  distance — They  are 
the  same! — He  could  scarcely  believe  his  own 
senses.  He  feared  some  demon  mocked  him — 
He  ran  over  the  work  again  and  again — He  tried 
the  proportion,  the  square  of  Jupiter's  period  to  the 
square  of  Mars'  period  as  the  cube  of  Jupiter's 
distance  to  a  fourth  term,  which  he  found  to  be 
the  cube  of  the  distance  of  Mars. — Till  finally  full 
conviction  burst  upon  his  mind :  he  had  won  the 
goal,  the  struggle  of  seventeen  long  years  was 
ended,  God  was  vindicated,  and  the  philosopher, 
in  the  wild  excitement  of  his  glorious  triumph, 
exclaims : 

"  Nothing  holds  me.  I  will  indulge  my  sacred 
fury !  If  you  forgive  me  I  rejoice  ;  if  you  are 
angry  I  can  bear  it.  The  cue  is  cast.  The  book 
is  written,  to  be  read  either  now,  or  by  posterity, 
I  care  n»t  which. — It  may  well  wait  a  century  for 
a  reader,  since  God  has  waited  six  thousand  years 
for  an  observer !" 

More  than  two  hundred  years  have  rolled  away 
since  Kepler  announced  his  great  discoveries. 
Science  has  marched  forward  with  swift  and  re 
sistless  energy. — The  secrets  of  the  universe  have 
been  yielded  up  under  the  inquisitorial  investiga 
tions  of  godlike  intellect.  The  domain  of  the 
mind  has  been  extended  wider  and  wider.  One 
planet  after  another  has  been  added  to  our  system  ; 
even  the  profound  abyss  which  separates  us  from 
the  fixed  stars  has  been  passed,  and  thousands  of, 
rolling  suns  have  been  descried,  swiftly  flying  or 
majestically  sweeping  through  the  thronged  regions- 
of  space.  But  the  laws  of  Kepler  bind  them  all, 
— satellite  and  primary — planet  and  sun — sun 
and  system, — all  with  one  accord,  proclaim  in 
silent  majesty  the  triumph  of  the  hero  philo 
sopher. 


HORACE    GREELEY. 


[Born  1811.] 


HORACE  GREELEY,  at  the  head  of  the  edito 
rial  profession  in  this  country,  was  born  of  plain 
parents  at  Amherst,  N.  H.,  Feb.  3,  1811.  He 
received  a  limited  common  school  education, 
which  he  improved  by  application  to  private 
studies  ;  his  pursuit  of  knowledge  was  carried 
on  with  unwearied  activity.  When  fourteen 
years  old,  his  father  removed  to  Vermont,  and 
he  became  an  apprentice  in  the  office  of  the 
Northern  Spectator,  at  Pultney,  Vt.  He  re 
turned  home  in  1830,  at  the  discontinuance 
of  the  paper,  but  soon  after,  his  father  having 
removed  to  Chatauque  Co.,  N.  Y.,  on  the 
Pennsylvania  line,  he  became  an  apprentice  in 
Erie,  Pa.,  for  fifty  dollars  a  year.  Out  of  this 
small  sum,  he  gave  his  father  more  than  one- 
half,  and  in  August,  1831,  started  for  New 
York,  and  entered  the  city,  the  scene  of  his 
future  labors  and  triumphs,  with  a  suit  of  blue 
cotton  jean,  two  brown  shirts,  and  five  dollars 
in  cash,  as  his  working  capital.  He  worked 
at  his  trade  as  journeyman  printer  for  eighteen 
months.  In  1834,  in  conjunction  with  Jonas 
Winchester,  he  commenced  the  publication  of 
the  New  Yorker,  a  weekly  paper  of  sixteen 
pages,  quarto.  Though  conducted,  for  several 
years,  with  much  ability  as  a  political  and 
literary  journal,  it  was  abandoned  as  unsuc 
cessful.  Mr.  Greeley  also  conducted  the  Jeffer- 
sonian  for  the  Whig  Central  Committee  of  the 
State,  and  for  six  months  the  Log  Cabin,  a 
campaign  paper  in  the  presidential  election  of 
1840. 

On  Saturday,  April  10,  1841,  appeared  the 
first  number  of  his  new  paper,  The  New  York 
Tribune,  which  at  once  took  its  stand  as  a 
thoroughly  appointed,  independent,  and  spir 
ited  journal. 

In  July,  he  associated  with  him  in  its  man 
agement  as  partner,  Mr.  McElrath.  With  in 
creased  facilities,  it  was  kept  fully  up  to  the 
needs  of  the  times,  and  became  noted  for  its 
enterprise,  and  its  full,  early,  and  correct*  news. 
As  the  organ  of  the  tariff  party,  upholding 
anti-slavery,  advocating  the  cause  of  temper 
ance,  and  other  prominent  topics  of  the  times, 
it  soon  became  well-known,  and  a  power  in 
626 


the  land.  Upon  Mr.  McElrath's  retiring  from 
the  paper,  a  company  was  formed  under  the 
title  of  The  Tribune  Association,  who  now 
own  and  run  the  paper,  with  Mr.  Greeley  as 
chief  editor.  It  is  one  of  the  best  paying 
properties  in  the  newspaper  list,  and  mainly 
owing  to  the  ability  with  which  Mr.  Greelej 
has  conducted  it. 

Mr.  Greeley  has  always  taken  a  leading  part 
in  the  politics  of  the  country,  belonging  to  the 
old  Whig  party.  In  1848,  he  was  elected  a 
member  of  the  House  of  Representatives.  In 
1851,  he  visited  Europe,  and  was  chosen 
chairman  of  one  of  the  juries  of  the  World's 
Fair  at  London.  On  his  return,  he  published 
Glances  at  Europe,  letters  written  to  the  Tri 
bune.  In  1853,  he  edited  a  volume  of  papers 
from  the  Tribune,  Art  and  Industry  as  repre 
sented  in  the  Exhibition  at  the  Crystal  Palace, 
New  York.  Also  Hints  towards  Reforms, 
addresses  delivered  on  various  occasions.  Mr. 
J.  Parton,  the  author  of  several  popular  bio 
graphies,  wrote  the  Life  of  Horace  Greeley,  in 
one  volume  ;  well  written,  and  displaying 
enthusiasm,  research,  and  good  sense.  Mr. 
Greeley  also  wrote  his  autobiography,  which 
had  a  large  sale  ;  this  he  lately  revised  and 
issued  in  octavo,  with  the  new  title  of  Recol 
lections  of  a  Busy  Life. 

Mr.  Greeley  has  also  published,  Association, 
Discussed  by  H.  Greeley  and  H.  J.  Raymond, 
8vo.,  1847  ;  History  of  the  Struggle  for  Slavery 
Extension  or  Restriction  in  the  U.  S.  from  1787 
to  1856,  8vo.,  which  passed  through  several 
editions  ;  and,  The  Tribune  Almanac,  a  yearly- 
mass  of  facts,  particularly  invaluable  to 
politicians  ;  a  new  issue  of  these  photographed 
on  stone,  in  2  vols.,  was  issued  in  1869,  a 
most  remarkable  event  in  the  annals  of  book- 
making. 

His  great  work  is  The  American  Conflict  : 
A  History  of  the  Great  Rebellion,  its  causes, 
incidents,  and  results  ;  published  in  2  vols., 
8vo.,  with  maps  and  illustrations,  and  sold  by 
subscription ;  it  reached  the  enormous  sale  of 
150,000  copies.  Mr.  Greeley's  position,  both 
before  and  during  the  war,  as  one  of  the  lead- 


HORACE     GREELEY. 


627 


ing  editors  and  politicians,  with  his  vigorous 
style  and  flowing  pen,  made  him  peculiarly 
fitted  to  write  a  popular  history  of  the  great 
conflict,  and  the  drift  and  progress  of  American 
opinion  respecting  Human  Slavery,  and  the 
public  appreciated  it. 

Mr.  Greeley  has  also  devoted  considerable 
attention  to  agricultural  matters,  upon  which 
he  writes  intelligently,  earnestly,  and  with  a 
great  deal  of  matter-of-fact  common  sense. 
In  1869,  he  published,  Essays  designed  to 
elucidate  the  Science  of  Political  Economy, 
while  serving  to  explain  and  defend  the  policy 


of  Protection  to  Home  Industry,  as  a  system 
of  National  co-operation  for  the  Elevation  of 
Labor,  16mo. 

With  a  shrewd,  clear  intellect,  an  astonish 
ingly  vigorous  style,  and  a  heart  easily 
wrought  up  to  that  degree  of  passion  necessary 
to  the  production  of  the  best  kind  of  writing, 
he  fears  not  the  quill  of  any  man  living.  His 
widely-circulated  journal  contains  good  speci 
mens  of  acute  wit,  critical  reasoning,  solid 
argument,  brilliant  invective,  profound  philos 
ophy,  beautiful  poetry,  and  moving  eloquence 
mixed  with  the  opposite  of  these. 


MY  FARMING. 

FROM  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  BUSY  LIFE. 

THOSE  who  have  read  my  account  of  my  farm 
will  have  judged  that  it  is  not  well  calculated  to 
enrich  its  owner  by  large,  easily  produced  crops, 
and  that  it  was  bought  in  full  view  of  this  fact. 
I  wanted  a  place  near  a  railroad  station,  and  not 
too  far  from  the  city  ;  my  wife  wanted  pure  air, 
agreeable  scenery,  reasonable  seclusion,  but,  above 
all,  a  choice,  never-failing  spring,  a  cascade,  and 
evergreen  woods,  as  I  have  already  stated.  Having 
found  these  on  the  thirty-odd  acres  which  com 
prised  our  original  purchase,  we  were  riot  so  un 
reasonable  as  to  expect  to  secure  also  the  fertility 
and  facility  of  a  dry,  gently  rolling  Western  prairie, 
or  of  a  rich  intervale  of  the  Connecticut  or  Hud 
son.  We  knew  that  our  upland  was  in  good 
part  hard,  steep,  and  rocky,  and  that  its  pro 
ductive  capacity — never  remarkable — had  been 
largely  reduced  by  two  centuries  of  persistent  and 
often  excessive  pasturing.  Sheep  may  thus  be  fed 
a  thousand  years,  yet  return  to  the  soil  nearly  as 
much  as  they  take  from  it;  not  so  with  milch  cows, 
when  their  milk  is  sent  away  to  some  city,  and 
nothing  returned  therefor  that  enriches  the  fields 
whence  that  milk,  in  the  shape  of  grass  or  hay, 
was  drawn.  And  so,  measurably,  of  Fruit :  where 
as  Apples  have  long  been  a  leading  staple  of  our 
region, — Newcastle  having  formerly  boasted  more 
Apple-trees  than  any  township  of  its  size  in  Am 
erica.  But  an  Apple-tree  cannot  forever  draw  OH 
the  Bank  of  Nature  without  having  its  drafts  pro 
tested,  if  nothing  is  ever  deposited  there  to  its 
credit;  and  caterpillars  have  so  long  been  allowed 
to  strip  most  of  our  trees  unresisted,  that  many 
have  grown  prematurely  old  and  moss-covered. 
One  year  with  another,  Newcastle  does  not  grow 
half  so  many  Apples  as  her  trees  call  for ;  and  she 
never  will  till  she  feeds  her  trees  better  and  fights 
their  enemies  with  more  persistent  resolution  than 
she  has  done.  I  have  seen  five  thousand  of  those 
trees,  in  the  course  of  a  brief  morning  ride  in 
June,  with  more  caterpillars  than  remaining  leaves 
per  tree  ;  and  very  little  reflection  can  be  needed  to 


show  that  trees  so  neglected  for  a  few  years  will 
have  outlived  their  usefulness. 

The  woods  are  my  special  department.  When 
ever  I  can  save  a  Saturday  for  the  farm,  I  try 
to  give  a  good  part  of  it  to  my  patch  of  forest. 
The  axe  is  the  healthiest  implement  that  man  ever 
handled,  and  is  especially  so  for  habitual  writers 
and  other  sedentary  workers,  whose  shoulders  it 
throws  back,  expanding  their  chests,  and  opening 
their  lungs.  If  every  youth  and  man,  from  fifteen 
to  fifty  years  old,  could  wield  an  axe  two  hour? 
per  day,  dyspepsia  would  vanish  from  the  earth, 
and  rheumatism  become  decidedly  scarce.  I  am  a 
poor  chopper  ;  yet  the  axe  is  my  doctor  and  delight. 
Its  use  gives  the  mind  just  enough  occupation  to 
prevent  its  falling  into  revery  or  absorbing  trains 
of  thought,  while  every  muscle  in  the  body  receives 
sufficient,  yet  not  exhausting,  exercise.  I  wish  all 
our  boys  would  learn  to  love  the  axe. 

I  began  by  cutting  out  the  Witch  Hazels,  and 
other  trash  not  worth  keeping,  and  trimming  up 
my  trees,  especially  the  Hemlocks,  which  grow 
limbs  clear  to  the  ground,  and  throw  them  out 
horizontally  to  such  a  distance  that  several  rods  of 
ground  are  sometimes  monopolized  by  a  single 
tree.  Many  of  these  lower  limbs  die  in  the  course 
of  time,  but  do  not  fall  off;  on  the  contrary,  they 
harden  and  sharpen  into  spikes,  which  threaten 
your  face  and  eyes  as  if  they  were  bayonets. 
These  I  have  gradually  cut  away  and  transformed 
into  fuel.  Many  of  my  Hemlocks  I  have  trimmed 
to  a  height  of  at  least  fifty  feet;  and  I  mean  to 
serve  many  others  just  so,  if  I  can  ever  find  time 
before  old  age  compels  me  to  stop  climbing. 

But  the  Hemlock  so  bristles  throughout  with 
limbs  that  it  can  easily  be  climbed  by  a  hale  man 
till  he  is  seventy  ;  and,  working  with  a  hatchet  or 
light  axe,  you  commence  trimming  at  the  top, — 
that  is,  as  high  as  you  choose  to  trim, — and,  with 
out  difficulty,  cut  all  smooth  as  you  work  your 
way  down.  Limbs  to  the  ground  may  be  grace 
ful  in  the  edge  of  your  wood  ;  but  your  tree  will 
not  make  timber  nearly  so  fast  as  if  trimmed,  and 
you  cannot  afford  it  so  much  space  as  it  claims  in 
the  heart  of  your  patch  of  forest 


628 


HORACE     GREELEY. 


If  I  linger  proudly  among  my  trees,  consider 
that  here  most  of  my  farm-work  has  been  done, 
and  here  my  profit  has  been  realized,  in  the  shape 
of  health  and  vigor.  When  I  am  asked  the  usual 
question,  "  How  has  your  farming  paid  ]"  I  can 
truthfully  answer  that  my  part  of  it  has  paid 
splendidly,  being  all  income  and  no  outgo, — and 
who  ran  show  a  hotter  balance  sheet  than  that? 

Seriously — I  believe  there  is  money  to  be  made 
by  judicious  tree-planting  and  forest-culture,  now 
that  railroads  have  so  greatly  cheapened  the  cost 
of  transportation.  If  any  man  has  or  can  buy  a 
tract  of  woodland,  or  land  too  poor  or  broken  to  he 
profitably  tilled,  let  him  shut  out  cattle,  and  steadily 
plant  choice  trees  while  cutting  out  poorer;  let  him 
cut  every  tree  that  stops  growing  and  begins  to 
decay,  or  shed  its  limbs;  let  him  not  hesitate  to 
thin  as  well  as  trim  up ;  let  him  cut  out  Red  Oak, 
for  instance,  and  sow  the  acorns  of  White  ;  let 
him,  when  half  a  dozen  or  more  sprouts  start  from 
a  single  stump,  cut  away  all  but  two  or  three,  and 
by  and  by  cut  again  ;  and  I  am  confident  that  he 
may  thus  grow  timber  twice  as  rapidly  as  where  it 
is  neglected,  and  grow  trees  far  more  valuable  than 
those  that  come  by  chance.  Nay  :  if  near  a  city, 
he  can  make  a  thousand  dollars  far  more  easily, 
though  less  quickly,  by  growing  Timber  than  by 
growing  Grain. 


THE  GREAT  SENATORS. 

FROM   THE  SAME. 

OUR  great  triumvirate— Clay,  Webster,  Calhoun 
— last  appeared  together  in  public  life  in  the  Sen 
ate  of  1849-50  :  the  two  former  figuring  con 
spicuously  in  the  debates  which  preluded  and  re 
sulted  in  what  was  termed  the  Compromise  of  that 
year, — Mr.  Calhoun  dying  as  they  had  fairly 
opened,  and  Messrs.  Clay  and  Webster  not  long 
after  their  close.  This  chapter  is,  therefore,  in 
some  sort,  my  humble  tribute  to  their  genius  and 
their  just  renown. 

I  best  knew  and  loved  Henry  Clay :  he  was  by 
nature  genial,  cordial,  courteous,  gracious,  mag 
netic,  winning.  When  General  Glascock,  of 
Georgia,  took  his  seat  in  Congress  as  a  Represen 
tative,  a  mutual  friend  asked,  "  General,  may  I  in 
troduce  you  to  Henry  Clay  ?"  «'  No,  sir  !"  was 
the  stern  response ;  "I  am  his  adversary,  and 
choose  not  to  subject  myself  to  his  fascination." 
I  think  it  would  have  been  hard  to  constitute  for 
three  or  four  years  a  legislative  body  whereof  Mr. 
Clay  was  a  member,  and  not  more  than  four 
sevenths  were  his  pledged,  implacable  opponents, 
whereof  he  would  not  have  been  the  master-spirit, 
and  the  author  and  inspirer  of  most  of  its  measures, 
after  the  first  or  second  year. 

Mr.  Webster  was  colder,  graver,  sterner,  in  his 
general  bearing;  though  he  could  unbend  and  be 
sunny  and  blithe  in  his  intercourse  with  those  ad 
mitted  to  his  intimacy.  There  were  few  gayer  or 


more  valued  associates  on  a  fishing  or  sailing 
party.  His  mental  calibre  was  much  the  larger; 
I  judge  that  he  had  read  and  studied  more  ;  though 
neither  could  boast  much  erudition,  not  even  in 
tense  application.  I  believe  each  was  about  thirty 
years  in  Congress,  where  Mr.  Clay  identified  his 
name  with  the  origin  or  success  of  at  least  half  a 
dozen  important  measures  to  every  one  thus  blended 
with  Mr.  Webster's.  Though  Webster's  was  far 
the  more  massive  intellect,  Mr  Clay  as  a  legislator 
evinced  far  the  greater  creative,  constructive  power. 
I  once  sat  in  the  Senate  Chamber  when  Mr.  Doug 
las,  who  had  just  been  transferred  from  the  House, 
rose,  to  move  forward  a  bill  in  which  he  was  in 
terested.  "We  have  no  such  practice  in  the  Sen 
ate,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Webster,  in  his  deep,  solemn 
voice,  fixing  his  eye  on  the  mover,  but  without 
rising  from  his  seat.  Mr.  Douglas  at  once  varied 
his  motion,  seeking  to  achieve  his  end  in  a  some 
what  different  way.  "  That  is  not  the  way  we  do 
business  in  the  Senate,  sir,"  rejoined  Mr.  Webster, 
still  more  decisively  and  sternly.  "  The  Little 
Giant"  was  a  bold,  ready  man,  not  easily  over 
awed  or  disconcerted  ;  but,  if  he  did  not  quiver 
under  the  eye  and  voice  of  Webster,  then  my 
eyesight  deceived  me, — and  I  was  very  near 
him. 

Mr.  Calhoun  was  a  tall,  spare,  earnest,  evidently 
thoughtful  man,  with  stiff,  iron-gray  hair,  which 
reminded  you  of  Jackson's  about  the  time  of  his 
accession  to  the  Presidency.  He  was  eminently  a 
logician, — terse,  vigorous,  relentless.  He  courted 
the  society  of  clever,  aspiring  young  men  who  in 
clined  to  fall  into  his  views,  and  exerted  great  in 
fluence  over  them.  As  he  had  abandoned  the  po 
litical  faith  which  I  distinguish  and  cherish  as 
National  while  I  was  yet  a  school-boy,  I  never  met 
him  at  all  intimately  ;  yet  once,  while  I  was  con 
nected  with  mining  on  Lake  Superior,  I  called  on 
him,  as  on  other  leading  members  of  Congress,  to 
explain  the  effect  of  i.he  absurd  policy  then  in 
vogue,  of  keeping  mineral  lands  out  of  market, 
and  attempting  to  collect  a  percent-ige  of  the  min 
eral  as  rent  accrui;  g  to  the  Government.  He  re 
ceived  me  courteously,  arid  I  took  care  to  make  my 
statement  as  compact  and  perspicuous  as  I  could, 
showing  him  that,  even  in  the  Lead  region,  where 
the  system  had  attained  its  full  development,  the 
Treasury  did  not  receive  enough  rent  to  pay  the 
salaries  of  the  officers  employed  in  collecting  it. 
"  Enough,"  said  Mr.  Calhoun  ;  "  you  are  clearly 
right.  I  will  vote  to  give  away  these  lands,  rather 
than  perpetuate  this  vicious  system."  "We  only 
ask,  Mr.  Calhoun,"  I  rejoined,  "  that  Congress  fix 
on  the  lands  whatever  price  it  may  deem  just,  and 
sell  them  at  that  price  to  those  lawfully  in  posses 
sion  ;  they  failing  to  purchase,  then  to  whomsoever 
will  buy  them."  "  That  plan  will  have  my  hearty 
support,"  he  responded;  and  it  did.  When  the 
question  came  at  length  to  be  taken,  I  Iwlieve  there 
was  no  vote  in  either  House  again.st  celling  the 
mineral  lands. 


HARRIET    BEECHER    STOWE, 


[Born  1812.] 


HARRIET  ELIZABETH  BEECHER,  daughter  of 
Rev.  Lyman  Beecher,  D.  D.,  an  eminent  theolo 
gian  and  father  of  a  remarkable  family,  was 
born  at  Litchfield,  Conn.,  June  14,  1812.  She 
was  educated  at  her  sister  Catherine's  school, 
in  Hartford,  until  fifteen  years  of  age,  when 
she  assisted  in  teaching  until  her  twentieth 
year,  and  then  removed  to  Cincinnati,  0.,  with 
her  father,  in  the  autumn  of  1832.  In  1833, 
she  married  Rev.  Calvin  E.  Stowe,  Professor 
of  Languages  and  Biblical  Literature  in  Lane 
Theological  Seminary.  During  her  residence 
in  Cincinnati,  she  became  deeply  interested  in 
the  question  of  slavery,  from  seeing  many 
fugitives  from  the  Slave  States  and  hearing 
from  them  their  tales  of  suffering. 

Her  first  publication  was  the  story  of  Uncle 
Lot,  printed  in  Judge  Hall's  monthly  magazine 
at  Cincinnati,  in  1833,  and  from  this  time  she 
became  a  frequent  and  popular  writer  in  the 
various  periodicals  in  the  country.  In  1849, 
a  collection  of  her  pieces  was  published  by  the 
Harpers,  entitled  the  May  Flower,  which  was 
much  enlarged  in  new  editions  published  in 
1855,  and  in  1866  ;  a  collection  of  tales  and 
essays  hardly  equalled  for  ease  and  naturalness 
of  description,  touching  narrative,  and  ele 
vating  moral  tone. 

In  1850,  Professor  Stowe  was  called  to 
Brunswick  College,  Me.,  and  removed  his 
family  thither.  The  passage  of  the  Fugitive 
Slave  Bill  in  that  year  excited  Mrs.  Stowe  to 
write  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,  or  Life  among  the 
Lowly,  which  she  wrote  with  great  rapidity, 
under  a  constant  pressure  of  school  and  family 
cares,  and  frail  health.  This  was  originally 
published  in  weekly  parts  in  the  National  Era, 
at  Washington,  from  June,  1851  to  April,  1852. 
It  was  published  in  book  form  in  Boston,  in 
1852,  in  2  vols.,  12mo.^  with  a  few  illustrations. 
Its  success  was  great  and  immediate,  100,000 
were  sold  in  this  country  in  eight  weeks,  200, 
000  within  a  year,  and  316,000  to  1870.  In 
England  its  success  though  not  at  once  so 
great,  was  very  decided ;  it  was  published 
there  in  May,  1852,  and  in  September,  the 
demand  had  so  increased  that  10,000  copies 


per  day  for  four  weeks,  were  sold  by  one 
house  alone,  and  1000  persons  were  employed 
in  manufacturing  them  to  keep  up  a  supply, 
and  by  the  end  of  the  year  more  than  one 
million  of  copies  had  been  sold  in  England, 
of  the  thirty  different  editions  issued.  In 
France  four  different  versions  were  made,  one 
publisher  alone  issuing  his  in  five  different 
sizes  ;  there  were  fourteen  versions  of  it  in 
Germany  ;  two  in  Russia,  two  in  Dutch,  two 
in  Welsh,  three  in  Magyar,  two  in  WTallachian, 
and  one  each  in  Italian,  Spanish,  Danish, 
Swedish,  Flemish,  Polish,  Portugese,  Wendish, 
Armenian,  Arabic,  Romaic,  Chinese,  and  Japan 
ese.  It  would  be  impossible  to  state  the 
number  of  copies  of  this  work  sold,  but  it 
must  amount  to  many  millions.  It  was  one 
of  the  most  powerful  blows  aimed  at  slavery, 
and.  it  exhibits  such  a  knowledge  of  human 
nature,  such  powers  of  description,  such  heart- 
stirring  pathos,  and  such  richness  and  beauty 
of  thought  and  language,  as  to  make  it  the 
most  remarkable  book  published  in  this  coun 
try.  The  Italian  translation  enjoys  the  honor 
of  the  Pope's  prohibition.  It  has  been  drama 
tized  in  twenty  different  forms,  and  acted  in 
every  capital  of  Europe,  and  every  town  of  any 
size  in  the  United  States,  still  maintaining  its 
hold  upon  the  stage. 

In  1852,  Prof.  Stowe  was  called  to  the  chair 
of  Biblical  Literature  in  Andover  Theological 
Seminary.  Though  the  literary  merits  of 
Uncle  Tom  were  generally  acknowledged,  its 
conformity  to  truth  was  denied  by  some,  and 
questioned  by  many,  and  it  had  been  grossly 
assailed  as  giving  too  dark  and  false  a  view 
of  slavery  ;  Mrs.  Stowe,  therefore,  in  the  follow 
ing  year  published,  A  Key  to  Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin,  presenting  the  original  Facts  and  Docu 
ments  on  which  the  story  was  founded,  drawn 
chiefly  from  Southern  authorities,  which  more 
than  verified  all  she  had  depicted.  Ninety 
thousand  copies  were  sold  in  one  month,  and 
it  was  reprinted  abroad. 

In  April,  1853,  Mrs  Stowe,  with  her  husband, 
and  brother,  Rev.  Charles  Beecher,  went  to 
Europe  for  her  health,  where  she  was  received 


(530 


HARRIET     BEECHER     STOWE. 


and  entertained  with  enthusiasm  and  the  great 
est  distinction.  On  her  return,  she  published 
Sunny  Memories  of  Foreign  Lands,  being  her 
observations  and  reflections  on  what  she  saw 
abroad;  2  vols.,  12mo.  The  volumes  met 
with  considerable  sale,  due  more  to  her  previ 
ous  fame,  thai  to  any  merit  in  the  work,  as 
they  did  not  rank  with  more  interesting  and 
agreeable  volumes  written  by  women  of  less 
natural  ability. 

In  1855,  she  published  a  Geography  for  My 
Children,  which  was  a  failure.  Also,  Dred,  a 
Tale  of  the  Dismal  Swamp,  2  vols.,  12mo.,  and 
reprinted  in  one  volume  in  1866,  under  the 
title  of  Nina  Gordon.  It  sold  to  the  extent  of 
100,000  copies  in  two  months,  and  150,000 
copies  to  August,  185"7.  Though  not  equal  to 
Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  in  the  unity  of  the  plot,  in 
the  simplicity  of  the  story,  in  deep  pathos,  or 
in  the  absorbing  interest  it  excites  in  the 
several  characters,  it  contains  many  passages 
of  powerful  and  beautiful  writing,  and  is  in 
advance  of  its  great  prototype  in  the  withering 
scorn  and  indignant  sarcasm  with  which  it 
holds  up  before  the  world  that  sham  religion 
that  puts  "  sacrifice  "  before  "  mercy  "  and  sub 
stitutes  mere  church-going  and  outward  obser 
vances  for  practical  righteousness.  It  was 
reprinted  in  German,  French,  and  several  other 
languages.  In  1858,  she  wrote,  Our  Charley, 
and  what  to  do  with  him,  a  juvenile  book. 

In  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  for  Dec.,  1858, 
Mrs.  Stowe  commenced  the  publication  of  The 
Minister's  Wooing,  which  was  issued  in  Oct., 
1859,  in  one  vol.,  12mo.,  a  tale,  of  which  30,000 
were  sold  in  six  months.  Followed  in  1862, 
by  the  Pearl  of  Orr's  Island,  12mo.,  a  story  of 
singular  pathos  and  beauty,  in  her  best  style ; 
and  Agnes  of  Sorrento,  a  story  containing 
many  passages  of  graceful  or  picturesque 
description. 

In  1863,  "Many  Thousand  Women  of  Great 
Britain  "  issued  a  "  Christain  Address  •'  to  their 
sisters  in  America,  about  the  Great  Rebellion, 
in  which  it  would  be  hard  to  say  which  was 
most  prominent,  their  ignorance  or  their 
impudence,  but  which  Mrs.  Stowe  very  properly 
and  ably  answered  in  her  Reply  on  behalf  of 
the  Women  of  America.  Since  then  she  has 
published  a  number  of  minor  works,  mostly 
reprints  of  articles  contributed  to  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  and  Our  Young  Folks,  as,  The  Rav 
ages  of  a  Carpet,  1864  ;  House  and  Home  papers, 


by  Christopher  Crowfield ;  Religious  Poems, 
1865 ;  Stories  about  our  Dogs  ;  Little  Foxes, 
or  the  insignificant  little  Habits  which  mar 
Domestic  Happiness;  Queer  Little  People, 
1867  ;  Daisy's  first  winter,  and  other  stories  ; 
The  Chimney-Corner,  12  papers  from  the 
Atlantic,  1868  ;  Men  of  our  Times,  or  Leading 
Patriots  of  the  Day,  8vo.,  a  work,  made  to  sell 
by  subscription ;  and,  The  American  Woman's 
Home,  or  Principles  of  Domestic  Science, 
1869  ;  an  octavo  volume  got  up  in  conjunction 
with  her  sister,  Catherine  E.  Beecher,  to  be  sold 
by  subscription. 

In  May,  1869,  she  published  her  last  Novel, 
Oldtown  Folks,  one  vol.,  12mo.,  reprinted  in 
England,  in  3  vols.,  8vo.,  which  has  been 
deservedly  successful;  25,000  copies  were  sold 
in  three  months. 

In  addition  to  the  above  writings,  Mrs. 
Stowe  is  the  author  of  The  Two  Altars;  A 
word  to  the  Sorrowful ;  My  Expectation  ;  My 
Strength ;  Strong  Consolation ;  and,  Things 
that  cannot  be  Shaken  ;  six  tracts.  She  has 
been  a  frequent  contributor  to  Hall's  Monthly 
Magazine,  it.>dey's  Lady's  Book,  the  New  York 
Evangelist,  the  Independent,  Our  Young  Folks, 
Old  and  New,  etc.  She  wrote  an  Introduction 
to  the  American  edition  of  Charlotte  Elizabeth's 
Works  ;  and  contributed  to  the  autobiography 
of  her  father,  Rev.  Lyman  Beecher,  D.  D.,  2 
vols.,  12mo.  Her  stanzas,  Still  with  Thee, 
were  published,  with  music,  by  Rev.  Charles 
Beecher.  In  December,  1868,  she  became  co- 
editor  with  Donald  G.  Mitchell,  of  a  new  weekly 
paper  for  the  farm  and  fireside,  Hearth  and 
Home. 

Here  we  should  willingly  close  this  article 
on  Mrs.  Stowe,  even  if  it  had  been  to  announce 
the  period  of  her  decease,  sooner  than  to  have 
to  add  the  chapter  which  follows,  and  is 
necessary  to  complete  her  literary  history ;  the 
facts  of  which  have  so  injured  her  popularity, 
her  reputation,  and  the  power  for  good  of  all 
her  previous  works.  In  December,  1868,  there 
was  published  in  London,  the  autobiography 
of  the  Countess  Guiccioli,  the  mistress  of 
Lord  Byron,  entitled,  My  Recollections  of  Lord 
Byron,  and  those  of  Eye-witnesses  of  his  Life, 
in  2  vols.,  8vo.  This  book,  reviewed  in  Black- 
wood's  Magazine,  in  July,  1869,  was  reprinted 
in  America,  in  two  editions,  8vo.,  and  12mo. 
Mrs.  Stowe,  taking  umbrage  at  some  state 
ments  of  the  Guiccioli,  wrote  an  article,  enti- 


HARRIET     BEECHER     STOWE. 


tied,  The  True  Story  of  Lady  Byron's  Life, 
which  she  published  at  the  same  time,  Sep 
tember,  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  Boston,  and 
MacMillan's  Magazine,  London.  This  was  re 
viewed  with  great  severity  in  the  Quarterly 
Review,  the  Saturday  Review,  London  Times, 
Pall  Mall  Gazette,  and  many  other  English, 
American,  French,  and  German  periodicals. 
As  an  impartial  chronicler,  it  is  proper  to 
state  that  \ve  know  of  no  instance  of  such 
sweeping  censure — of  such  general,  almost 
universal,  condemnation — as  that  with  which 
Mrs.  Stowe's  alleged  offence  was  visited  ;  and 
this  equally  by  the  few  who  believed  as  by  the 
many  who  disbelieved  her  story.  The  publi 
cation  of  her  article  was  immediately  followed 
by  other  writers  in  defence  of  Lord  Byron 
whose  character,  with  little  or  no  evidence 
she  had  foully  aspersed,  in  which  they 
showed  conclusively  that  she  must  have 
been  misled,  or  else  was  wilfully  or  artfully 
concocting  her  "  True  Story  ".  Here  it  was 
hoped  by  the  respectable  portion  of  the  com 
munity  she  would  aHow  the  matter  to  rest. 
To  the  surprise  of  the  public,  she  published  in 
December,  a  12mo.  volume  on  the  same  subject 
entitled,  Lady  Byron  vindicated,  a  History  of 


the  Byron  Controversy  from  its  beginning  in 
1816  to  the  Present  Time  ;  in  wh,ich  she  re 
affirmed  her  original  statement,  in  a  long, 
wordy  enlargement  of  her  original  article,  but 
without  any  new  proofs  or  any  substantial 
proof  which  the  public  were  led  to  expect  as 
the  cause  of  her  publishing  another  article  on 
the  subject.  We  use  much  milder  language 
than  most  of  the  lady's  critics  when  we  say 
that  this  vindication  is  considered  unsatisfac 
tory.  The  book  was  reviewed  in  short  articles 
by  the  leading  critics,  and  was  severely  let 
alone  by  the  reading  public ;  it  fell  almost 
still-born  from  the  press,  the  first  supplies 
still  oppressing  the  booksellers  shelves,  unsold. 
That  any  American  woman  of  so  much  supposed 
good  sense  or  morality,  should  have  been  found 
willing  to  spread  into  the  interior  of  so  many 
households,  so  fou'.  a  story  unsupported  by 
any  reliable  facts,  is  incredible.  Even  had  it 
been  true,  what  good  was  to  be  accomplished  ? 
Lady  Byron's  fame  needed  no  vindication,  and 
surely  as  the  result  of  these  articles,  she  does 
not  stand  so  high  in  public  estimation  as 
before  their  issue ;  while  the  sale  of  Byron's 
works  has  been  increased. 


THE  MOTHER'S  STRUGGLE. 

FROM    UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN. 

It  is  impossible  to  conceive  of  a  human  creature 
more  wholly  desolate  and  forlorn  than  Eliza,  when 
she  turned  her  footsteps  from  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin. 

Her  husband's  suffering  and  dangers,  and  the 
danger  of  her  child,  all  blended  in  her  mind,  with 
a  confused  and  stunning  sense  of  the  risk  she  was 
running,  in  leaving  the  only  home  she  had  ever 
known,  arid  cutting  loose  from  the  protection  of  a 
friend  whom  she  loved  and  revered.  Then  there 
was  the  parting  from  every  familiar  object, — the 
place  where  she  had  grown  up,  the  trees  under 
which  she  had  played,  the  groves  where  she  had 
walked  many  an  evening  in  happier  days,  by  the 
side  of  her  young  husband, — everything,  as  it  lay 
in  the  clear,  frosty  starlight,  seemed  to  speak  re 
proachfully  to  her,  and  ask  her  whither  could  she 
go  from  a  home  like  that  1 

But  stronger  than  all  was  maternal  love, 
wrought  into  a  paroxysm  of  frenzy  by  the  near 
approach  of  a  fearful  danger.  Her  boy  was  old 
enough  to  have  walked  by  her  side,  and,  in  an 
indiiferent  case,  she  would  only  have  led  him  by 
the  hand  ;  but  now, the  bare  thought  of  putting 
him  out  of  her  arms  made  her  shudder,  and  she 
strained  him  to  her  bosom  with  a  convulsive 
grasp,  as  she  went  rapidly  forward. 

The  frosty  ground  creaked    beneath  her   feet, 


and  she  trembled  at  the  sound ;  every  quaking 
leaf  and  fluttering  shadow  sent  the  blood  back 
ward  to  her  heart,  and  quickened  her  footsteps. 
She  wondered  within  herself  at  the  strength  that 
seemed  to  become  upon  her ;  for  she  felt  the 
weight  of  her  boy  as  if  it  had  been  a  feather,  and 
every  flutter  of  fear  seemed  to  increase  the  super 
natural  power  that  bore  her  on,  while  from  her  pale 
lips  burst  forth,  in  frequent  ejaculations,  the  prayer 
to  a  Friend  abuve — "  Lord,  help!  Lord,  save  me  !" 

If  it  were  your  Harry,  mother,  or  your  Willie, 
that  were  going  to  be  torn  from  you  by  a  brutal 
trader,  to-morrow  morning, — if  you  had  seen  the 
man,  and  heard  that  the  papers  were  signed  and 
delivered,  and  you  had  only  from  twelve  o'clock 
till  morning  to  make  good  your  escape, — how  fast 
could  you  walk  1  How  many  miles  could  you 
make  in  those  few  brief  hours,  with  tho  darling  at 
your  bosom, — the  little  sleepy  head  on  your 
shoulder, — the  small,  soft  arms  trustingly  holding 
en  to  your  neck  1 

For  the  child  slept.  At  first,  the  novelty  and 
alarm  kept  him  waking ;  but  his  mother  so 
hurriedly  repressed  every  breath  or  sound,  and  so 
assured  him  that  if  he  were  only  still  she  would 
certainly  save  him,  that  he  clung  quietly  round 
her  neck,  only  asking,  as  he  found  himself  sink 
ing  to  sleep, 

"  Mother,  I  don't  need  to  keep  awake,  do  I  ]" 


632 


HARRIET     BEECHER     STOWE 


"  No,  my  darling  ;  sleep,  if  you  want  to." 

"  But,  mother,  if  I  do  get  asleep,  you  won't  let 
him  get  me "!" 

"  No  !  so  may  God  help  me  !"  said  his  mother, 
with  a  paler  cheek,  and  a  brighter  light  in  her  large 
dark  eyes. 

"  You're  sure,  an't  you,  mother  ?" 

"  Yes,  sure  ?"  said  the  mother,  in  a  voice  that 
startled  herself;  for  it  seemed  to  her  to  come  from 
a  spirit  within,  that  was  no  part  of  her;  and  the 
boy  dropped  his  little  weary  head  on  her  shoulder, 
and  was  soon  asleep.  How  the  touch  of  those 
warm  arms,  the  gentle  breathings  that  came  in 
her  neck  seemed  to  add  fire  and  spirit  to  her 
movements !  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  strength 
poured  into  her  in  electric  streams,  from  every 
gentle  touch  and  movement  of  the  sleeping,  con 
fiding  child.  Sublime  is  the  dominion  of  the  mind 
over  the  body,  that,  for  a  time,  can  make  flesh  and 
nerve  impregnable,  and  string  the  sinews  like  steel, 
so  that  the  weak  become  so  mighty. 

The  boundaries  of  the  farm,  the  grove,  the 
wood-lot,  passed  by  her  dizzily,  as  she  walked  on ; 
and  still  she  went,  leaving  one  familiar  object 
alter  another,  slacking  not,  pausing  not,  till 
reddening  daylight  found  her  many  a  long  mile 
from  all  traces  of  any  familiar  objects  upon  the 
open  highway. 

She  had  often  been,  with  her  mistress,  to  visit 

some  connections,  in  the  little  village  of  T , 

not  far  from  the  Ohio  river,  and  knew  the  road 
well.  To  go  thither,  to  escape  across  the  Ohio 
river,  were  the  first  hurried  outlines  of  her  plan  of 
escape ;  beyond  that,  she  could  only  hope  in  God. 

When  horses  and  vehicles  began  to  move  along 
the  highway,  with  that  alert  perception  peculiar  to 
a  state  of  excitement,  and  which  seerns  to  be  a 
sort  of  inspiration,  she  became  aware  that  her 
headlong  pace  and  distracted  air  might  bring  on 
her  remark  and  suspicion.  She  therefore  put  the 
boy  on  the  ground,  and,  adjusting  her  dress  and 
bonnet,  she  walked  on  at  as  rapid  a  pace  as  she 
thought  consistent  with  the  preservation  of  ap 
pearances.  In  her  little  bundle  she  had  provided 
a  store  of  cakes  and  apples,  which  she  used  as  ex 
pedients  for  quickening  the  speed  of  the  child,  roll 
ing  the  apple  some  yards  before  them,  when  the  boy 
would  run  with  all  his  might  after  it ;  and  this  ruse, 
often  repeated,  carried  them  over  many  a  half-mile. 

After  awhile,  they  came  to  a  thick  patch  of 
woodland,  through  which  murmured  a  clear  brook. 
As  the  child  complained  of  hunger  and  thirst,  she 
/•limbed  over  the  fence  with  him ;  and,  sitting 
down  behind  a  large  rock  which  concealed  them 
from  the  road,  she  gave  him  a  breakfast  our  of  her 
little  package.  The  boy  wondered  and  grieved 
that  she  could  not  eat ;  and  when,  putting  his 
arms  round  her  neck,  he  tried  to  wedge  some  of 
his  cake  into  her  mouth,  it  seemed  to  her  that  the 
rising  in  her  throat  would  choke  her. 

"  No,  no,  Harry  darling  !  mother  can't  eat  till 
you  are  safe.  We  must  go  on — on — till  we  come 
to  the  river  !"  And  she  hurried  again  into  the  road, 
and  again  constrained  herself  to  walk  regularly 
and  composedly  forward. 


She  was  many  miles  past  any  neighborhood 
where  she  was  personally  known.  If  she  should 
chance  to  meet  any  who  knew  her,  she  reflected 
that  the  well-known  kindness  of  the  family  would 
be  of  itself  a  blind  to  suspicion,  as  making  it  an 
unlikely  supposition  that  she  could  be  a  fugitive. 
As  she  was  also  so  white  as  not  to  be  known  as  of 
colored  lineage,  without  a  critical  survey,  and  her 
child  was  white  also,  it  was  much  easier  for  her  to 
pass  on  unsuspected. 

On  this  presumption,  she  stopped  at  noon  at  a 
neat  farm-house,  to  rest  herself,  and  buy  some 
dinner  for  her  child  and  self;  for,  as  the  dar.ger 
decreased  with  the  distance,  the  supernatural 
tension  of  the  nervous  system  lessened,  and  she 
found  herself  both  weary  and  hungry. 

The  good  woman,  kindly  and  gossiping,  seemed 
rather  pleased  than  otherwise  with  having  some 
body  come  in  to  talk  with ;  and  accepted,  with 
out  examination,  Eliza's  statement,  that  she  "was 
going  on  a  little  piece,  to  spend  a  week  with 
her  friends," — all  which  she  hoped  in  her  heart 
might  prove  strictly  true. 

An  hour  before  sunset,  she  entered  the  village 
of  T ,  by  the  Ohio  river,  weary  and  foot 
sore,  but  still  strong  in  heart.  Her  first  glance 
was  at  the  river,  which  lay,  like  Jordan,  between 
her  and  the  Canaan  of  liberty  on  the  other  side. 

It  was  now  early  spring,  and  the  river  was 
swollen  and  turbulent;  great  cakes  of  floating  ice 
were  swinging  heavily  to  and  fro  in  the  turbid 
waters.  Owing  to  the  peculiar  form  of  the  shore 
on  the  Kentucky,side,  the  land  bending  far  out 
into  the  water,  the  ice  had  been  lodged  and  de 
tained  in  great  quantities,  and  the  narrow  channel 
which  swept  round  the  bend  was  full  of  ice,  piled 
one  cake  over  another,  thus  forming  a  temporary 
barrier  to  the  descending  ice,  which  lodged,  and 
formed  a  great,  undulating  raft,  filling  up  the 
whole  river,  and  extending  almost  to  the  Ken 
tucky  shore. 

Eliza  stood,  for  a  moment,  contemplating  this 
unfavorable  aspect  of  things,  which  she  saw  at 
once  must  prevent  the  usual  ferry-boat  from 
running,  and  then  turned  into  a  small  public 
house  on  the  bank,  to  make  a  few  inquiries. 

The  hostess,  who  was  busy  in  various  fizzing 
and  stewing  operations  over  the  fire,  preparatory 
to  the  evening  meal,  stopped,  with  a  fork  in  her 
hand,  as  Eliza's  sweet  and  plaintive  voice  arrested 
her. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  she  said. 

"  Isn't  there  any  ferry  or  boat,  that  takes  peo 
ple  over  to  B ,  now  1"  she  said. 

"No,  indeed!"  said  the  woman;  "the  boats 
has  stopped  running." 

Eliza's  look  of  dismay  and  disappointment 
struck  the  woman,  and  she  said,  inquiringly, 

"May  be  you're  wanting  to  get  over] — any 
body  sick  1  Ye  seem  mighty  anxious  ]" 

"I've  got  a  child  that's  very  dangerous,"  said 
Eliza.  "I  never  heard  of  it  till  last  night,  and 
I've  walked  quite  a  piece  to-day,  in  hopes  to  get 
to  the  ferry." 

"  Well,  now,  that's  onlucky,"  said  the  woman 


HARRIET     BEECHER     STOWE. 


633 


whose  motherly  sympathies  were  much  aroused ; 
I'm  re'lly  consarned  for  ye.  Solomon !"  she  called, 
from  the  window,  towards  a  small  back  building. 
A  man,  in  leather  apron  and  very  dirty  hands, 
appeared  at  the  door. 

"  I  say,  Sol,"  said  the  woman.  "  is  that  ar  man 
going  to  tote  them  bar'ls  over  to-night  T' 

«  He  said  he  should  try,  if  't  was  any  way 
prudent,'  said  the  man. 

"  There's  a  man  a  piece  down  here,  that's 
going  over  with  some  truck  this  evening,  if  he 
durs'to;  he'll  he  in  here  to  supper  to-night,  so 
you'd  better  set  down  and  wait.  That's  a  sweet 
little  fellow,"  added  the  woman,  ottering  him  a 
cake. 

But  the  chilfl,  wholly  exhausted,  cried  with 
weariness. 

"  Poor  fellow !  he  isn't  used  to  walking,  and 
I've  hurried  him  on  so,"  said  Eliza. 

"  Well,  take  him  into  this  room,"  said  the 
woman,  opening  into  a  small  bed-room,  where 
stood  a  comfortable  bed.  Eliza  laid  the  weary 
boy  upon  it,  and  held  his  hands  in  hers  till  he 
was  fast  asleep.  For  her  there  was  no  rest. 
As  a  fire  in  her  bones,  the  thought  of  the  pursuer 
urged  her  on ;  and  she  gazed  with  longing  eyes 
on  the  sullen,  surging  waters  that  lay  between 
her  and  liberty. 

Here   we  must  take  our  leave  of  her  for  the 
present,  to  follow  the  course  of  her  pursuers. 
*  *  *  •*  *  * 

At  two  o'clock  Sam  and  Andy  brought  the 
horses  up  to  the  posts,  apparently  greatly  refreshed 
and  invigorated  by  the  scamper  of  the  morning. 

S.un  was  there  new  oiled  from  dinner,  with  an 
abundance  of  zealous  and  ready  officiousness. 
As  Haley  approached,  he  was  boasting,  in  flour, 
ishing  style,  to  Andy,  of  the  evident  arid  eminent 
success  of  the  operation,  now  that  he  had  "  farly 
come  to  it." 

"  Your  master,  I  s'pose,  don't  keep  no  dogs," 
said  Haley,  thoughtfully,  as  he  prepared  to  mount. 

"  Heaps  on  'em,"  said  Sam,  triumphantly ; 
"  thar's  Bruno — he's  a  roarer  !  and,  besides  that, 
'bout  every  nigger  of  us  keeps  a  pup  of  some 
natur  or  uther." 

"  Poll !"  said  Haley, — and  he  said  something 
else,  too,  with  regard  to  the  said  dogs,  at  which 
Sam  muttered. 

"  I  don't  see  no  use  cussin'  on  'em,  no  way." 

"  But  your  master  don't  keep  no  dogs  (I  pretty 
much  know  he  don't)  for  trackin'  out  niggers." 

S.im  knew  exactly  what  he  meant,  but  he  kept 
on  a  look  of  earnest  and  desperate  simplicity. 

«  Our  dogs  all  smells  round  considerab'~  :harp. 
I  spect  they's  the  kind,  though  they  han't  never 
had  no  practice.  They's  far  dogs,  though,  at 
most  anything,  if  you'd  get  'em  started.  Here, 
Bruno,"  he  called,  whistling  to  the  lumbering 
Newfoundland,  who  came  pitching  tumultuously 
toward  them. 

"  You  go  hang !"  said  Haley,  getting  up. 
"  Come,  tumble  up  now." 

Sam  tumbled  up  accordingly,  dexterously  con 
triving  to  tickle  Andy  as  he  did  so,  which  oc- 
80 


casioned  Andy  to  split  out  into  a  laugh,  greatly  to 
Haley's  indignation,  who  made  a  cut  at  him  with 
his  riding-whip. 

"  I's  'astonished  at  yer,  Andy,"  said  Sam,  with 
awful  gravity.  "  This  yer's  a  seris  bisness,  Antiy. 
Yer  mustn't  be  a  makin'  game.  This  yer  an't  no 
way  to  help  Mas'r." 

"I  shall  take  the  straight  road  to  the  river," 
said  Haley,  decidedly,  after  they  had  come  to  the 
b&u,idaries  of  the  estate.  "  I  know  the  way  of  all 
of 'em, — they  makes  tracks  for  the  underground." 

"  Sartin "  said  Sam,  "  dat's  de  idee.  Mas'r 
Haley  hits  de  thing  right  in  de  middle.  Now, 
der's  two  roads  to  de  river, — de  dirt  road  and  der 
pike, — which  Mas'r  mean  to  take  1" 

Andy  looked  up  innocently  at  Sam,  surprised 
at  hearing  this  new  geographical  fact,  but  instantly 
confirmed  what  he  said,  by  a  vehement  reiteration. 

"  Cause,"  said  Sam,  "  I'd  rather  be  'clined  to 
'magine  that  Lizy'd  take  de  dirt  road,  bein'  it's 
the  least  travelled." 

Haley,  notwithstanding  that  he  was  a  very  old 
bird,  and  naturally  inclined  to  be  suspicious  of 
chalF,  was  rather  brought  up  by  this  view  of  the 
case. 

"  If  ye  warnt  both  on  yer  such  cussed  liars, 
now  !"  he  said,  contemplatively,  as  he  pondered  a 
moment. 

The  pensive,  reflective  tone  in  which  this  was 
spoken  appeared  to  amuse  Andy  prodigiously, 
and  he  drew  a  little  behind,  and  shook  so  us  ap 
parently  to  run  a  great  risk  of  falling  off  his  horse, 
while  Sam's  face  was  immovably  composed  into 
the  most  doleful  gravity. 

"  Course,"  said  Sam,  "  Mas'r  can  do  as  he'd 
ruther ;  go  de  straight  road,  if  Mas'r  thinks  best, — 
it's  all  one  to  us.  Now,  when  I  study  'j:on  it,  I 
think  de  straight  road  de  best,  deridedly." 

"  She  would  naturally  go  a  lonesome  way," 
said  Haley,  thinking  aloud,  and  not  minding 
Sam's  remark. 

"  Dar  an't  no  sayin,"  said  Sam ;  « gals  is 
pecular ;  they  never  does  nothin  ye  thinks  they 
will ;  mose  gen'lly  the  contrar.  Gals  is  nat'lly 
made  contrary  ;  and  so,  if  you  thinks  they've  gone 
one  road,  it  is  sartin  you'd  better  go  'tother.  and 
then  you'll  be  sure  to  find  'em.  Now,  my  private 
'pinion  is,  Lizy  took  der  dirt  road ;  so  I  think  we'd 
better  take  de  straight  one." 

This  profound  generic  view  of  the  female  sex 
did  not  seem  to  dispose  Haley  particularly  to  the 
straight  road  ;  and  he  announced  decidedly  that  he 
should  go  the  other,  and  asked  Sam  when  they 
should  come  to  it. 

*  «  A  little  piece  ahead,"  said  Sam,  giving  a  wink 
to  Andy  with  the  eye  which  was  on  Andy's  side 
of  the  head;  and  he  added,  gravely,  "but  I've 
studded  on  de  matter,  and  I  m  quite  clar  we 
ought  not  to  go  dat  ar  way.  I  nebber  been  over 
it  no  way.  It's  despit  lonesome,  and  we  might 
lose  our  way, — whar  we'd  come  to,  de  Lord  only 
knows." 

"Nevertheless,"  said  Haley,  "I  shall  go  that 
way." 

"Now  I  think  on't,  I  think  I  hearn  'em  tell 


634 


HARRIET     BEECHER     STOWE 


that  dat  ar  road  was  all  fenced  up  and  down  by 
der  creek,  and  thar,  an't  it,  Andy  1" 

Andy  wasn't  certain;  he'd  only  "hearn  tell" 
about  that  road,  but  never  been  over  it.  In  s,hort, 
he' was  strictly  non-committal. 

Haley,  accustomed  to  strike  the  balance  of 
probabilities  between  lies  of  greater  or  lesser 
magnitude,  thought  that  it  lay  in  favor  of  the  dirt 
road  aforesaid.  The  mention  of  the  thing  he 
thought  he  perceived  was  involuntary  or  Sam's 
part  at  first,  and  his  confused  attempts  to  dissuade 
him  he  set  down  to  a  desperate  lying  on  second 
thoughts,  as  being  unwilling  to  implicate  Eliza. 

When,  therefore,  Sam  indicated  the  road,  Haley 
plunged  briskly  into  it,  followed  by  Sam  and 
Andy. 

Now,  the  road,  in  fact,  was  an  old  one,  that  had 
formerly  been  a  thoroughfare  to  the  river,  but 
abandoned  for  many  years  after  the  laying  of  the 
new  pike.  It  was  open  for  about  an  hour's  ride, 
and  after  that  i-t  was  cut  across  by  various  farms 
and  fences.  Sam  knew  this  fact  perfectly  well, — 
indeed,  the  road  had  been  so  long  closed  up,  that. 
Andy  had  never  heard  of  it.  He,  therefore,  rode 
along  with  an  air  of  dutiful  submission,  only 
groaning  and  vociferating  occasionally  that 't  was 
"  desp't  rough,  and  bad  for  Jerry's  foot." 

"  Now,  I  jest  give  yer  warning,"  said  Haley, 
"  I  know  yer ;  yer  won't  get  me  to  turn  off  this 
yer  road,  with  all  yer  fussin  — so  you  shet  up  !" 

"  Mas'r  will  go  his  own  way !"  said  Sam,  with 
rueful  submission,  at  the  same  time  winking  most 
portentously  to  Andy,  whose  delight  was  now  very 
near  the  explosive  point. 

Sam  was  in  wonderful  spirits, — professed  to 
keej)  a  very  brisk  look-out,— at  one  time  exclaim 
ing  that  he  saw  "  a  gal's  bonnet "  on  the  top  of 
some  distant  eminence,  or  calling  to  Andy  "  if 
that  thar  wasn't  « Lizy '  down  in  the  hollow,"  al 
ways  making  these  exclamations  in  some  rough 
or  craggy  part  of  the  road,  where  the  sudden 
quickening  of  speed  was  a  special  inconvenience 
to  all  parties  concerned,  and  thus  keeping  Haley 
in  a  state  of  constant  commotion. 

After  riding  about  an  hour  in  this  way,  the 
whole  party  made  a  precipitate  and  tumultuous 
descent  into  a  barn-yard  belonging  to  a  large 
farming  establishment.  Not  a  soul  was  in  sight, 
all  the  hands  being  employed  in  the  fields;  but,  as 
the  barn  stood  conspicuously  and  plainly  square 
across  the  road,  it  was  evident  that  their  journey 
in  that  direction  had  reached  a  decided  finale. 

"  Wan't  dat  ar  what  I  telled  Mas'r  1"  said  Sam, 
with  an  air  of  injured  innocence.  "How  does 
strange  gentleman  spect  to  know  m:ro  cbeut'a 
country  dan  de  natives  born  and  raised  1" 

"  You  rascal !"  said  Haley,  "  you  knew  all 
about  this." 

"  Didn't  I  tell  yer  I  know'd,  and  yer  wouldn't 
believe  me  !  I  telled  Mas'r  't  was  all  shet  up,  and 
fenced  up,  and  I  didn't  spect  we  could  get 
through, —  Andy  heard  me." 

It  was  all  too  true  to  be  disputed,  and  the  un 
lucky  man  had  to  pocket  his  wrath  with  the  best 
grace  he  was  able,  and  all  three  faced  to  the  right 


about,  and  took  up  their  line  of  march  for  the 
highway. 

In  consequence  of  all  the  various  delays,  it  was 
about  three-quarters  of  an  hour  after  Eliza  had 
laid  her  child  to  sleep  in  the  village  tavern  that 
the  party  came  riding  into  the  same  place.  Eliza 
was  standing  by  the  window,  looking  out  in 
another  direction,  when  Sam's  quick  eye  caught 
a  glimpse  of  her.  Haley  and  Andy  were  two 
yards  behind.  At  this  crisis,  Sam  contrived  to 
have  his  hat  blown  off,  and  uttered  a  loud  and 
characteristic  ejaculation,  which  startled  her  at 
once;  she  drew  suddenly  back;  the  whole  train 
swept  by  the  window,  round  to  the  front  door. 

A  thousand  lives  seemed  to  be  concent) ated  in 
that  one  moment  to  Eliza.  Her  room  opened  by 
a  side  door  to  the  river.  She  caught  her  child, 
and  sprang  down  the  steps  towards  it.  The 
trader  caught  a  full  glimpse  of  her,  just  as  she 
was  disappearing  down  the  bank;  and  throwing 
himself  from  his  horse,  and  calling  loudly  on  Sam 
and  Andy,  he  was  after  her  like  a  hound  after  a 
deer.  In  that  dizzy  moment  her  feet  to  her  scarce 
seemed  to  touch  the  ground,  and  a  moment 
brought  her  to  the  water's  edge.  Right  on  be 
hind  they  came ;  and,  nerved  with  strength  such 
as  God  gives  only  to  the  desperate,  with  one  wild 
cry  and  flying  leap,  she  vaulted  sheer  over  the 
turbid  current  by  the  shore,  o-n  to  the  raft  of  ice 
beyond.  It  was  a  desperate  leap — impossible  to 
anything  but  madness  and  despair ;  and  Haley, 
Sam,  and  -Andy,  instinctively  cried  out,  and  lifted 
up  their  hands,  as  she  did  it. 

The  huge  green  fragment  of  ice  on  which  she 
alighted,  pitched  and  creaked  as  her  weight  came 
on  it,  but  she  staid  there  not  a  moment.  With 
wild  cries  and  desperate  energy  she  leaped  to 
another  and  still  another  cake  ; — stumbling — 
leaping  —  slipping  —  springing  upwards  again! 
Her  shoes  are  gone — her  stockings  cut  from  her 
feet — while  blood  marked  every  step  ;  but  she  saw 
nothing,  felt  nothing,  till  dimly,  as  in  a  dream,  she 
saw  the  Ohio  side,  and  a  man  helping  her  up  the 
bank. 

"  Yer  a  brave  gal,  now,  whoever  ye  ar !"  said 
the  man,  with  an  oath. 

Eliza  recognized  the  voice  and  face  of  a  man 
who  owned  a  farm  not  far  from  her  old  home. 

"  O,  Mr.  Symmes  ! — save  me — do  save  me — 
do  hide  me  !"  said  Eliza. 

"  Why,  what's  this1?"  said  the  man.  "Why, 
if  tan't  Shelby's  gal  !" 

«  My  child  !— this  boy  !— he'd  sold  him  !  There 
is  his  Mas'r,"  said  she,  pointing  to  the  Kentucky 
shore.  "  0,  Mr.  Symmes,  you've  got  a  little 
boy !" 

•«  So  I  have,"  said  the  man,  as  he  roughly,  but 
kindly  drew  her  up  the  steep  bank.  "  Besides, 
you're  a  right  brave  gal.  I  like  grit,  wherever  I 
see  it." 

When,  they  had  gained  the  top  of  the  bank,  the 
man  paused. 

"  I'd  be  glad  to  do  something  for  ye,"  said  he ; 
"  but  then  there's  nowhar  I  could  take  ye.  The 
best  I  can  do  is  to  tell  ye  to  go  thar, ' '  said  he, 


HARRIET     BEECHER    STOWE. 


635 


pointing  to  a  large  white  .house  which  stood  by 
itself,  off  the  main  street  of  the  village.  "  Go  thar  ; 
they're  kind  folks.  Thar's  no  kind  o'  danger  but 
they'll  help  you, — they're  up  to  all  that  sort  o' 
thing." 

«  The  Lord  bless  you !"  said  Eliza,  earnestly. 

"  No  'casion,  no  'casion  in  the  world,"  said  the 
man.  "  What  I've  done's  of  no  'count." 

"  And,  oh,  surely,  sir,  you  won't  tell  any  one!" 

«  Go  to  thunder  gal !  What  do  you  take  a 
fellow  for  1  In  course  not,  said  the  man.  "  Come, 
now,  go  along  like  a  likely,  sensible  gal,  as  you 
are.  You've  arnt  your  liberty,  and  you  shall  have 
it,  for  all  me." 

The  woman  folded  her  child  to  her  bosom,  and 
walked  firmly  and  swiftly  away.  The  man  stood 
and  looked  after  her. 

"  Shelby,  now,  mebbe  won't  think  this  yer  the 
most  neighborly  thing  in  the  world  ;  but  what's  a 
feller  to  do  ]  If  he  catches  one  of  my  gals  in  the 
same  fix,  he's  welcome  to  pay  back.  Somehow  I 
never  could  see  no  kind  o'  critter  a  strivin'  and 
pantin',  and  trying  to  clar  theirselves,  with  the 
dogs  arter  'em,  and  go  agin  'em.  Besides,  I  don't 
see  no  kind  of  'casion  for  me  to  be  hunter  and 
catcher  for  other  folks,  neither." 

So  spoke  this  poor,  heathenish  Kentuckian, 
who  had  not  been  instructed  in  his  constitutional 
relations,  and  consequently  was  betrayed  into  act 
ing  in  a  sort  of  Christianized  manner,  which,  if  he 
had  been  better  situated  and  more  enlightened, 
he  would  not  have  been  left  to  do. 

Haley  had  stood  a  perfectly  amazed  spectator 
of  the  scene,  till  Eliza  had  disappeared  up  the 
bank,  when  he  turned  a  blank,  inquiring  look  on 
Sam  and  Andy. 

"  That  ar  was  a  tolable  fair  stroke  of  business," 
said  Sam. 

«  The  gal's  got  seven  devils  in  her,  I  believe !" 
said  Haley.  "  How  like  a  wildcat  she  jumped  !" 

«  Wai,  now,"  said  Sam,  scratching  his  head,  " I 
hope  Mas'r  '11  'scuse  us  tryin'  dat  ar  road.  Don't 
think  I  feel  spry  enough  for  dat  ar,  no  way !" 
and  Sam  gave  a  hoarse  chuckle. 

"  You  laugh  !"  said  the  trader,  with  a  growl. 

"  Lord  bless  you,  Mas'r,  I  couldn't  help  it,  now," 
said  Sam,  giving  way  to  the  long  pent-up  delight 
of  his  sou).  "  She  looked  so  curi's,  a  leapin'  and 
springin' — ice  a  crackin' — and  only  to  hear  her, — 
plump  !  ker  chunk  !  ker  splash  !  Spring !  Lord  ! 
how  she  goes  it !"  and  Sam  and  Andy  laughed 
till  the  tears  rolled  down  their  cheeks. 

«  I'll  make  ye  laugh  t'other  side  yer  mouths  !" 
said  the  trader,  laying  about  their  heads  with  his 
riding-whip. 

Both  ducked,  and  ran  shouting  up  the  bank, 
and  were  on  their  horses  before  he  was  up. 

"Good-evening,  Mas'r!"  $aid  Sam,  with  much 
gravity.  "  I  berry  much  spect  Missis  be  anxious 
'bout  Jerry.  Mas'r  Haley  won't  want  us  no 
longer.  Missis  wouldn't  hear  of  our  ridin'  the 
critters  over  Lizy's  bridge  to-night ;"  and,  with  a 
facetious  poke  into  Andy's  ribs,  he  started  off, 
followed  by  the  latter,  at  full  speed,-— their  shouts 
of  laughter  coming  faintly  on  the  wind. 


CANDACE'S  OPINIONS. 

FROM  THE   MINISTER'S  WOOING. 

"I  intend,"  said  Mr.  Marvyn,  "to  make  the 
same  offer  to  your  husband,  when  he  returns  from 
work  to-night." 

"Laus,  Mass'r, — why,  Cato,  he'll  do  jes'  as  I 
do, — dere  a'n't  no  kind  o'  need  o'  askin'  him. 
'Cc'irse  he  will." 

A  smile  passed  round  the  circle,  because  be 
tween  Candace  and  her  husband  there  existed  one 
of  those  whimsical  contrasts  which  one  sometimes 
sees  in  married  life.  Cato  was  a  small-built,  thin, 
softly-spoken  negro,  addicted  to  a  gentle  chronic 
cough ;  and,  though  a  faithful  and  skilful  servant, 
seemed,  in  relation  to  his  better  half,  much  like  a 
hill  of  potatoes  under  a  spreading  apple-tree.  Can- 
dace  held  to  him  with  a  vehement  and  patronizing 
fondness,  so  devoid  of  conjugal  reverence  as  to  ex 
cite  the  comments  of  her  friends. 

"  You  must  remember,  Candace,"  said  a  good 
deacon  to  her  one  day,  when  she  was  ordering  him 
about  at  a  catechizing,  "you  ought  to  give  honor  to 
your  husband  ;  the  wife  is  the  weaker  vessel." 

"  /de  weaker  vessel  1"  said  Candace,  looking  down 
from  the  tower  of  her  ample  corpulence  on  the  small, 
quiet  man  whom  she  had  been  fledging  with  the  ample 
folds  of  a  worsted  comforter,  out  of  which  his  little 
head  and  shining  bead-eyes  looked,  much  like  a  black 
bird  in  a  nest, — "  /  de  weaker  vessel  1  Umph  !" 
A  whole-woman's-rights'  convention  could  not 
have  expressed  more  in  a  day  than  was  given  in 
that  single  look  and  word.  Candace  considered  a 
husband  as  a  thing  to  be  taken  care  of, — a  rather 
inconsequent  and  somewhat  troublesome  species  of 
pet,  to  be  humored,  nursed,  fed,  clothed,  and  guided 
in  the  way  that  he  was  to  go, — an  animal  that 
was  always  losing  off  buttons,  catching  colds, 
wearing  his  best  coat  every  day,  and  getting  on  his 
Sunday  hat  in  a  surreptitious  manner  for  week 
day  occasions ;  but  she  often  condescended  to  ex 
press  it  as  her  opinion  that  he  was  a  blessing,  and 
that  she  didn't  know  what  she  should  do,  if  it 
wasn't  for  Cato.  In  fact,  he  seemed  to  supply  her 
that  which  we  are  told  is  the  great  want  in  woman's 
situation, — an  object  in  life.  She  sometimes  was 
heard  expressing  herself  very  energetically  in  dis 
approbation  of  the  conduct  of  one  of  her  sable 
friends,  named  Jinny  Stiles,  who,  after  being  pre 
sented  with  her  own  freedom,  worked  several  years 
to  buy  that  of  her  husband,  but  became  afterwards 
so  disgusted  with  her  acquisition,  that  she  declared 
she  would  "  neber  buy  anoder  nigger." 

"  Now  Jinny  don't  know  what  she's  talkin 
about,"  she  would  say.  "  S'pose  he  does  cough 
and  keep  her  awake  nights,  and  take  a  little 
too  much  sometimes,  a'n't  he  better'n  no  husband 
at  all  1  A  body  wouldn't  seem  to  hab  nullin  to 
lib  for,  ef  dey  hadn't  an  ole  man  to  look  arter. 
Men  is  nate'lly  foolish  about  some  tings, — but 
dey's  good  deal  better'n  riufTin." 

And  Candace,  after  this  condescending  remark, 
would  lift  off  with  one  hand  a  brass  kettle  in  which 
poor  Cato  might  have  been  drowned,  and  fly 
across  the  kitchen  with  it  as  if  it  were  a  feather. 


THEODORE    PARKER. 


[Born  1812.    Died  I860.] 


THEODORE  PARKER,  the  distinguished  theolo 
gian,  was  born  about  1812,  at  Lexington, 
Mass.,  the  son  of  a  farmer,  and  the  grandson 
of  a  Revolutionary  soldier,  Capt.  John  Parker. 
He  was  a  graduate  of  the  Unitarian  theological 
school  at  Cambridge,  Mass.,  in  1836,  and  was 
afterwards  settled  as  Minister  of  the  Second 
Chuich  in  Roxbury.  From  1840  to  1842,  he 
was  a  contributor  of  theological  papers  to  the 
Dial  and  Christian  Examiner,  which  he  col 
lected  in  a  volume  of  Critical  and  Miscellaneous 
writings  in  1843.  In  1841,  he  gave  great 
offence  to  many  of  his  friends,  by  a  Discourse 
on  the  Transient  and  Permanent  in  Christian 
ity ;  and  in  1842,  by  the  publication  of  a 
Discourse  on  matters  relating  to  Religion  ;  the 
substance  of  a  series  of  lectures  delivered  the 
previous  season,  and  a  manifesto  of  the  grow 
ing  changes  of  the  author  in  his  doctrinal 
opinions,  which  had  widely  departed  from 
points  of  church  authority,  the  inspiration  of 
the  Scriptures,  and  the  divine  character  of  the 
Saviour. 

Proscribed  by  the  Unitarian  societies  of 
Boston  on  account  of  his  new  views,  Mr. 
Parker  organized  a  new  congregation  and 
independent  service,  and  published  Two 
Sermons  on  leaving  an  old  and  entering  anew 
place  of  worship.  His  discourses  were  on 
some  topic  of  the  times  or  point  of  morality ; 
questions  of  slavery,  war,  social  and  moral 
reforms  of  various  kinds,  were  discussed  with 
much  acute  analysis,  and  occasional  effective 
satire.  He  bore  a  prominent  part  in  the 
agitation  of  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law,  of  which 
he  was  a  vigorous  denouncer. 

In  the  winter  of  1858-9,  having  suffered  an 
attack  of  consumptive  disease,  he  reached  the 
island  of  Santa  Cruz,  greatly  prostrated ;  but 
he  slowly  rallied,  and  in  April,  addressed  a 
long  letter,  which  his  congregation  published, 
under  the  title  of  Theodore  Parker's  Experi 
ence  as  a  Minister,  with  some  account  of  his 
Life  and  Education  for  the  Ministry.  Mr. 
Parker's  health  was  sufficiently  invigorated 
by  his  visit  to  the  West  Indies  to  enable  him 
to  make  the  voyage  to  Europe  from  Santa 
636 


Cruz,  with  a  prospect  of  further  recovery 
He  passed  the  summer  of  1859,  on  the  Conti 
nent,  ma.nly  in  Switzerland,  and  wintered  in 
Italy,  at  Rome.  He  enjoyed  the  beauties  of 
nature,  and  was  keenly  alive,  as  usual,  to  the 
public  questions  of  the  day,  at  home  and 
abroad.  He  succumbed  to  his  disease,  on  his 
way  north,  at  Florence,  May  10, 1860.  He  lies 
buried,  with  a  simple  inscription  on  a  tomb 
stone,  recording  the  day  of  his  birth  and 
death,  in  the  cemetery  outside  the  city.  By 
his  will,  Mr.  Parker  bequeathed  to  the  City 
of  Boston,  for  the  Public  Library,  the  chief 
part  of  his  library,  over  11,000  vols.  and  2500 
pamphlets.  Many  eulogies  were  pronounced 
upon  him  by  able  writers  and  speakers,  and  a 
Life  and  Correspondence,  2  vols.,  8vo.,  New 
York,  1864,  by  John  Weiss,  was  published ; 
a  full  and  elaborate  memoir,  narrative  and 
critical,  exhibiting  with  much  force  and 
originality,  the  peculiar  habits  of  thought, 
cherished  opinions,  and  life-long  studies  of  its 
subject. 

His  works  were  voluminous,  and  consist  of, 
besides  those  mentioned  above,  a  Critical  and 
Historical  Introduction  to  the  Canonical  Scrip 
tures,  from  the  German  of  De  Wette,  2  vols., 
8vo.,  three  revised  editions ;  Letters  to  the 
People  on  Slavery ;  Speeches,  Addresses,  and 
Occasional  Sermons,  2  vols. ;  Discourse  occa 
sioned  by  the  death  of  Daniel  Webster,  which 
gave  great  offence  to  nearly  every  one  ;  Ten 
Sermons  of  Religion ;  Sermons  on  Theism, 
Atheism,  and  the  Popular  Theology;  Old  Age; 
Additional  Speeches,  Addresses,  and  Occa 
sional  Sermons  ;  Discourse  on  the  Functions 
of  a  Teacher  of  Religion,  in  these  times ; 
Sermons  on  the  Consequences  of  an  Immoral 
Principle  and  False  Idea  of  Life  ;  Sermon  on 
the  Moral  Dangers  incident  to  Prosperity ; 
Theodore  Parker's  Trial  for  the  Misdemeanor 
of  a  Speech  against  Kidnapping,  with  the 
Author's  Defence ;  New  Years  Sermon,  what 
Religion  may  do  for  a  man;  and,  Farewell 
Letter;  together  with  many  occasional  ser 
mons,  addresses,  or  orations,  of  which  Ave 
have  not  space  for  a  list.  Two  editions  of  his 


THEODORE     PARKER. 


637 


complete  works,  translated  into  German,  have 
been  published  in  Germany;  a  German  volume 
of  Hymns  suggested  by  his  writings,  has  also 
been  published  there.  A  collective  edition  of 
his  works,  containing  his  Theological,  Polemi 
cal,  and  Critical  Writings,  Sermons,  Speeches, 
and  Addresses,  and  Literary  Miscellanies, 
edited  by  Francis  Power  Cobbe,  was  published 


in  London,  1863-65,  12  vols.,  crown  8vo.  A 
new  edition  of  his  works,  14  vols.,  was  pub 
lished  in  Boston,  1868-9.  There  was  also 
published  in  London  ;  Half-Battle  Words  from 
Theodore  Parker;  Prayers;  Lessons  from  the 
World  of  Matter  and  the  World  of  Mind; 
selected  from  Notes  of  unpublished  Sermons. 


THE  PERISHING  CLASSES  OF  BOSTON. 

FROM    SPEECHES,  ADDRESSES,  AND   OCCASIONAL   SERMOXS. 

WHAT  will  be  the  fate  of  these  2000  children  1 
Some  men  ;ire  superior  to  circumstances  ;  so  well 
born  they  defy  ill  breeding.  There  may  be  chil 
dren  so  excellent  ami  strong  they  cannot  be  spoiled. 
Surely  there  are  some  who  will  learn  with  no 
school ;  hoys  of  vast  genius,  whom  you  cannot 
keep  from  learning.  Others  there  are  of  wonder 
ful  moral  gilts,  whom  no  circumstances  can  make 
vulgar;  they  will  live  in  the  midst  of. corruption 
and  keep  clean  through  the  innate  refinement  of 
a  wondrous  soul.  Out  of  these  2000  children 
there  may  be  two  of  this  sort;  it  were  foolish  to 
look  for  more  than  one  in  a  thousand.  The  1997 
depend  mainly  on  circumstances  to  help  them  ; 
yes,  to  make  their  character.  Send  them  to  school 
and  they  will  learn.  Give  them  good  precepts, 
good  examples,  they  will  also  become  good.  Give 
them  bad  precepts,  bad  examples,  and  they  l»e- 
r.ome  wicked.  Send  them  half  clad  and  uncared 
for  into  your  streets,  and  they  grow  up  hungry 
savages,  greedy  for  dime. 

What  have  these  abandoned  children  to  help 
them]  Nothing,  literally  nothing!  They  are 
idle,  though  their  bodies  crave  activity.  They  are 
poor,  ill-clad,  and  ill-fed.  There  is  nothing  about 
them  to  foster  self-respect ;  nothing  to  call  forth 
their  conscience,  to  awaken  and  cultivate  their 
sense  of  religion.  They  find  themselves  beggars 
in  the  wealth  of  a  city  ;  idlers  in  the  midst  of  its 
work.  Yes,  savages  in  the  midst  of  civilization. 
Their  consciousness  is  that  of  an  outcast,  one 
abandoned  and  forsaken  of  men.  In  cities,  life  is 
intense  amongst  all  classes.  So  the  passions  and 
appetites  of  such  children  are  strong  and  violent. 
Their  taste  is  low;  their  wants  clamorous.  Are 
religion  and  conscience  there  to  abate  the  fever  of 
passion  and  regulate  desire?  The  moral  class  and 
the  cultivated  shun  these  poor  wretches,  or  look 
on  with  stupid  wonder.  Our  rule  is  that  the  whole 
need  the  physician,  not  the  sick.  They  are  left 
almost  entirely  to  herd  and  consort  with  the  basest 
of  men  ;  they  are  exposed  early  and  late  to  the 
worst  influences,  and  their  only  comrades  are  men 
whom  the  children  of  the  rich  are  taught  to  shun 
as  the  pestilence.  To  be  poor  is  hard  enough  in 
the  country,  where  artificial  wants  are  few,  and 
those  easily  met,  where  all  classes  are  humbly 
clad,  and  none  fare  sumptuously  every  day.  But 
to  be  poor  in  the  city,  where  a  hundred  artificial 


desires  daily  claim  satisfaction,  and  where,  too,  it  is 
difficult  for  the  poor  to  satisfy  the  natural  and  un 
avoidable  wants  of  food  and  raiment;  to  be  hungry, 
ragged,  dirty,  amid  luxury,  wantonness  and  refine 
ment;  to  be  miserable  in  the  midst  of  abundance, 
that  is  hard  beyond  all  power  of  speech.  Look,  I 
will  not  say  at  the  squalid  dress  of  these  children, 
as  you  see  them  prowling  about  the  markets  and 
wharves,  or  contending  in  the  dirty  lanes  and  by- 
places  into  which  the  pride  of  Boston  has  elbowed 
so  much  of  her  misery  ;  look  at  their  faces  !  Hag 
gard  as  they  are,  meagre  and  pale  and  wan,  want 
is  not  the  worst  thing  written  there,  but  cunning, 
fraud,  violence  and  obscenity,  and  worst  of  all, 
fear !  , 

Amid  all  the  science  and  refined  culture  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  these  children  learn  little;  little 
that  is  good,  much  that  is  bad.  In  the  intense  life 
around  them,  they  unavoidably  become  vicious, 
obscene,  deceitful  and  violent.  They  will  lie,  steal, 
be  drunk.  How  can  it  be  otherwise  ? 

If  you  could  know  the  life  of  one  of  those  poor 
lepers  of  Boston,  you  would  wonder,  and  weep. 
Let  me  take  one  of  them  at  random  out  of  the 
mass.  He  was  born,  unwelcome,  amid  wretched 
ness  and  want.  His  coming  increased  both. 
Miserably  he  struggles  through  his  infancy,  less 
tended  than  the  lion's  whelp.  He  becomes  a  hoy. 
He  is  covered  only  wilh  rags,  and  those  squalid 
with  long  accumulated  filth.  He  wanders  about 
your  streets,  too  low  even  to  seek  employment, 
now  snatching  from  a  gutter  half  rotten  fruit 
which  the  owner  flings  away.  He  is  ignorant ; 
he  has  never  entered  a  school-house ;  to  him  even 
the  alphabet  is  a  mystery.  He  is  young  in  years, 
yet  old  in  misery.  There  is  no  hope  in  his  face. 
He  herds  with  others  like  himself,  low,  ragged, 
hungry  and  idle.  If  misery  loves  company,  ho 
finds  that  satisfaction.  Follow  him  to  his  home 
at  night;  he  herds  in  a  cellar;  in  the  same  sty 
with  father,  mother,  brothers,  sisters,  and  perhaps 
yet  other  families  of  like  degree.  What  served  him 
for  dress  by  day,  is  his  only  bed  by  night. 

Well,  this  boy  steals  some  trifle,  a  biscuit,  a  bit 
of  rope,  or  a  knife  from  a  shop-window,  he  is  seized 
and  carried  to  jail.  The  day  comes  for  trial.  He 
is  marched  through  the  streets  in  handcuffs,  the 
companion  of  drunkards  and  thieves,  thus  deaden 
ing  the  little  self  respect  which  Nature  left  even  in 
an  outcast's  bosom.  He  sits  there  chained  like  a 
beast;  a  boy  in  irons!  the  sport  and  mockery  of 
men  vulgar  as  the  common  sewer.  His  trial 


638 


THEODORE    PARKER. 


comes.     Of  course  he  is  convicted.     The  show  of 
his  countenance  is  witness  against  him.     His  rags 
and    dirt,   his    ignorance,  his   vagrant    habits,   his 
idleness,    all    testify  against    him.     That    face  so 
young,  and  yet  so  impudent,  so  sly,  so  writ  all 
over  with    embryo   villnny,  is   evidence   enough. 
The   jury    are   soon   convinced,  for   they   see    his 
temptations   in   his  look,  and   surely  know  that  in 
such  a  condition    men  will  steal :  yes,  they  them 
selves  would  steal.    The  judge  represents  the  law, 
and   that  practically  regards  it  a  crime  for  a  hoy 
to  lie  weak  and  poor.     Much  of  our  common  law, 
it  seems  to  me,  is  based  on  might,  not  right.     So 
he  is  hurried  off  to  jail  at  a  tender  age,  and  made 
legally  the  companion  of  felons.     Now  the  State 
has  him  wholly  in  her  power;  by  that  rough  adop 
tion,  has  made  him  her  own  child,  and  sealed  the 
indenture  with  the  jailor's  key.     His  handcuffs  are 
the  symbol  of  his  sonship  to  the  Slate.     She  shuts 
him  in  her  college  for  the  Little.     What  does  that 
teach   him;  science,  letters ;  even   morals  and  re 
ligion  1     Little  enough   of  this,  even   in   Boston, 
and  in   most  counties  of  Massachusetts,  I  think 
nothing  at  all,  not  even  a  trade  which  he  can 
practise  when  his  term  expires  !     I  have  been  told 
a  story,  and   I  wish   it  might  be  falsely  told,  of  a 
boy,  in   this  city,  of  sixteen,  sent  to  the  house  of 
correction  for  five  years  because  he  stole  a  bunch 
of  keys,  and  coming  out  of  that  jail  at  twenty-one, 
unable  to  write,  or  read,  or  calculate,  and  with  no 
trade  but  that  of  picking  oakum.     Yet  he   had 
been  five  years  the  child  of  the  State,  and  in  that 
college  for  the  poor!     Who  would  employ  such  a 
youth ;  with  such  a  reputation  ;  with  the  smell  of 
the  jail  in   his  very  breath  1     Not  your  shrewd 
men   of  business,  they  know  the   risk  ;   not  your 
respectable    men,   members   of  churches  and   all 
that;  not  they!     Why  it   would   hurt  a   man's 
reputation  for  piety  to  do  good  in  that  way.     Be 
sides,  the  risk  is  great,  and  it  argues  a  great  deal 
more  Christianity  than  it  is  popular  to  have,  for  a 
respectable  man  to  employ  such  a  youth.     He  is 
forced   back  into  crime  again.     I  say,  forced,  for 
honest  men  will  not  employ  him  when  the  State 
shoves  him  out  of  the  jail.     Soon  you  will  have 
him  in   the  court  again,  to  be  punished  more  se 
verely.     Then  he  goes  to  the  State-prison,   and 
then  again,  and  again,  till  death  mercifully  ends 
his  career! 

Who  is  to  blame  for  all  that  1  I  will  ask  the 
best  man  among  the  best  of  you,  what  he  would 
have  become,  if  thus  abandoned,  turned  out  in 
childhood,  and  with  no  culture,  into  the  streets,  to 
herd  with  the  wickedest  of  men  !  Somebody  says, 
there  are  "  organic  sins"  in  society  which  nobody 
is  to  blame  for.  But  by  this  sin  organized  in  so 
ciety,  these  vagrant  children  are  training  up  to 
become  thieves,  pirates  and  murderers.  I  cannot 
blame  them.  But  there  is  a  terrible  blame  some 


where,  for  it  is  not  the  will  of  God  that  one  of 
these  little  ones  should  perish.  Who  is  it  that 
organizes  the  sin  of  society  ] 


THOUGHTS  FOR  A  NEW  YEAR 

FROM    THE   SAME. 

THIS  is  the  first  Sunday  of  a  new  year.  What 
an  hour  for  resolutions;  what  a  moment  for  prayer! 
If  you  have  sins  in  your  bosom,  cast  them  behind 
you  now.  In  the  last  year,  God  has  blessed  us  ; 
blessed  us  all.  On  some  his  angels  waited,  robed 
in  white,  an. I  brought  new  joys;  here  a  wife,  to 
bind  men  closer  yet  to  Providence ;  and  there  a 
child,  a  new  Messiah,  sent  to  tell  of  innocence  and 
heaven.  To  some  bis  angels  came  clad  in  dark 
livery,  veiling  a  joyful  countenance  with  unpro- 
pitious  wings,  and  bore  away  child,  father,  sister, 
wife,  or  friend.  Still  were  they  ajigels  of  good 
Providence,  all  God's  own  ;  and  he  who  looks  aright 
finds  that  they  also  brought  a  blessing,  but  con 
cealed,  and  left  it,  though  they  spoke  no  word  of 
joy.  One  day  our  weeping  brother  shall  find  that 
gift  and  wear  it  as  a  diamond  on  his  breast. 

The  hours  are  passing  over  us,  and  with  them 
the  day.  What  shall  the  future  Sundays  be,  and 
what  the  year  ]  What  we  make  them  both.  God 
gives  us  time.  We  weave  it  into  life,  such  figures 
as  we  may,  and  wear  it  as  we  will.  Age  slowly 
rots  away  the  gold  we  are  set  in,  but  the  adaman 
tine  soul  lives  on,  radiant  every  way  in  the  light 
streaming  down  from  God.  The  genius  of  eternity, 
star-crowned,  beautiful,  and  with  prophetic  eyes, 
leads  us  again  to  the  gates  of  time,  and  gives  us 
one  more  year,  bidding  us  fill  that  golden  cup  with 
water  as  we  can  or  will.  There  stand  the  dirty, 
fetid  pools  of  worldliness  and  sin  ;  curdled,  and 
mantled,  film-covered,  streaked  and  striped  with 
many  a  hue,  they  shine  there,  in  the  slanting  light 
of  new-born  day.  Around  them  stand  the  sons 
of  earth  and  cry  :  Come  hither;  drink  thou  and  be 
saved  !  Here  fill  thy  golden  cup  !  There  you 
may  seek  to  fill  your  urn  ;  to  stay  your  thirst.  The 
deceitful  element,  roping  in  your  hands,  shall 
mock  your  lip.  It  is  water  only  to  the  eye.  Nay, 
show-water  only  unto  men  half-blind.  But  there, 
hard  by,  runs  down  the  stream  of  life,  its  waters 
never  frozen,  never  dry  ;  fed  by  perennial  dews 
falling  unseen  from  God.  Fill  there  thine  urn,  oh, 
brother-man,  and  thou  shalt  thirst  no  more  for 
selfishness  and  crime,  and  faint  no  more  amid  the 
toil  and  heat  of  day  ;  wash  there,  and  the  leprosy 
of  sin,  its  scales  of  blindness,  shall  fall  off,  and 
thou  be  clean  for  ever.  Kneel  there  and  pray  ; 
God  shall  inspire  thy  heart  with  truth  and  love, 
and  fill  thy  cup  with  never-ending  joy  ! 


HENRY    WARD    BEECHER. 


[Born  1813.] 


IT  is  more  for  his  fame  as  an  eminent 
preacher  and  eloquent  lecturer,  than  from  his 
ability  as  a  writer,,  that  Henry  Ward  Bf«cher 
is  enrolled  in  our  list.  He  was  born  in  Litch- 
field,  Conn.,  June  24,  1813.  He  graduated  at 
Amherst  College  in  1834,  and  studied  theology 
at  Lane  Seminary,  Cincinnati,  under  the  Presi 
dency  of  his  father,  Rev.  Lyman  Beecher.  He 
first  settled  as  a  Presbyterian  minister  at 
Lawrenceburg,  Ind.,  183*7,  and  removed  to 
Indianapolis,  where  he  remained  until  1847, 
when  he  accepted  the  call  to  the  Plymouth 
church  in  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  an  organization  of 
Orthodox  Congregational  believers ;  which 
position  he  continues  to  occupy,  acquiring  for 
himself  and  giving  to  his  church  a  position 
and  a  fame  known  throughout  the  land.  As 
a  preacher,  he  is  said  to  have  the  largest 
uniform  congregation  in  the  U.  S.,  as  a  lecturer 
he  is  very  popular,  and  as  a  pulpit  and  plat 
form  orator  he  has  few  or  no  superiors. 
Nothing  is  apparently  studied  or  artificial 
about  his  oratory ;  it  is  frank,  natural,  cordial, 
hearty,  and  fearless.  He  seems  to  feel  deeply 
the  truths  that  he  utters,  and  therefore  makes 
his  audience  feel  them  too.  He  was  married 
in  1837  to  a  sister  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Bullard,  of 
St.  Louis,  and  of  Rev.  Asa  Bullard,  Boston. 

Mr.  Beech ers  writings  are  few,  and  have 
mostly  been  collected  by  other  hands,  but 
chiefly  with  his  sanction.  They  are;  Lectures 
to  Young  Men,  16mo.,  1850,  many  editions 
have  oeen  published ;  the  style  is  terse  and 
vigorous,  in  an  earnest  view  of  expostulation  ; 
Industry  and  Idleness,  18mo.,  1850;  The  Star 
Papers,  two  series,  articles  collected  from  the 
Independent,  which  he  assisted  to  edit ;  these 
productions  are  marked  by  an  easy,  tone,  elo 
quent,  and  often  poetic,  with  a  practical  knowl 
edge  of  life,  its  duties  and  privileges,  which  is 
the  secret  of  much  of  their  interest.  Life- 
Thoughts,  gathered  from  his  extemporaneous 
Discourses,  by  Edna  Dean  Proctor ;  25,000 
copies  were  sold  within  a  few  months ;  Notes 
from  Plymouth  Pulpit,  a  collection  of  memora 
ble  Passages  from  his  Discourses,  by  Augusta 
Moore ;  Eyes  and  Ears,  12mo. ;  Freedom  and 


War,  discourses  upon  topics  suggested  by  the 
times ;  Royal  Truths ;  Family  Prayers ;  and  Ser 
mons,  in  2  vols.,  8vo.  He  also  edited  the  Ply 
mouth  collection  of  Hymns,  published  in  several 
sizes.  Plain  and  Pleasant  Talks  about  Fruits, 
Flowers,  and  Farming ;  relate  to  horticultural 
topics  and  were  suggested  by  the  multifarious 
knowledge  to  be  found  in  the  works  of  the 
English  gardener,  Loudon  ;  but  the  naked  facts 
in  Mr.  Beecher's  mind  spring  up  a  living  growth 
of  ideas,  ornamented  with  cheerful  and  profit 
able  associations.  He  always  writes  of  the 
country  with  a  lover's  minuteness,  and  a 
healthy  enthusiasm. 

In  1862,  Mr.  Beecher  visited  England,  and 
rendered  an  important  service  to  his  country 
by  his  eloquent  vindication  of  the  policy  of  the 
American  Government,  in  the  war  which  it 
was  maintaining  for  the  preservation  of  the 
Union.  As  the  war  was  approaching  its 
conclusion,  in  April,  1865,  Mr.  Beecher,  at  the 
request  of  the  Government,  delivered  an  oration 
at  Fort  Sumter,  on  the  anniversary  of  its  fall, 
and  the  formal  restoration  of  the  national  flag 
by  Major  Anderson.  His  oration  on  the 
centennial  anniversary  of  the  birthday  of 
Robert  Burns,  January,  1859,  was  of  the 
highest  interest. 

In  1868,  Mr.  Beecher  wrote  for  the  New 
York  Ledger,  Norwood,  or  Village  Life  in 
New  England,  which  was  reprinted  in  one 
volume,  12mo.,  and  reached  a  sale  of  45,000 
copies.  It  was  a  tale  of  New  England  life, 
and  depicted  the  habits  of  the  people  of  that 
section  in  a  most  life-like  manner. 

Mr.  Beecher  has  recently  undertaken  the 
editorship  of  the  Christian  Union,  a  new  and 
popular  religious  weekly. 

Mr.  Beecher's  books  contain  rich  gems  of 
deep  thought,  brilliant  fancy,  and  devotional 
feeling.  It  is  impossible  to  do  him  justice  by 
any  extracts  from  his  sermons  or  essays. 
One  must  hear  him  preach  or  lecture  to  feel 
his  power,  or  to  understand  it.  The  following 
selections,  however,  will  give  some  idea  of  his 
style,  sentiments,  and  inexhaustible  wealth  of 
thought  and  illustration. 


640 


HENRY     WARD     BEECHER. 


BUSINESS  AND  RELIGION. 

FROM   THE   PLYMOUTH    PULPIT,    SECOND   SERIES. 


GOD  says  to  men  on  the  farm,  in  the  store,  on 
the  ship,  everywhere  in  lirc,  "  Be  diligent  in  busi 
ness,  fervent  in  spirit."  Those  two  things  are  put 
so  near  together  in  the  Bible  that  nobody  can  get 
them  apart.  No  wedge  can  drive  them  asunder. 
But  for  the  most  part  men  say,  "  My  business  is 
there,  and  my  religion  is  here."  They  seek  to 
divide  them.  When  they  go  into  the  closet  to 
pray,  they  ferl,  "  I  have  had  a  vision  of  God 
and  of  heaven — oh  that  I  could  keep  it  all  day  !" 
You  would  not  do  half  so  well  in  business  if  you 
kept  it  as  you  would  if  you  lost  it. 

Do  you  suppose  that  when  a  man  has  said 
"  Good-by"  to  his  dear  wife,  and  his  chubby  little 
children,  that  are  more  to  him  than  the  blood  in 
his  own  veins,  and  gone  to  his  shop,  he  feels  that 
he  must  think  of  his  family  all  day  long,  instead 
«f  thinking  of  wheels,  and  springs,  and  belts,  and 
levers,  and  his  business?  If  he  undertakes  to 
think  of  his  wife  and  children,  every  time  one  of 
them  comes  up  to  his  mind,  a  thread  snaps,  and 
he  betrays  his  trust.  It  is  enough  that  lie  has  a 
latent  love  which  lies  like  a  bird  on  its  nest,  and 
hatches  singing  joys.  He  does  not  care  if  he  does 
not  think  of  them  once  during  the  whole  day;  for 
he  knows  that  the  fountain  will  burst  out  and 
bubble  up  when  the  evening  comes. 

Tell  me  that  men  work  for  money!  So  they 
do.  Tell  me  that  they  engage  in  the  rivalries  of 
the  street !  So  they  do.  But  many  men  are 
goaded  to 'dishonesty  by  the  love  which  they  bear 
to  those  whom  they  love  at  home,  and  not  because 
they  love  money  so  much.  Home  is  the  fountain 
that  inspires  them.  And  yet  you  know  how,  in 
spite  of  the  inspiration  of  a  loving  home,  men  for 
get,  for  the  time  being,  that  home,  and  all  that  it 
contains,  in  the  struggle  that  they  are  making 
.with  the  world,  and  only  at  intervals  come  back  to 
the  memory  of  that  which  is  most  dear  to  them. 
And  that  is  enough. 

Now,  let  a  man  have  a  vision  of  God  and 
heaven.  It  does  not  follow  that  all  day  long  he 
should  go  thinking  of  the  catechism,  and  religion, 
and  prayer.  If  a  man  has  leisure,  it  is  a  blessed 
thing  for  him  to  sit  down,  as  it  were,  under  the 
shadow  of  a  great  religious  truth,  as  at  midday 
one  sits  down  by  a  fountain  to  take  his  nooning; 
but  do  by  God  as  you  do  by  those  that  you  know 
you  love  on  earth.  Believe  that  love  is  a  unit,  and 
that  that  part  which  is  hidden,  and  which  is  the 
inspiring  part,  and  which  gives  you  strfllftglh  for 
the  other  parts,  is  just  as  really  a  part  of  Vorr  reli 
gious  duty  as  any  other,  and  that,  though  it  may 
not  manifest  itself  in  the  sphere  of  duty  and  labor, 
it  is  no  less  influential.  * 

Let  no  man  say,  then,  "  Oh  !  if  I  had  not  my 
store,  I  could  be  such  a  good  Christian  !"  You 
could  not  be  half  so  good  a  Christian  as  you  are 
now.  Let  no  man  say,  "  Oh !  if  I  had  not  my 
school ;  if  I  was  a  minister,  and  could  choose  my 
own  hours,  and  read  those  blessed  books  of 
theology,  (I  guess  you  never  read  any  of  them !) 


how  good  I  should  be !"  Do  you,  then,  think 
that  ministers  are  so  much  better  than  other 
people  1  They  are  men  of  like  passions  with 
their  fellows.  They  are  subject  to  pride.  They 
are  easily  tempted  to  anger  and  jealousy.  They 
are  liable  to  faults  of  a  thousand  kinds.  Having 
leisure  to  think  about  a  religious  life  does  not  make 
men  any  better  than  working  out  their  salvation 
in  the  sphere  of  labor  to  which  they  are  called. 
A  man  ^an  be  a  good  Christian,  and  have  a  store 
or  factory  under  his  control,  or  an  army  on  his 
hands.  Whatever  duty  a  man  is  called  to,  whether 
it  be  in  the  school,  or  in  the  shop,  or  in  the  mine, 
or  on  the  ship,  it  is  his  business  to  be  a  Christian 
in  the  discharge  of  that  duty.  Wherever  a  man 
may  be,  his  whole  life  should  be  animated  by  reli 
gion.  A  true  man  is  not  what  he  is  in  the  prayer- 
meeting,  nor  what  he  is  in  the  Sunday-school,  nor 
what  he  is  in  his  best  moments,  but  wh;it  his 
average  life  is,  in  all  his  hours  put  together.  This 
grand  average  tells  where  a  man  stands,  am]  how 
much  of  a  Christian  he  is.  And  it  is  this  that 
leads  to  discouragement;  because  men  think  that 
if  they  are  true  Christians  they  ought  to  be  in  a 
hymn  state,  a  psalm  state,  a  prayer  state,  all  the 
time.  I  do  not  think  so.  They  ought  to  be  in  a  state 
such  that  when,  in  the  providence  of  God,  it  is  fit 
that  they  should  sing,  they  will  be  ready  to  sing  ; 
but  you  might  as  well  say  that  a  man  ought  to  be 
in  a  state  to  dandle  his  babe  every  minute,  as  to  say 
that  a  man  should  always  be  in  an  active  religious 
state  of  mind. 

The  father  is  a  surgeon,  and  has  a  very  trying 
case.  For  an  hour  he  has  stood  with  a  man's 
life  trembling  under  his  hand ;  and  the  difference 
of  a  thought,  one  way  or  the  other,  would  have 
been  the  difference  of  the  excision  of  an  artery  or 
a  nerve  ;  and,  during  all  this  time,  his  mind  and 
body  have  been  undergoing  a  severe  strain ;  and 
do  you  say  that,  when  he  lays  down  his  instru 
ments,  and  the  patient  has  been  rolled  upon  the 
bed,  he  ought  to  go  right  out  from  tine  midst  of 
blood,  and  scalpels,  and  saws,  and  sponges,  and 
commence  dandling  his  babe1?  Is  there  no  fitness 
of  times  ?>  Do  you  say  that  a  man  should  run 
from  one  thing  right  to  another,  as  if  there.were 
no  such  thing  as  perpendicular  distances  between 
them?  How  little  common  sense  men  have  in 
religion  !  How  wise  men  are  in  the  adjustment 
of  things  outside  of  religion  !  and  how  foolish 
they  are  in  the  adjustment  of  things  in  religion! 

I  have  heard  men  say  that  a  man  ought  to  live 
so  as  to  be  prepared,  at  any  moment,  to  give  up 
his  account  to  God ;  and  that  he  ought  never  to 
do  anything  which  would  not  be  congruous  with 
the  tremendous  scenes  of  the  judgment-day.  I 
hold  the  great  truth  that  a  man  should  always  be 
prepared  to  die  ;  but  I  do  not  think  that  truth  is  at 
all  the  same  as  to  say  that  every  one  of  the  ex 
periences  which  are  proper  to  the  earth-state  would 
be  congruous  with  a  state  transcendently  different 
from  the  earth-state.  Do  you  suppose  that  if  a 
man  was  sick,  and  his  physician  had  prescribed 
tartar  emetic,  and  it  had  just  begun  to  work,  he 
would  be  in  an  eminent  state  in  which  to  appear 


HENRY     WARD     BEECHER. 


641 


at  the  judgment  seat1?  Is  there  any  sin  in  not 
being  in  such  a  state  1  There  are  many  things 
that  are  proper  to  one  condition,  which  would  not 
be  congruous  with  another  condition.  Any  mode 
of  criticism,  therefore,  which  is  based  on  the  prin 
ciple  that  we  are  to  transfer  things  that  are  proper 
to  one  relation  to  another  relation  that  is  totally 
different;  any  mode  of  criticism  which  rubs  out 
the  interval,  and  the  necessity  of  modification,  is 
impertinent  and  absurd. 


CHRIST    THE     DOOR. 

FROM   THE    SAME. 

[p  there  is  a  sound  in  the  household  sweeter 
viian  the  opening  and  closing  door  of  the  house 
where  love  reigns,  I  do  not  know  what  i-t  is. 
Much  as  we  may  be  educated  to  music,  if  you 
will  recall  your  own  experience,  you  will  know 
that  the  sweetest  sounds  that  you  hear  are  not 
musical  sounds.  If  in  the  night  you  wake  from  a 
troubled  dream,  child  as  you  are,  affrighted  and 
trembling,  the  sweetest  of  all  Beethoven's  music 
below  would  not  be  so  comforting  as  to  hear  your 
father  clear  his  voice — h-e-m — in  the  room  adjoin 
ing.  You  turn  over,  and  feel  that  you  are  at 
home.  And  so,  a  walk  in  the  entry,  or  even  a 
cough  in  grandmother's  room,  is  so  surrounded 
with  sweet  associations  of  home,  that  no  formu 
lated  musical  sounds  are  half  so  sweet  as  are  these 
incidental  and  very  homely  sounds.  And  the 
opening  and  shutting  of  the  door  at  the  right  hour 
is  one  of  the  musical  sounds  of  home. 

All  day  long  the  father  strives  in  the  office,  in 
the  store,  in  the  shop,  in  the  street,  along  the 
wharves,  wherever  his  labor  calls  him  ;  and  the 
whole  day  has  been  full  of  care  and  wrangling. 
The  head  is  hot,  and  the  hand  is  weary,  and  the 
pulse  is  feverish ;  and  as  the  day  draws  on,  the 
busy  man  prepares  at  last  for  home. 

The  man  draws  near  his  dwelling.  The  door 
opens  to  his  touch.  The  children  hear  it.  The 
elder  ones  run.  The  young  prattler,  mother- 
borne,  gets  there  first — quicker  than  the  nimblest. 
Now,  how  his  heart  rejoices !  Every  wrinkle  is 
rubbed  out.  He  looks  around  with  a  sense  of 
grateful  rest,  and  thanks  God  that  the  sound  of 
that  shutting  door  was  the  last  echo  of  the  thun 
der  of  care  and  trouble.  That  is  outside,  and  he 
is  at  home,  with  her  that  he  loves  best,  and  with 
those  that  are  dearest  to  him.  That  door  opened 
to  let  him  in  to  love  and  peace  and  joy ;  it  shut  to 
keep  out  the  turbulence  of  the  quarrelsome  work!, 
and  the  influence  of  grinding  business. 

Now,  is  there  any  likeness  in  this  to  Christ 
Jesus  1  Is  there  any  such  access  to  Christ  Jesus 
as  may  be  compared  to  a  man's  experience  when 
he  repairs  to  his  home,  and,  opening  the  door,  has 
the  full  sweet  welcome,  and,  shutting  it,  exiles  all 
that  disturbs  and  all  that  creates  discord  1  "  Be 
hold,  I  am  the  door,"  says  Christ ;  as  if  he  were  a 
householder.  Opening,  you  shall  be  within  the 
circle  of  love.  Shutting,  you  shall  be  protected 
81 


against  all  turmoil  and  care.  Perfect  peace  have 
they  who  put  their  trust  in  him.  Joy  and  peace, 
that  pass  all  understanding — such  joy  arid  peace 
as  the  world  knows  not — are  to  be  found  in 
Christ.  My  dear  friends,  there  is  a  friendship  in 
the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  which  may  be  to  us  what 
the  door  of  the  household  is  to  the  most  care-be 
stridden  and  bested  of  men.  What  the  home, 
with  all  its  sweet  affections  is  to  the  troubled  heart, 
that  the  Saviour  is  to  those  who  know  how  to 
make  use  of  him — not  the  Saviour  didactically 
taught  or  controversially  preached,  but  the  Saviour 
discerned  by  a  living  and  personal  faith.  There 
is  such  intercourse  and  welcome  behind  him 
as  there  is  behind  the  shutting  door.  There  is 
that  in  him  which  shall  make  every  man,  in  the 
midst  of  the  most  tried  and  bestormed  life,  rest 
upon  his  bosom.  Oh !  if  men  could  but  find  the 
Door,  if  they  could  but  know  what  peace  there  is 
in  Christ  Jesus  for  them,  I  am  sure  they  would 
not  go  so  friendless,  and  harassed,  and  distressed. 


FAULTS. 

FROM  THE  SAME,  THIRD  SERIES. 

A  MAN  has  a  large  emerald,  but  it  is  "fea 
thered,"  and  he  knows  an  expert  would  say, 
"  What  a  pity  that  it  has  such  a  feather !"  it  will 
not  bring  a  quarter  as  much  as  it  otherwise  would ; 
and  he  cannot  take  any  satisfaction  in  it.  A  man 
has  a  diamond ;  but  there  is  a  flaw  in  it,  and  it  is 
not  the  diamond  that  he  wants.  A  man  has  an 
opal,  but  it  is  imperfect,  a-nd  he  is  dissatisfied  with 
it.  An  opal  is  covered  with  little  seams,  but  they 
must  be  the  right  kind  of  seams.  If  it  has  a 
crack  running  clear  across,  it  is  marred,  no  matter 
how  large  it  is,  and  no  matter  how  wonderful  its 
reflections  are.  And  this  man  is  worried  all  the 
time  because  he  knows  his  opal  is  imperfect ;  and 
it  would  worry  him  even  if  he  knew  that  nobody 
else  noticed  it. 

So  it  is  in  respect  to  dispositions,  and  in  respect 
to  character  at  large.  Little  cracks,  little  flaws, 
little  featherings  in  them,  take  away  their  ex- 
quisiteness  and  beauty,  and  take  away  that  fine 
finish  which  makes  moral  art.  How  many  noble 
men  there  are  who  are  diminished,  who  are  almost 
wasted,  in  their  moral  influence  !  How  many 
men  are  like  the  red  maple  !  It  is  one  of  the  most 
gorgeous  trees,  both  in  spring,  blossoming,  and  in 
autumn,  with  its  crimson  foliage.  But  it  stands 
knee-deep  in  swamp-water,  usually.  To  get  to  it, 
you  must  wade,  or  leap  from  bog  to  bog,  tearing 
your  raiment,  and  soiling  yourself.  I  see  a  great 
many  noble  men,  but  they  stand  in  a  swamp  of 
faults.  They  bear  fruit  that  you  fain  would  pluck, 
but  there  are  briars  and  thistles  and  thorns  all 
about  it;  and  to  get  it  you  must  make  your  way 
through  all  these  hindrances. 

How  many  persons  there  are  that  are  sur 
rounded  by  a  thousand  little  petty  faults.  They  are 
so  hedged  in  by  these  things  that  you  lose  all  the 
comfort  and  joy  you  would  otherwise  have  in  them. 


JOHN    LOTHROP    MOTLEY, 


[Born  1814.] 


Mrt.  MOTLEY  was  born  in  Dorchester,  Mass., 
April  15,  1814  ;  and  is  a  member  of  an  old  Bos 
ton  family,  graduating  at  Harvard  in  1831. 
Afterwards  he  soon  went  to  Europe,  and  spent 
several  years  in  Germany,  studying  at  the 
Universities,  and  acquiring  a  knowledge  of  its 
literature.  He  returned  to  the  United  States 
in  1835,  applied  himself  to  the  study  of  the 
law,  and  was  admitted  to  the  Boston  bar.  He 
married  Miss  Benjamin  in  1836;  and  the  prac 
tice  of  his  profession  proving  uncongenial,  he 
devoted  his  time  and  talents  to  the  pursuit  of 
letters,  which  his  ample  means  enabled  him 
to  do. 

Like  most  young  authors  he  commenced  by 
writing  articles  for  the  periodicals  ;  and  in  1839 
published  his  first  work,  Morton's  Hope  ;  or, 
the  Memoirs  of  a  Provincial,  the  scene  of  which 
is  laid  in  the  neighborhood  of  Boston,  and  from 
its  scenes  and  incidents  may  be  supposed  to  be 
founded  on  some  facts  and  experiences  of  the 
author.  This  was  followed  by  Merry-mount, 
a  romance  of  the  Massachusetts  Colony,  upon 
a  picturesque  episode  of  New  England  history 
presented  in  the  narrative  of  Thomas  Morton, 
in  the  time  of  Gov.  Winthrop.  Both  of  these 
fictions  are  written  with  spirit,  the  descriptions 
are  carefully  elaborated,  and  the  narrative  is 
enlivened  with  occasional  flashes  of  genuine 
humor. 

In  1841,  Mr.  Webster,  an  intimate  friend  of 
the  father  of  Mr.  Motley,  appointed  the  son  to 
the  post  of  Secretary  of  Legation  to  Russia, 
under  Col.  Todd,  where  he  remained  two  years, 
when  he  resigned  and  returned  home.  While 
there  he  contributed  to  the  North  American 
Review,  an  article  on  Peter  the  Great,  which 
at  once  excited  marked  attention. 

Finding  his  forte  was  not  fiction,  he  resolved 
to  apply  himself  to  history,  and  in  1851,  again 
visited  Europe,  residing  at  Dresden,  Paris,  and 
other  cities,  acquiring  materials  for,  and  writ 
ing  his  noble  historical  work,  the  Rise  of  the 
Dutch  Republic,  3  vols.,  8vo.,  a  "  history  of  the 
great  agony  through  which  the  Republic  cf 
Holland  was  ushered  into  life."  It  embraces 
642 


besides  an  Historical  Introduction,  the  period 
from  the  abdication  of  Charles  V.,  in  1855,  to 
the  death  of  William  the  Silent,  Prince  of  Or 
ange,  in  1584.  The  note  in  the  preface,  of  vol. 
1,  of  Prescott's  Philip  II.,  having  called  atten 
tion  to  the  forthcoming  work,  it  was  on  its  pub 
lication  in  1856,  perused  with  no  ordinary  inter 
est  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic.  It  was  at  once 
favorably  received  by  the  critics  of  every  pub 
lication  of  any  note,  and  by  the  pens  of  such 
authors  as  M.  Guizot,  (who  superintended  the 
publication  in  French  of  a  translation  made 
in  his  own  family)  Irving,  Prescott,  Palfrey, 
Lieber,  Everett,  Bancroft,  Sumner,  and  many 
others  in  Holland,  France,  Germany,  and  Eng 
land.  Fifteen  thousand  copies  were  sold  in 
England  in  less  than  two  years,  many  editions 
in  this  country  ;  it  was  reprinted  at  Amsterdam, 
translated  into  German,  at  Leipsic  and  Dres 
den,  translated  into  Dutch  by  the  chief  Archi 
vist  of  the  Netherlands,  and  into  French,  all 
of  which  editions  also  met  with  rapid  sales. 
The  author  also  received  the  degree  of  LL.  D. 
from  Harvard,  of  D.  C.  L.  from  the  University 
of  Oxford,  and  was  chosen  the  successor  of 
Mr.  Prescott,  as  a  corresponding  member  of 
the  Institute  of  France. 

He  had  not  been  home  a  year  after  it  was 
published,  when  he  resolved  to  continue  the 
History  in  a  similar  work.  For  this  purpose 
he  again  left  for  Europe,  and  took  up  his  main 
quarters  at  the  Hague,  where  he  wrote  his 
history  of  the  United  Netherlands,  the  first 
two  volumes  of  which  were  published  in  1861, 
followed  by  two  more  tracing  the  progress  of 
events  from  the  death  of  William  down  to  the 
Synod  of  Dort,  and  which  he  hopes  some  day 
to  continue  through  the  Thirty  Years'  War  to 
the  Peace  of  Westphalia.  The  judgment  pas 
sed  upon  these  four  volumes,  by  the  highest 
critical  authorities,  confirms  the  impression 
made  by  the  author  in  his  preceding  work. 

The  subject  of  Mr.  Motley's  histories,  was 
one  of  peculiar  interest,  and  of  remarkable  nov 
elty  to  English  and  American  readers.  It  had 
been  little  cultivated  by  historians,  and  of  late 


JOHN     LOTHROP     MOTLEY. 


643 


several  collections  of  original  materials,  pre 
sented  new  opportunities  to  the  coming  histo 
rian.  Mr.  Motley  brought  to  the  work  great 
industry,  a  spirit  of  candor,  an  enthusiasm  for 
the  theme,  and  a  style  practiced  in  the  arts  of 
picturesque  narration.  His  conscientiousness 
in  the  use  of  the  vast  material  at  his  command 
was  not  less  remarkable  than  the  perseverance 
with  which  he  brought  it  together.  Insensibly 
the  reader  was  delighted  by  its  animated  style 
and  attractive  illustrations  of  manners  and 
character,  while  its  research,  its  power,  its 
earnest  spirit,  its  breadth  of  design  and  suc 
cessful  execution,  placed  its  author  in  the  front 
rank  of  historians.  His  history  presents  the 
reader  with  an  entirely  new  view  of  the  policy 
and  acts  of  the  parties  engaged  in  the  great 
drama  enacted  in  the  Netherlands. 

The  motives  and  acts  of  Philip  II.,  and  of 
the  Court  of  France,  the  diplomacy  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  of  Walsingham,  and  of  Leicester, 
tke  military  genius  of  Parma  in  the  siege  of 
Antwerp,  the  story  of  the  Spanish  Armada,  its 


origin  and  destruction,  are  treated  with  a 
master  hand,  and  for  the  first  time  narrated 
with  the  fulness  which  their  varied  circumstan 
ces  and  relations  demand.  The  civil  history 
of  the  period  is  unwound  with  masterly  skill 
and  sagacity,  the  narratives  of  military  exploits 
are  alive  with  living  incidents,  while  the  spirit 
of  the  whole  drama  is  gathered  up  in  the  cen 
tral  characters  of  William  the  Silent  and 
Philip  II. 

In  1861,  Mr.  Motley  was  appointed  Minister 
Plenipotentiary  to  Austria,  and  resided  at 
Vienna.  While  there  he  rendered  an  import 
ant  service  to  his  country  by  his  publication 
in  the  London  Times,  of  an  elaborate  essay, 
entitled  Causes  of  the  American  Civil  War, 
which  was  republished  in  numerous  editions, 
one  of  which  was  widely  spread  by  the  Union 
Leagues,  to  enlighten  some  American  citizens, 
who  needed  it  as  well  as  those  abroad.  Mr. 
Motley,  at  the  present  time,  1870,  ably  repre 
sents  our  country  at  the  Court  of  England. 


THE  SECOND  SIEGE  OF  LEYDEN. 

TH;B  invasion  of  Louis  of  Nassau  had,  as 
already  stated,  effected  the  raising  of  the  first 
siege  of  Leyden.  That  leaguer  had  lasted  from 
the  31st  of  October,  1573,  to  the  21st  of  March, 
1574,  when  the  soldiers  were  summoned  away 
to  defend  the  frontier.  By  an  extraordinary  and 
culpable  carelessness,  the  citizens,  neglecting  the 
advice  of  the  Prince,  had  not  taken  advantage  of 
the  breathing  time  thus  afforded  them  to  victual 
the  city  and  strengthen  the  garrison.  They 
seemed  to  reckon  more  confidently  upon  the 
success  of  Count  Louis  than  he  had  even  done 
himself;  for  it  was  very  probable  that,  in  case  of 
his  defeat,  the  siege  would  be  instantly  resumed. 
This  natural  result  was  not  long  in  following  the 
battle  of  Mookerheyde. 

On  the  26th  of  May,  Valdez  reappeared  before 
the  place,  at  the  head  of  eight  thousand  Walloons 
and  Germans,  and  Leyden  was  now  destined  to 
pass  through  a  fiery  ordeal.  This  city  was  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  in  the  Netherlands.  Placed 
in  the  midst  of  broad  and  fruitful  pastures,  which 
had  been  reclaimed  by  the  hand  of  industry  from 
the  bottom  of  the  sea,  it  was  fringed  with  smiling 
villages,  blooming  gardens,  fruitful  orchards.  The 
ancient  and,  at  last,  decrepit  Rhine,  flowing 
languidly  towards  its  sandy  death-bed,  had  been 
multiplied  into  innumerable  artificial  currents,  by 
which  the  city  was  completely  interlaced.  These 
watery  streets  were  shaded  by  lime  trees,  poplars, 
and  willows,  and  crossed  by  one  hundred  and 


forty-five  bridges,  mostly  of  hammered  stone. 
The  houses  were  elegant,  the  squares  and  streets 
spacious,  airy  and  clean,  the  churches  and  public 
edifices  imposing,  while  the  whole  aspect  of  the 
place  suggested  thrift,  industry,  and  comfort. 
Upon  an  artificial  elevation,  in  the  centre  of  the 
city,  rose  a  ruined  tower  of  unknown  antiquity. 
By  some  it  was  considered  to  be  of  Roman 
origin,  while  others  preferred  to  regard  it  as  a 
work  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  Hengist,  raised  to 
commemorate  his  conquest  of  England.  Sur 
rounded  by  fruit  trees,  and  overgrown  in  the 
centre  with  oaks,  it  afforded,  from  its  mouldering 
battlements,  a  charming  prospect  over  a  wide 
expanse  of  level  country,  with  the  spires  of 
neighboring  cities  rising  in  every  direction.  It 
was  from  this  commanding  height,  during  the 
long  and  terrible  summer  days  which  were  ap 
proaching,  that  many  an  eye  was  to  be  strained 
anxiously  seaward,  watching  if  yet  the  ocean  had 
begun  to  roll  over  the  land. 

Valdez  lost  no  time  in  securing  himself  in  the 
possession  of  Maeslandsluis,  Vlaardingen,  and  the 
Hague.  Five  hundred  English,  under  command 
of  Colonel  Edward  Chester,  abandoned  the 
fortress  of  Valkenburg,  and  fled  towards  Leyilen. 
Refused  admittance  by  the  citizens,  who  now, 
with  reason,  distrusted  them,  they  surrendered  to 
Valdez,  and  were  afterwards  sent  back  to  England. 
In  the  course  of  a  few  days,  Leyden  was  thoroughly 
invested,  no  less  than  sixty-two  redoubts,  some  of 
them  having  remained  undestroyed  from  the 
previous  siege,  now  girdling  the  city,  while  the 


644 


JOHN  LOTHROP  MOTLEY 


besiegers  already  numbered  nearly  eight  thousand, 
a  force  to  be  daily  increased.  On  the  other 
hand,  there  were  no  troops  in  the  town,  save  a 
small  corps  of  «  freebooters,"  and  five  companies 
of  the  burgher  guard.  John  Van  der  Does, 
Seigneur  of  Nordwyck,  a  gentleman  of  dis 
tinguished  family,  but  still  more  distinguished  for 
his  learning,  his  poetical  genius,  and  his  valor, 
had  accepted  the  office  of  military  commandant. 

The  main  reliance  of  the  city,  under  God,  was 
on  the  stout  hearts  of  its  inhabitants  within  the 
walls,  and  on  the  sleepless  energy  of  William  the 
Silent  without.  The  Prince,  hastening  to  com 
fort  and  encourage  the  citizens,  although  he  had 
been  justly  irritated  by  their  negligence  in  having 
omitted  to  provide  more  sufficiently  against  the 
emergency  while  there  had  yet  been  time,  now 
reminded  them  that  they  were  not  about  to 
contend  for  themselves  alone,  but  that  the  fate  of 
their  country  and  of  unborn  generations  would,  in 
all  human  probability,  depend  on  the  issue  about 
to  be  tried.  Eternal  glory  would  be  their  portion 
if  they  manifested  a  courage  worthy  of  their  race 
and  of  the  sacred  cause  of  religion  and  liberty. 
He  implored  them  to  hold  out  at  least  three 
months,  assuring  them  that  he  would,  within  that 
time;,  devise  the  means  of  their  deliverance.  The 
citizens  responded,  courageously  and  confidently, 
to  these  missives,  and  assured  the  Prince  of  their 
firm  confidence  in  their  own  fortitude  and  his 
exertions. 

And  truly  they  had  a  right  to  rely  on  that 
calm  and  unflinching  soul,  as  on  a  rock  of 
adamant.  All  alone,  without  a  being  near  him 
to  consult,  his  right  arm  struck  from  him  by  the 
death  of  Louis,  with  no  brother  left  to  him  but 
the  untiring  and  faithful  John,  he  prepared  with 
out  delay  for  the  new  task  imposed  upon  him. 
France,  since  the  defeat  and  death  of  Louis,  and 
the  busy  intrigues  which  had  followed  the  accession 
of  Henry  III.,  had  but  small  sympathy  for  the 
Netherlands.  The  English  government,  relieved 
from  the  fear  of  France,  was  more  cold  and 
haughty  than  ever.  An  Englishman,  employed 
by  Requesens  to  assassinate  the  Prince  of  Orange, 
had  been  arrested  in  Zealand,  who  impudently 
pretended  that  he  had  undertaken  to  perform  the 
same  office  for  Count  John,  with  the  full  consent 
and  privity  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  The  provinces 
of  Holland  and  Zealand  were  stanch  and  true, 
but  the  inequality  of  the  contest  between  a  few 
brave  men,  upon  that  handsbreadth  of  territory, 
and  the  powerful  Spanish  Empire,  seemed  to 
render  the  issue  hopeless. 

Moreover,  it  was  now  thought  expedient  to 
publish  the  amnesty  which  had  been  so  long  in 
preparation,  and  this  time  the  trap  was  more 
liberally  baited.  The  pardon,  which  had  passed 
the  seals  upon  the  8th  of  March,  was  formally 
issued  by  the  Grand  Commander  on  the  6th  of 
June.  By  the  terms  of  this  document  the  King 
invited  all  his  erring  and  repentant  subjects  to 
return  to  his  arms,  and  to  accept  a  full  forgiveness 
for  their  past  offences,  upon  the  sole  condition 
that  they  should  once  more  throw  themselves 


upon  the  bosom  of  the  Mother  Church.  There 
were  but  few  exceptions  to  the  amnesty,  a  small 
number  of  individuals,  all  mentioned  by  name, 
being  alone  excluded  ;  but  although  these  terms 
were  ample,  the  act  was  liable  to  a  few  stern 
objections.  It  was  easier  now  for  the  Hollanders 
to  go  to  their  graves  than  to  mass,  for  the  contest, 
in  its  progress,  had  now  entirely  assumed  the 
aspect  of  a  religious  war.  Instead  of  a  limited 
number  of  heretics  in  a  state  which,  although 
constitutional  was  Catholic,  there  was  now  hardly 
a  Papist  to  be  found  among  the  natives.  To 
accept  the  pardon  then  was  to  concede  the  victory, 
and  the  Hollanders  had  not  yet  discovered  that 
they  were  conquered.  They  were  resolved,  too, 
not  only  to  be  conquered,  but  annihilated,  before 
the  Roman  Church  should  be  re-established  on 
their  soil,  to  the  entire  exclusion  of  the  Reformed 
worship.  They  responded  with  steadfast  enthu 
siasm  to  the  sentiment  expressed  by  the  Prince 
of  Orange,  after  the  second  siege  of  Leyden  had 
been  commenced  ;  "  As  long  as  there  is  a  living 
man  left  in  the  country,  we  will  contend  for  our 
liberty  and  our  religion."  The  single  condition 
of  the  amnesty  assumed,  in  a  phrase,  what  Spain 
had  fruitlessly  striven  to  establish  by  a  hundred 
battles,  and  the  Hollanders  had  not  faced  their 
enemy  on  land  and  sea  for  seven  years  to  succumb 
to  a  phrase  at  last. 

Moreover,  the  pardon  came  from  the  wrong 
direction.  The  malefactor  gravely  extended  for 
giveness  to  his  victims.  Although  the  Hollanders 
had  not  yet  disembarrassed  their  minds  of  the 
supernatural  theory  of  government,  and  felt  still 
the  reverence  of  habit  for  regal  divinity,  they 
naturally  considered  themselves  outraged  by 'the 
trick  now  played  before  them.  The  man  who 
had  violated  all  his  oaths,  trampled  upon  all  their 
constitutional  liberties,  burned  and  sacked  their 
cities,  confiscated  their  wealth,  hanged,  beheaded, 
burned,  and  buried  alive  their  innocent  brethren, 
now  came  forward,  not  to  implore,  but  to  offer 
forgiveness.  Not  in  sackcloth,  but  in  royal  robes ; 
not  with  ashes,  but  with  a  diadem  upon  his  head, 
did  the  murderer  present  himself  vicariously  upon 
the  scene  of  his  crimes.  It  may  be  supposed 
that,  even  in  the  sixteenth  century,  there  were 
many  minds  which  would  revolt  at  such  blas 
phemy.  Furthermore,  even  had  the  people  of 
Holland  been  weak  enough  to  accept  the  pardon, 
it  was  impossible  to  believe  that  the  promise 
would  be  fulfilled.  It  was  sufficiently  known 
how  much  faith  was  likely  to  be  kept  with  heretics, 
notwithstanding  that  the  act  was  fortified  by  a 
papal  Bull,  dated  on  the  30th  of  April,  by  which 
Gregory  XIII.  promised  forgiveness  to  those 
Netherland  sinners  who  duly  repented  and  sought 
absolution  for  their  crimes,  even  although  they 
had  sinned  more  than  seven  times  seven. 

For  a  moment  the  Prince  had  feared  lest  the 
pardon  might  produce  some  effect  upon  men 
wearied  by  interminable  suffering,  but  the  event 
proved  him  wrong.  It  was  received  with  uni 
versal  and  absolute  contempt.  No  man  came 
forward  to  take  advantage  of  its  conditions,  save 


JOHN     LOTHROP     MOTLEY. 


645 


one  brewer  in  Utrecht,  and  the  son  of  a  refugee 
pedler  from  Leyden.  With  these  exceptions,  the 
only  ones  recorded,  Holland  remained  deaf  to  the 
royal  voice.  The  city  of  Leyden  was  equally 
cold  to  the  messages  of  mercy,  which  were 
especially  addressed  to  its  population  by  Valdez 
and  his  agents.  Certain  Netherlander,  belong 
ing  to  the  King's  party,  and  familiarly  called 
"  Glippers,"  despatched  from  the  camp  many 
letters  to  their  rebellious  acquaintances  in  the 
city.  In  these  epistles  the  citizens  of  Leyden 
were  urgently  and  even  pathetically  exhorted  to 
submission  by  their  loyal  brethren,  and  were 
implored  "to  take  pity  upon  their  poor  old 
fathers,  their  daughters,  and  their  wives."  But 
the  burghers  of  Leyden  thought  that  the  best 
pity  which  they  could  show  to  those  poor  old 
fathers,  daughters,  and  wives,  was  to  keep  them 
from  the  clutches  of  the  Spanish  soldiery ;  so  they 
made  no  answer  to  the  Glippers,  save  by  this 
single  line,  which  they  wrote  on  a  sheet  of  paper, 
and  forwarded,  like  a  letter,  to  Valdez; 

"  Fistula  dulce  canit,  volucrem  cum  decipit  auceps." 

According  to  the  advice  early  given  by  the 
Prince  of  Orange,  the  citizens  had  taken  an 
account  of  their  provisions  of  all  kinds,  including 
the  live  stock.  By  the  end  of  June,  the  city  was 
placed  on  a  strict  allowance  of  food,  all  the 
provisions  being  purchased  by  the  authorities  at 
an  equitable  price.  Half  a  pound  of  meat  and 
half  a  pound  of  bread  was  allotted  to  a  full  grown 
man,  and  to  the  rest,  a  due  proportion.  The 
city  being  strictly  invested,  no  communication, 
save  by  carrier  pigeons,  and  by  a  few  swift  and 
skilful  messengers,  called  jumpers,  was  possible. 
Sorties  and  fierce  combats  were,  however,  of 
daily  occurrence,  and  a  handsome  bounty  was 
offered  to  any  man  who  brought  into  the  city 
gates  the  head  of  a  Spaniard.  The  reward  was 
paid  many  times,  but  the  population  was  be 
coming  so  excited  and  so  apt,  that  the  authorities 
felt  it  dangerous  to  permit  the  continuance  of 
these  conflicts.  Lest  the  city,  little  by  little, 
should  lose  its  few  disciplined  defenders,  it  was 
now  proclaimed,  by  sound  of  church  bell,  that  in 
future  no  man  should  leave  the  gates. 

The  Prince  had  his  head-quarters  at  Delft  and 
at  Rotterdam.  Between  those  two  cities,  an  im 
portant  fortress,  called  Polderwaert,  secured  him 
in  the  control  of  the  alluvial  quadrangle,  watered 
on  two  sides  by  the  Yssel,  and  the  Meuse.  On 
the  29th  June,  the  Spaniards,  feeling  its  value, 
had  made  an  unsuccessful  effort  to  carry  this  fort 
by  storm.  They  had  been  beaten  off,  with  the 
loss  of  several  hundred  men,  the  Prince  remaining 
in  possession  of  the  position,  from  which  alone  he 
could  hope  to  relieve  Leyden.  He  still  held  in 
his  hand  the  keys  with  which  he  could  unlock  the 
ocean  gates  and  let  the  waters  in  upon  the  land, 
and  he  had  long  been  convinced  that  nothing 
could  save  the  city  but  to  break  the  dykes. 
Leyden  was  not  upon  the  sea,  but  he  could  send 
the  sea  to  Leyden,  although  an  army  fit  to 
encounter  the  besieging  force  under  Valdez  could 


not  be  levied.  The  battle  of  Mookerheyde  had, 
for  the  present,  quite  settled  the  question  of  land 
relief,  but  it  was  possible  to  besiege  the  besiegers 
with  the  waves  of  the  ocean.  The  Spaniards 
occupied  the  coast  from  the  Hague  to  Vlaardingen, 
but  the  dykes  along  the  Meuse  and  Yssel  were  in 
possession  of  the  Prince.  He  determined  that 
these  should  be  pierced,  while,  at  the  same  time, 
the  great  sluices  at  Rotterdam,  Schiedam,  and 
Delfthaven  should  be  opened.  The  damage  to 
the  fields,  villages,  and  growing  crops  would  be 
enormous,  but  he  felt  that  no  other  course  could 
rescue  Leyden,  and  with  it  the  whole  of  Holland 
from  destruction.  His  clear  expositions  and  im 
passioned  eloquence  at  last  overcame  all  resistance. 
By  the  middle  of  July  the  estates  fully  consented 
to  his  plan,  and  its  execution  was  immediately 
undertaken.  « Better  a  drowned  land  than  a 
lost  land,"  cried  the  patriots,  with  enthusiasm,  as 
they  devoted  their  fertile  fields  to  desolation.  The 
enterprise  for  restoring  their  territory,  for  a  season, 
to  the  waves,  from  which  it  had  been  so  patiently 
rescued,  was  conducted  with  as  much  regularity 
as  if  it  had  been  a  profitable  undertaking.  A 
capital  was  formally  subscribed,  for  which  a  certain 
number  of  bonds  were  issued,  payable  at  a  long 
date.  In  addition  to  this  preliminary  fund,  a 
monthly  allowance  of  forty-five  guldens  was  votefl 
by  the  estates,  until  the  work  should  be  completed, 
and  a  large  sum  was  contributed  by  the  ladies  of 
the  land,  who  freely  furnished  their  plate,  jewellery, 
and  costly  furniture  to  the  furtherance  of  the 
scheme. 

Meantime,  Valdez,  on  the  30th  July,  issued 
most  urgent  and  ample  offers  of  pardon  to  the 
citizens,  if  they  would  consent  to  open  their  gates 
and  accept  the  King's  authority,  but  his  overtures 
were  received  with  silent  contempt,  notwith 
standing  that  the  population  was  already  ap 
proaching  the  starvation  point.  Although  not 
yet  fully  informed  of  the  active  measures  taken 
by  the  Prince,  yet  they  still  chose  to  rely  upon  his 
energy  and  their  own  fortitude,  rather  than  upon 
the  honied  words  which  had  formerly  been  heard 
at  the  gates  of  Harlem  and  of  Naarden.  On  the 
3d  of  August,  the  Prince,  accompanied  by  Paul 
Buys,  chief  of  the  commission  appointed  to 
execute  the  enterprise,  went  in  person  along  the 
Yssel,  as  far  as  Kappelle,  and  superintended  the 
rupture  of  the  dykes  in  sixteen  places.  The  gates 
at  Schiedam  and  Rotterdam  were  opened,  and  the 
ocean  began  to  pour  over  the  land.  While 
waiting  for  the  waters  to  rise,  provisions  were 
rapidly  collected,  according  to  an  edict  of  the 
Prince,  in  all  the  principal  towns  of  the  neighbor 
hood,  and  some  two  hundred  vessels,  of  various 
sizes,  had  also  been  got  ready  at  Rotterdam, 
Delfthaven,  and  other  ports. 

The  citizens  of  Leyden  were,  however,  already 
becoming  impatient,  for  their  bread  was  gone, 
and  of  its  substitute  malt  cake,  they  had  but 
slender  provision.  On  the  12th  of  August  they 
received  a  letter  from  the  Prince,  encouraging 
them  to  resistance,  and  assuring  them  of  a  speed-, 
relief,  and  on  the  21st  they  addressed  a  despatcl 


646 


JOHN  LOTHROP  MOTLEY. 


to  him  in  reply,  stating  that  they  had  now 
fulfilled  their  original  promise,  for  they  had  held 
out  two  months  with  food,  and  another  month 
without  food.  If  not  soon  assisted,  human 
strength  could  do  no  more ;  their  malt  cake 
would  last  but  four  days,  and  after  that  was 
gone,  there,  was  nothing  left  but  starvation. 
Upon  the  same  day,  however,  they  received  a 
letter,  dictated  by  the  Prince,  who  now  lay  in  bed 
at  Rotterdam  with  a  violent  fever,  assuring  them 
that  the  dykes  were  all  pierced,  and  that  the 
water  was  rising  upon  the  "  Land-scheiding," 
the  great  outer  barrier  which  separated  (lie  city 
from  the  sea.  He  said  nothing,  however,  of  his 
own  illness,  which  would  have  cast  a  deep 
shadow  over  the  joy  which  now  broke  forth 
among  the  burghers. 

The  letter  was  read  publicly  in  the  market 
place,  and  to  increase  the  cheerfulness,  burgo 
master  Van  der  Werf,  knowing  the  sensibility 
of  his  countrymen  to  music,  ordered  the  city 
musicians  to  perambulate  the  streets,  playing 
lively  melodies  and  martial  airs.  Salvos  of 
cannon  were  likewise  fired,  and  the  starving 
city  for  a  brief  space  put  on  the  aspect  of  a 
holiday,  much  to  the  astonishment  of  the  besieging 
forces,  who  were  not  yet  aware  of  the  Prince's 
efforts.  They  perceived  very  soon,  however,  as 
the  water  everywhere  about  Leyden  had  risen  to 
the  depth  of  ten  inches,  that  they  stood  in  a 
perilous  position.  It  was  no  trifling  danger  to  be 
thus  attacked  by  the  waves  of  the  ocean,  which 
seemed  about  to  obey  with  docility  the  command 
of  William  the  Silent.  Valdez  became  anxious 
and  uncomfortable  at  the  strange  aspect  of  affairs ; 
for  the  besieging  army  was  now  in  its  turn 
beleaguered,  and  by  a  stronger  power  than  man's. 
He  consulted  with  the  most  experienced  of  his 
officers,  with  the  country  people,  with  the  most 
distinguished  among  the  Glippers,  and  derived 
encouragement  from  their  views  concerning  the 
Prince's  plan.  They  pronounced  it  utterly  futile 
and  hopeless.  The  Clippers  knew  the  country 
well,  and  ridiculed  the  desperate  project  in 
unmeasured  terms. 

Even  in  the  city  itself,  a  dull  distrust  had 
succeeded  to  the  first  vivid  gleam  of  hope,  while 
the  few  royalists  among  the  population  boldly 
taunted  their  fellow-citizens  to  their  faces  with 
the  absurd  vision  of  relief  which  they  had  so 
fondly  welcomed.  <!  Go  up  to  the  tower,  ye 
Beggars,"  was  the  frequent  and  taunting  cry, 
"  go  up  to  the  tower,  and  tell  us  if  ye  can  see  the 
ocean  coming  over  the  dry  land  to  your  relief" — 
and  day  after  day  they  did  go  up  to  the  ancient 
tower  of  Hengist,  with  heavy  heart  and  anxious 
eye,  watching,  hoping,  praying,  fearing,  and  at 
last  almost  despairing  of  relief  by  God  or  man. 
On  the  27th  they  addre«sed  a  desponding  letter 
to  the  estates,  complaining  that  the  city  had  been 
forgotten  in  its  utmost  need,  and  on  the  same 
day  a  prompt  and  warm-hearted  reply  was  re 
ceived,  in  which  the  citizens  were  assured  that 
every  human  effort  was  to  be  made  for  their 
relief.  «  Rather,"  said  the  estates,  "  will  we  see 


our  whole  land  and  all  our  possessions  perish  in 
the  waves,  than  forsake  thee,  Leyden.  We  know 
,full  well,  moreover,  that  with  Leyden,  all  Holland 
must  perish  also."  They  excused  themselves  for 
not  having  more  frequently  written,  upon  the 
ground  that  the  whole  management  of  the 
measures  for  their  relief  had  been  intrusted  to 
the  Prince,  by  whom  alone  all  the  details  had 
been  administered,  and  all  the  correspondence 
conducted. 

The    fever    of    the    Prince    had,    meanwhile, 
reached  its  height.     He  lay  at  Rotterdam,  utterly 
prostrate  in  body,  and  with  mind  agitated  nearly 
to   delirium,  by   the   perpetual    and    almost   un 
assisted    schemes    which    he    was   constructing. 
Relief,  not  only  for  Leyden,  but  for  the  whole 
country,  now  apparently  sinking  into  the  abyss, 
was    the  vision  which  he   pursued  as  he  tossed 
upon  his  restless  couch.     Never  was  illness  more 
unseasonable.     His  attendants   were  in    despair, 
for  it  was  necessary  that   his  mind  should  for  a 
time  be  spared  the  agitation  of  business.     The 
physicians  who  attended   him   agreed,  as  to  his 
disorder,  only  in   this,  that  it  was  the  result  of 
mental    fatigue  and    melancholy,   and    could    be 
cured    only    by    removing    all    distressing    and 
perplexing  subjects  from  his  thoughts,  but  all  the 
physicians  in  the  world  could  not  have  succeeded 
in  turning  his  attention  for  an  instant  from  the 
great  cause  of  his  country.     Leyden  lay,  as  it 
were,  anxious  and  despairing  at  his  feet,  and  it 
was  impossible  for  him  to  close   his  ears  to  her 
cry.     Therefore,  from  his  sick  bed  he  continued 
to  dictate  words  of  counsel  and  encouragement  to 
the   city ;    to    Admiral    Boisot   commanding   the 
fleet,    minute    directions   and    precautions.      To 
wards   the  end  of  August  a  vague   report  had 
found  its  way  into  his  sick  chamber  that  Leyden 
had  fallen,  and  although  he  refused  to  credit  the 
tale,  yet  it  served   to  harass  his  mind,  and    to 
heighten  fever.     Cornelius  Van  Mierop,  Receiver- 
General  of  Holland,  had  occasion  to  visit  him  at 
Rotterdam,  and  strange  to  relate,  found  the  house 
almost  deserted.     Penetrating,  unattended,  to  the 
Prince's  bed-chamber,  he  found  him  lying  quite 
alone.     Inquiring   what   had    become  of  all    his 
attendants,  he  was  answered  by  the  Prince,  in  a 
very  feeble  voice,  that  he  had  sent  them  all  away. 
The  Receiver-General  seems,  from  this,  to  have 
rather  hastily  arrived  at  the  conclusion  thai  the 
Prince's   disorder    was   the   pest,    and    that    his 
servants  and  friends  had  all  deserted  him  from 
cowardice.     This  was  very  far  from   being  the 
case.     His   private  secretary    and    his  maitre  d' 
hotel  watched,  day  and  night,  by  his  couch,  and 
the  best  physicians  of  the  city  were  in  constant 
attendance.     By  a  singular  accident,  all  had  been 
despatched   on   different  errands,  at  the  express 
desire  of  their  master,  but  there  had  never  been  a 
suspicion    that    his    disorder    was    the    pest,   or 
pestilential.     Nerves   of  steel,    and    a    frame   of 
adamant  could  alone  have  resisted  the  constant 
anxiety  and  the  consuming  fatigue  to  which  he 
had  so  long  been  exposed.     His  illness  had  been 
aggravated    by   the   rumor   of    Leyden's   fall,   a 


JOHN     LOTH  HOP     MOTLEY. 


647 


fiction  which  Cornelius  Mierop  was  now  enabled 
flatly  to  contradict.  The  Prince  began  to  mend 
from  that  hour.  By  the  end  of  the  first  week  of 
September,  he  wrote  a  long  letter  to  his  brother, 
assuring  him  of  his  convalescence,  and  expressing, 
as  usual,  a  calm  confidence  in  the  divine  decrees — 
"  God  will  ordain  for  me,'  said  he,  "  all  which  is 
necessary  for  my  good  and  my  salvation.  He 
will  load  me  with  no  more  afflictions  than  the 
fragility  of  this  nature  can  sustain." 

The  preparations  for  the  relief  of  Leyden,  which, 
notwithstanding  his  exertions,  had  grown  slack 
during  his  sickness,  were  now  vigorously  resumed. 
On  the  1st  of  September,  Admiral  Boisot  arrived 
out  of  Zealand  with  a  small  number  of  vessels, 
and  with  eight  hundred  veteran  sailors.  A  wild 
and  ferocious  crew  were  those  eight  hundred 
Zealanders.  Scarred,  hacked,  and  even  maimed, 
in  the  unceasing  conflicts  in  which  their  lives  had 
passed;  wearing  crescents  in  their  caps,  with  the 
inscription,  "Rather  Turkish  than  Popish;"  re 
nowned  far  and  wide,  as  much  for  their  ferocity 
as  for  their  nautical  skill ;  the  appearance  of  these 
wildest  of  the  "Sea-beggars"  was  both  eccentric 
and  terrific.  They  were  known  never  to  give  nor 
to  take  quarter,  for  they  went  to  mortal  combat 
only,  and  had  sworn  to  spare  neither  noble  nor 
simple,  neither  king,  kaiser,  nor  pope,  should  they 
tall  into  their  power. 

More  than  two  hundred  vessels  had  been  now 
assembled,  carrying  generally  ten  pieces  of  cannon, 
with  from  ten  to  eighteen  oars,  and  manned  with 
twenty -five  hundred  veterans,  experienced  both  on 
Ian  1  and  water.  The  work  was  now  undertaken 
in  earnest.  The  distance  from  Leyden  to  the 
outer  dyke,  over  whose  ruins  the  ocean  had  al 
ready  been  admitted,  was  nearly  fifteen  miles. 
This  reclaimed  territory,  however,  was  not  main 
tained  against  the  sea  by  these  external  barriers 
alone.  The  flotilla  made  its  way  with  ease  to 
tlio  Land-scheiding,  a  strong  dyke  within  five 
miles  of  Leyden,  but  here  its  progress  was  arrested. 
The  approach  to  the  city  was  surrounded  by 
many  strong  ramparts,  one  within  the  other,  by 
which  it  was  defended  against  its  ancient  enemy, 
the  ocean,  precisely  like  the  circurnvallations  by 
means  of  which  it  was  now  assailed  by  its  more 
recent  enemy,  the  Spaniard.  To  enable  the  fleet, 
however,  to  sail  over  the  land,  it  was  necessary  to 
break  through  this  two-fold  series  of  defences.  Be 
tween  the  Land-scheiding  and  Leyden  were 
several  dykes,  which  kept  out  the  water ;  upon 
the  level  territory,  thus  encircled,  were  many 
villages,  together  with  a  chain  of  sixty-two  forts, 
which  completely  occupied  the  land.  All  these 
villages  and  fortresses  were  held  by  the  veteran 
troops  of  the  King;  the  besieging  force  being 
about  four  times  as  strong  as  that  which  was 
coining  to  the  rescue. 

The  Prince  had  given  orders  that  the  Land- 
scheiding,  which  was  still  one-and-a-half  foot 
above  water,  should  be  taken  possession  of,  at 
every  hazard.  On  the  night  of  the  10th  and  llth 
of  September  this  was  accomplished,  by  surprise, 
and  in  a  masterly  manner.  The  few  Spaniards 


who  had  been  stationed  upon  the  dyke  were  all 
despatched  or  driven  off,  and  the  patriots  fortified 
themselves  upon  it,  without  the  loss  of  a  man. 
As  the  day  dawned  the  Spaniards  saw  the  fatal 
error  which  they  had  committed  in  leaving  this 
bulwark  so  feebly  defended,  and  from  two  villages 
which  stood  close  to  the  dyke,  the  troops  now 
rushed  in  considerable  force  to  recover  what  they 
had  lost.  A  hot  action  succeeded,  but  the  patriots 
had  too  securely  established  themselves.  They 
completely  defeated  the  enemy,  who  retired,  leaving 
hundreds  of  dead  on  the  field,  and  the  patriots  in 
complete  possession  of  the  Land-scheiding.  This 
first  action  was  sanguinary  and  desperate.  It 
gave  an  earnest  of  what  these  people,  who  came 
to  relieve  their  brethren,  by  sacrificing  their 
property  and  their  lives,  were  determined  to  effect. 
It  gave  a  revolting  proof,  too,  of  the  intense  hatred 
which  nerved  their  arms.  A  Zealander,  having 
struck  down  a  Spaniard  on  the  dyke,  knelt  on 
his  bleeding  enemy,  tore  his  heart  from  his  bosom, 
fastened  his  teeth  in  it  for  an  instant,  and  then 
threw  it  to  a  dog,  with  the  exclamation,  «  'Tis  too 
bitter."  The  Spanish  heart  was,  however,  rescued, 
and  kept  for  years,  with  the  marks  of  the  soldier's 
teeth  upon  it,  a  sad  testimonial  of  the  ferocity 
engendered  by  this  war  for  national  existence. 

The  great  dyke  having  been  thus  occupied,  no 
time  was  lost  in  breaking  it  through  in  several 
places,  a  work  which  was  accomplished  under  the 
very  eyes  of  the  enemy.  The  fleet  sailed  through 
the  gaps;  but,  after  their  passage  had  been  effected 
in  good  order,  the  Admiral  found,  to  his  surprise. 
that  it  was  not  the  only  rampart  to  be  carried 
The  Prince  had  been  informed,  by  those  who 
claimed  to  know  the  country,  that,  when  once  the 
Land-schieding  had  been  passed,  the  water  would 
flood  the  country  as  far  as  Leyden,  but  the  "  Green- 
way,"  another  long  dyke,  three-quarters  of  a  mile 
farther  inward,  now  rose  at  least  a  foot  above  the 
water,  to  oppose  their  further  progress.  For 
tunately,  by  a  second  and  still  more  culpable 
carelessness,  this  dyke  had  been  left  by  the 
Spaniards  in  as  unprotected  a  state  as  the  first 
had  been.  Promptly  and  audaciously  Admiral 
Boisot  took  possession  of  this  barrier  also,  levelled 
it  in  many  places,  and  brought  his  flotilla,  in 
triumph,  over  its  ruins.  Again,  however,  he  was 
doomed  to  disappointment.  A  large  mere,  called 
the  Freshwater  Lake,  was  known  to  extend  itself 
directly  in  his  path  about  midway  between  the 
Land-scheiding  and  the  city.  To  this  piece  of 
water,  into  which  he  expected  to  have  instantly 
floated,  his  only  passage  lay  through  one  deep 
canal.  The  sea  which  had  thus  far  borne  him  on, 
now  diffusing  itself  over  a  very  wide  surface, 
and  under  the  influence  of  an  adverse  wind,  had 
become  too  shallow  for  his  ships.  The  canal 
alone  was  deep  enough,  but  it  led  directly  towards 
a  bridge,  strongly  occupied  by  the  enemy.  Hostile 
troops,  moreover,  to  the  amount  of  three  thousand 
occupied  both  sides  of  the  canal.  The  bold 
Boisot,  nevertheless,  determined  to  force  his 
passage,  if  possible.  Selecting  a  few  of  his 
strongest  vessels,  his  heaviest  artillery,  and  his 


648 


JOHN     LOTHROP     MOTLEY. 


bravest  sailors,  he  led  the  van  himself,  in  a  des 
perate  attempt  to  make  his  way  to  the  mere.  He 
opened  a  hot  fire  upon  the  bridge,  then  converted 
into  a  fortress,  while  his  men  engaged  in  hand-to- 
hand  combat  with  a  succession  of  skirmishers 
from  the  troops  along  the  canal.  After  losing  a 
few  men,  and  ascertaining  the  impregnable  posi 
tion  of  the  enemy,  he  was  obliged  to  withdraw, 
defeated,  and  almost  despairing. 

A  week  had  elapsed  since  the  great  dyke  had 
been  pierced,  and  the  flotilla  now  lay  motionless 
in  shallow  water,  having  accomplished  less  than 
two  miles.  The  wind,  too,  was  easterly,  causing 
the  sea  rather  to  sink  than  to  rise.  Everything 
wore  a  gloomy  aspect,  when,  fortunately,  on  the 
18th,  the  wind  shifted  to  the  northwest,  and  for 
three  days  blew  a  gale.  The  waters  rose  rapidly, 
and  before  the  second  day  was  closed  the  armada 
was  afloat  again.  Some  fugitives  from  Zoeter- 
meer  village  now  arrived,  and  informed  the 
Admiral  that,  by  making  a  detour  to  the  right,  he 
could  completely  circumvent  the  bridge  and  the 
meer.  They  guided  him,  accordingly,  to  a  com 
paratively  low  dyke,  which  led  between  the 
villages  of  Zoetermeer  and  Benthuyzen.  A  strong 
force  of  Spaniards  was  stationed  in  each  place, 
but,  seized  with  a  panic,  instead  of  sallying  to 
defend  the  barrier,  they  fled  inwardly  towards 
Leyden,  and  halted  at  the  village  of  North  Aa. 
It  was  natural  that  they  should  be  amazed. 
Nothing  is  more  appalling  to  the  imagination  than 
the  rising  ocean  tide,  when  man  feels  himself 
within  its  power;  and  here  were  the  waters,  hourly 
deepening  and  closing  around  them,  devouring 
the  earth  beneath  their  feet,  while  on  the  waves 
rode  a  flotilla,  manned  by  a  determined  race, 
whose  courage  and  ferocity  were  known  through 
out  the  world.  The  Spanish  soldiers,  brave  as 
they  were  on  land,  were  not  sailors,  and  in  the 
naval  contests  which  had  taken  place  between 
them  and  the  Hollanders  had  been  almost  invari 
ably  defeated.  It  was  not  surprising,  in  these 
amphibious  skirmishes,  where  discipline  was  of 
little  avail,  and  habitual  audacity  faltered  at  the 
vague  dangers  which  encompassed  them,  that 
the  foreign  troops  should  lose  their  presence  of 
mind. 

Three  barriers,  one  within  the  other,  had  now 
been  passed,  and  the  flotilla,  advancing  with  the 
advancing  waves,  and  driving  the  enemy  steadily 
before  it,  was  drawing  nearer  to  the  beleagured 
city.  As  one  circle  after  another  was  passed,  the 
besieging  army  found  itself  compressed  within  a 
constantly  contracting  field.  The  "Ark  of  Delft," 
an  enormous  vessel,  with  shot-proof  bulwarks,  and 
moved  by  paddle-wheels  turned  by  a  crank,  now 
Arrived  at  Zoetermeer,  and  was  soon  followed  by  the 
whole  fleet.  After  a  brief  delay,  sufficient  to 
allow  the  few  remaining  villagers  to  escape,  both 
Zoetermeer  and  Benthuyzen,  with  the  fortifica 
tions,  were  set  on  fire,  and  abandoned  to  their 
fate.  The  blaze  lighted  up  the  desolate  and 
watery  waste  around,  and  was  seen  at  Leyden, 
where  it  was  hailed  as  the  beacon  of  hope.  With 
out  further  impediment,  the  Armada  proceeded  to 


North  Aa ;  the  enemy  retreating  from  this  position 
also,  and  flying  to  Zoeterwoude,  a  strongly  forti 
fied  village  but  a  mile  and  three-quarters  from  the 
city  walls.  It  was  now  swarming  with  troops, 
for  the  bulk  of  the  besieging  army  had  gradually 
been  driven  into  a  narrow  circle  of  forts,  within 
the  immediate  neighborhood  of  Leyden.  Besides 
Zoeterwoude,  the  two  posts  where  they  were 
principally  established  were  Lammen  and  Ley- 
derdorp,  each  within  three  hundred  rods  of  the 
town.  At  Leyderdorp  were  the  headquarters  of 
Valdez ;  Colonel  Borgia  commanded  in  the  very 
strong  fortress  of  Lammen. 

The  fleet  was,  however,  delayed  at  North  Aa 
by  another  barrier,  called  the  "  Kirk-way."  The 
waters,  too,  spreading  once  more  over  a  wider 
space,  and  diminishing  under  an  east  wind,  which 
had  again  arisen,  no  longer  permitted  their  pro 
gress,  so  that  very  soon  the  whole  armada  was 
stranded  anew.  The  waters  fell  to  the  depth  of 
nine  inches,  while  the  vessels  required  eighteen 
and  twenty.  Day  after  day  the  fleet  lay  motion 
less  upon  the  shallow  sea.  Orange,  rising  from 
his  sick  bed  as  soon  as  he  could  stand,  now  came 
on  board  the  fleet.  His  presence  diffused  uni 
versal  joy  ;  his  words  inspired  his  desponding  army 
with  fresh  hope.  He  rebuked  the  impatient  spirits 
who,  weary  of  their  compulsory  idleness,  had 
shown  symptoms  of  ill-timed  ferocity,  and  those 
eight  hundred  mad  Zealanders,  so  frantic  in  their 
haired  to  the  foreigners  who  had  so  long  profaned 
their  land,  were  as  docile  as  children  to  the  Prince. 
He  reconnoitered  the  whole  ground,  and  issued 
orders  for  the  immediate  destruction  of  the  Kirk- 
way,  the  last  important  barrier  which  separated 
the  fleet  from  Leyden.  Then,  after  a  long  con 
ference  with  Admiral  Boisot,  he  returned  to  Delft. 
Meantime,  the  city  was  at  its  last  gasp.  The 
burghers  had  been  in  a  state  of  uncertainty  for 
many  days  ;  being  aware  that  the  fleet  had  set 
forth  for  their  relief,  but  knowing  full  well  the 
thousand  obstacles  which  it  had  to  surmount. 
They  had  guessed  its  progress  by  the  illumination 
from  the  blazing  villages  ;  they  had  heard  its  salvos 
of  artillery,  on  its  arrival  at  North  Aa ;  but  since 
then,  all  had  been  dark  and  mournful  again,  hope 
and  fear,  in  sickening  alternation,  distracting  every 
breast.  They  knew  that  the  wind  was  unfavor 
able,  and  at  the  dawn  of  each  day  every  eye  was 
turned  wistfully  to  the  vanes  of  the  steeples.  So 
long  as  the  easterly  breeze  prevailed,  they  felt,  as 
they  anxiously  stood  on  towers  and  housetops, 
that  they  must  look  in  vain  for  the  welcome 
ocean.  Yet,  while  thus  patiently  waiting,  they 
were  literally  starving;  for  even  the  misery  endured 
at  Harlem  had  not  reached  that  depth  and  inten 
sity  of  agony  to  which  Leyden  was  now  reduced. 
Bread,  malt  cake,  horse  flesh,  had  entirely  disap 
peared  ;  dogs,  cats,  rats,  and  other  vermin,  were 
esteemed  luxuries.  A  small  number  of  cows, 
kept  as  long  as  possible,  for  their  milk,  still 
remained ;  but  a  few  were  killed  from  day  to  day, 
and  distributed  in  minute  proportions,  hardly 
sufficient  to  support  life  among  the  famishing 
population.  Starving  wretches  swarmed  daily 


JOHN    LOTHROP     MOTLEY 


649 


around  the  shambles  where  these  cattle  were 
slaughtered,  contending  for  any  morsel  which 
might  fall,  and  lapping  eagerly  the  blood  as  it  ran 
along  the  pavement ;  while  the  hides,  chopped 
and  boiled,  were  greedily  devoured.  Women  and 
children,  all  day  long,  were  seen  searching  gutters 
and  dunghills  for  morsels  of  food,  which  they 
disputed  fiercely  with  the  famishing  dogs.  The 
green  leaves  were  stripped  from  the  trees,  every 
living  herb  was  converted  into  human  food,  but 
these  expedients  could  not  avert  starvation.  The 
daily  mortality  was  frightful — infants  starved  to 
death  on  the  maternal  breasts,  which  famine  had 
parched  and  withered ;  mothers  dropped  dead  in 
the  streets,  with  their  dead  children  in  their  arms. 
In  many  a  house  the  watchmen,  in  their  rounds, 
found  a  whole  family  of  corpses,  father,  mother, 
and  children,  side  by  side,  for  a  disorder  called  the 
plague,  naturally  engendered  of  hardship  and 
famine,  now  came,  as  if  in  kindness,  to  abridge 
the  agony  of  the  people.  The  pestilence  stalked 
at  noonday  through  the  city,  and  the  doomed 
inhabitants  fell  like  grass  beneath  its  scythe. 
From  six  thousand  to  eight  thousand  human 
beings  sank  before  this  scourge  alone,  yet  the 
people  resolutely  held  out — women  and  men 
mutually  encouraging  each  other  to  resist  the 
entrance  of  their  foreign  foe — an  evil  more  horrible 
than  pest  or  famine. 

The  missives  from  Valdez,  who  saw  more 
vividly  than  the  besieged  could  do,  the  uncertainty 
of  his  own  position,  now  poured  daily  into  the 
city,  the  enemy  becoming  more  prodigal  of  his 
vows,  as  he  felt  that  the  ocean  might  yet  save  the 
victims  from  his  grasp.  The  inhabitants  in  their 
ignorance,  had  gradually  abandoned  their  hopes 
of  relief,  but  thay  spurned  the  summons  to  sur 
render.  Leyden  was  sublime  in  its  despair.  A 
few  murmurs  were,  however,  occasionally  heard 
at  the  steadfastness  of  the  magistrates,  and  a  dead 
body  was  placed  at  the  door  of  the  burgomaster, 
as  a  silent  witness  against  his  inflexibility.  A 
party  of  the  more  faint-hearted  even  assailed  the 
heroic  Adrian  Van  der  Werf  with  threats  and 
reproaches  as  he  passed  through  the  streets.  A 
crowd  had  gathered  around  him,  as  he  reached  a 
triangular  place  in  the  centre  of  the  town,  into 
which  many  of  the  principal  streets  emptied  them 
selves,  and  upon  one  side  of  which  stood  the 
church  of  Saint  Pancras,  with  its  high  brick 
tower  surmounted  by  two  pointed  turrets,  and 
with  two  ancient  lime  trees  at  its  entrance.  There 
stood  the  burgomaster,  a  tall,  haggard,  imposing 
figure,  with  dark  visage,  and  a  tranquil  but 
commanding  eye.  He  waved  his  broad-leaved 
felt  hat  for  silence,  and  then  exclaimed,  in  lan 
guage  which  has  been  almost  literally  preserved, 
"  What  would  ye,  my  friends'!  Why  do  ye 
murmur  tint  we  do  not  break  our  vows  and 
surrender  the  city  to  the  Spaniards  ?  a  fate  more 
horrible  than  the  agony  which  she  now  endures. 
I  tell  you  I  have  made  an  oath  to  hold  the  city,  and 
may  God  give  me  strength  to  keep  my  oath]  I  can 
die  but  once ;  whether  by  your  hands,  the  enemy's, 
or  by  the  hand  of  God.  My  own  fate  is  indiffer- 
82 


ent  to  me,  not  so  that  of  the  city  intrusted  to  my 
care.  I  know  that  we  shall  starve  if  not  soon 
relieved  ;  but  starvation  is  preferable  to  the  dis 
honored  death  which  is  the  only  alternative. 
Your  menaces  move  me  not ;  my  life  is  at  your 
disposal ;  here  is  my  sword,  plunge  it  into  my 
breast,  and  divide  my  flesh  among  you.  Take 
my  body  to  appease  your  hunger,  but  expect  no 
surrender,  so  long  as  I  remain  alive." 

The  words  of  the  stout  burgomaster  inspired  a 
new  courage  in  the  hearts  of  those  who  heard  him, 
and  a  shout  of  applause  and  defiance  arose  from 
the  famishing  but  enthusiastic  crowd.  Thev  left 
the  place,  after  exchanging  new  vows  of  fidelity 
with  their  magistrate,  and  again  ascended  tower 
and  battlement  to  watch  for  the  coming  fleet. 
From  the  ramparts  they  hurled  renewed  defiance 
at  the  enemy.  "  Ye  call  us  rat-eaters  and  dog- 
eaters,"  they  cried,  "  and  it  is  true.  So  long, 
then,  as  ye  hear  dog  bark  or  cat  mew  within  the 
walls,  ye  may  know  that  the  city  holds  out.  And 
when  all  has  perished' but  ourselves,  be  sure  that 
we  will  each  devour  our  left  arms,  retaining  our 
right  to  defend  our  women,  our  liberty,  and  cur  re 
ligion,  against  the  foreign  tyrant.  Should  God,  in 
his  wrath,  doom  us  to  destruction,  and  deny  us  all  re 
lief,  even  then  will  we  maintain  ourselves  forever 
against  your  entrance.  When  the  last  hour  has 
come,  with  our  own  hands  we  will  set  fire  to  the  city 
and  perish,  men,  women,  and  children,  together  in 
the  flames,  rather  than  suffer  our  homes  to  be  pol 
luted,  and  our  liberties  to  be  crushed."  Such  words 
of  defiance,  thundered  daily  from  the  battlements, 
sufficiently  informed  Valdez  as  to  his  chance  of 
conquering  the  city,  either  by  force  or  fraud,  but 
at  the  same  time,  he  felt  comparatively  relieved  by 
the  inactivity  of  Boisot's  fleet,  which  still  lay 
stranded  at  North  A  a.  "  As  well,"  shouted  the 
Spaniards,  derisively,  to  the  citizens,  "  as  well  can 
the  Prince  of  Orange  pluck  the  stars  from  the  sky 
as  bring  the  ocean  to  the  walls  of  Leyden  lor  your 
relief." 

On  the  28th  of  September,  a  dove  flew  into  the 
city,  bringing  a  letter  from  Admiral  Boisot.  In 
this  despatch,  the  position  of  the  fleet  at  North 
Aa  was  described  in  encouraging  terms,  and  the 
inhabitants  were  assured  that,  in  a  very  few  days 
at  furthest,  the  long-expected  relief  would  enter 
their  gates.  The  letter  was  read  publicly  upon 
the  market-place,  and  the  bells  were  rung  for  joy. 
Nevertheless  on  the  morrow,  the  vanes  pointed  to 
the  east,  the  waters  so  far  from  rising,  continued 
to  sink,  and  Admiral  Boisot  was  almost  in  despair. 
He  wrote  to  the  Prince,  that  if  the  spring  tide  now 
to  be  expected,  should  not,  together  with  a  strong 
and  favorable  wind,  come  immediately  to  their  relief, 
it  would  be  in  vain  to  attempt  anything  further, 
and  that  the  expedition  would,  of  necessity,  be 
abandoned.  The  tempest  came  to  their  relief.  A 
violent  equinoctial  gale,  on  the  night  of  the  1st 
and  2d  of  October,  came  storming  from  the 
northwest,  shifting  after  a  few  hours  full  eight 
points,  and  then  blowing  still  more  violently  from 
the  southwest.  The  waters  of  the  North  Sea 
were  piled  in  vast  masses  upon  the  southern  coast 


650 


JOHN    LOTHROP     MOTLEY 


of  Holland,  and  then  dashed  furiously  landward, 
the  ocean  rising  over  the  earth,  and  sweeping 
with  unrestrained  power  across  the  ruined  dykes. 

In  the  course  of  twenty-four  hours,  the  fleet  at 
North  Aa,  instead  of  nine  inches,  had  more  than 
two  feet  of  water.  No  time  was  lost.  The  Kirk- 
way,  which  had  been  broken  through  according 
to  the  Prince's  instructions,  was  now  completely 
overflowed,  and  the  fleet  sailed  at  midnight,  in 
the  midst  of  the  storm  and  darkness.  A  few 
sentinel  vessels  of  the  enemy  challenged  them  as 
they  steadily  rowed  towards  Zoeterwoude.  The 
answer  was  a  flash  from  Boisot's  cannon,  lighting 
up  the  black  waste  of  waters.  There  was  a  fierce 
naval  midnight  battle ;  a  strange  spectacle  among 
the  branches  of  those  quiet  orchards,  and  with  the 
chimney  stacks  of  half-submerged  farm  houses 
rising  around  the  contending  vessels.  The  neigh 
boring  village  of  Zoeterwoude  shook  with  the 
discharges  of  the  Zealanders'  cannon,  and  the 
Spaniards  assembled  in  that  fortress  knew  that 
the  rebel  Admiral  was  at  last  afloat  and  on  his 
course.  The  enemy's  vessels  were  soon  sunk, 
their  crews  hurled  into  the  waves.  On  went  the 
fleet,  sweeping  over  the  broad  waters  which  lay 
between  Zoeterwoude  and  Zweiten.  As  they 
approached  some  shallows,  which  led  into  the 
great  mere,  the  Zealanders  dashed  into  the  sea, 
and  with  sheer  strength  shouldered  every  vessel 
through.  Two  obstacles  lay  still  in  their  path — 
the  forts  of  Zoeterwoude  and  Lammen,  distant 
from  the  city  five  hundred  and  two  hundred  and 
fifty  yards  respectively.  Strong  redoubts,  both 
well  supplied  with  troops  and  artillery,  they  were 
likely  to  give  a  rough  reception  to  the  light  flotilla, 
but  the  panic,  which  had  hitherto  driven  their  foes 
before  the  advancing  patriots,  had  reached  Zoeter 
woude.  Hardly  was  the  fleet  in  sight  when  the 
Spaniards,  in  the  early  morning,  poured  out  from 
the  fortress,  and  fled  precipitately  to  the  left,  along 
a  road  which  led  in  a  westerly  direction  towards 
the  Hague.  Their  narrow  path  was  rapidly 
vanishing  in  the  waves,  and  hundreds  sank  be 
neath  the  constantly  deepening  and  treacherous 
flood.  The  wild  Zealanders,  too,  sprang  from 
their  vessels  upon  the  crumbling  dyke  and  drove 
their  retreating  foes  into  the  sea.  They  hurled 
their  harpoons  at  them,  with  an  accuracy  acquired 
in  many  a  polar  chase ;  they  plunged  into  the 
waves  in  the  keen  pursuit,  attacking  them  with 
boat-hook  and  dagger.  The  numbers  who  thus 
fell  beneath  these  corsairs,  who  neither  gave  nor 
took  quarter,  were  never  counted,  but  probably 
not  less  than  a  thousand  perished.  The  rest  effected 
their  escape  to  the  Hague. 

The  first  fortress,  was  thus  seized,  dismantled, 
set  on  fire,  and  passed,  and  a  few  strokes  of  the 
oars  brought  the  whole  fleet  close  to  Lammen. 
This  last  obstacle  rose  formidable  and  frowning 
directly  across  their  path.  Swarming  as  it  was 
with  soldiers,  and  bristling  with  artillery,  it  seemed 
to  defy  the  armada  either  to  carry  it  by  storm  or 
to  pass  under  its  guns  into  the  city.  It  appeared 
that  the  enterprise  was,  after  all,  to  founder 
within  sight  of  the  long  expecting  and  expected 


haven.  Boisot  anchored  his  fleet  within  a  re 
spectful  distance,  and  spent  what  remained  of 
the  day  in  carefully  reconnoitring  the  tort,  which 
seemed  only  too  strong.  In  conjunction  with 
Leyderdorp,  the  head-quarters  of  Vaklez,  a  mile 
and  a  half  distant  on  the  right,  and  within  a  mile 
of  the  city,  it  seemed  so  insuperable  an  impedi 
ment  that  Boisot  wrote  in  despondent  tone  to 
the  Prince  of  Orange.  He  announced  his  inten 
tion  of  carrying  the  fort,  if  it  were  possible,  on 
the  following  morning,  but  if  obliged  to  retreat, 
he  observed,  with  something  like  despair,  that 
there  would  be  nothing  for  it  but  to  wait  for 
another  gale  of  wind.  If  the  waters  should  rise 
sufficiently  to  enable  them  to  make  a  wide  detour, 
it  might  be  possible,  if,  in  the  meantime,  Leyden 
did  not  starve  or  surrender,  to  enter  its  gates  from 
the  opposite  side. 

Meantime,  the  citizens  had  grown  wild  with 
expectation.  A  dove  had  been  despatched  by 
Boisot,  informing  them  of  his  precise  position, 
and  a  number  of  citizens  accompanied  the  burgo 
master,  at  nightfall,  toward  the  tower  of  Hengist 
— "  Yonder,"  cried  the  magistrate,  stretching  out 
his  hand  towards  Lammen,  "  yonder,  behind  that 
fort,  are  bread  and  meat,  and  brethren  in  thou 
sands.  Shall  all  this  be  destroyed  by  the  Spanish 
guns,  or  shall  we  rush  to  the  rescue  of  our 
friends  1"  «  We  will  tear  the  fortress  to  frag 
ments  with  our  teeth  and  nails,"  was  the  reply, 
"  before  the  relief,  so  long  expected,  shall  be 
wrested  from  us."  It  was  resolved  that  a  sortie, 
in  conjunction  with  the  operations  of  Boisot, 
should  be  made  against  Lammen  with  the  earliest 
dawn.  Night  descended  upon  the  scene,  a  pitch 
dark  night,  full  of  anxiety  to  the  Spaniards,  to 
the  armada,  to  Leyden.  Strange  sights  and 
sounds  occurred  at  different  moments  to  bewilder 
the  anxious  sentinels.  A  long  procession  of 
lights  issuing  from  the  fort  was  seen  to  flit  across 
the  black  face  of  the  waters,  in  the  dead  of  night, 
and  the  whole  of  the  city  wall,  between  the  Cow- 
gate  and  the  Tower  of  Burgundy,  fell  with  a 
loud  crash.  The  horror-struck  citizens  thought 
that  the  Spaniards  were  upon  them  at  last ;  the 
Spaniards  imagined  the  noise  to  indicate  a  des 
perate  sortie  of  the  citizens.  Everything  was 
vague  and  mysterious. 

Day  dawned,  at  length,  after  the  feverish  night, 
and  the  Admiral  prepared  for  the  assault.  Within 
the  fortress  reigned  a  death-like  stillness,  which 
inspired  a  sickening  suspicion.  Had  the  city, 
indeed,  been  carried  in  the  night ;  had  the  mas 
sacre  already  commenced ;  had  all  this  labor  and 
audacity  been  expended  in  vain]  Suddenly  a 
man  was  described,  wading  breast-high  through 
the  water  from  Lammen  towards  the  fleet,  while 
at  the  same  time,  one  solitary  boy  was  seen  to 
wave  his  cap  from  the  summit  of  the  fort.  After 
a  moment  of  doubt,  the  happy  mystery  was 
solved.  The  Spaniards  had  fled,  panic  struck, 
during  the  darkness.  Their  position  would  still 
have  enabled  them,  with  firmness,  to  frustrate  the 
enterprise  of  the  patriots,  but  the  hand  of  God, 
which  had  sent  the  ocean  and  the  tempest  to  the 


JOHN    LOTHROP    MOTLEY. 


651 


deliverance  of  Leyden,  had  struck  her  enemies 
with  terror  likewise.  The  lights  which  had  been 
seen  moving  during  the  night  were  the  lanterns 
of  the  retreating  Spaniards,  and  the  boy  who  was 
now  waving  his  triumphant  signal  from  the  bat 
tlements  had  alone  witnessed  the  spectacle.  So 
confident  was  he  in  the  conclusion  to  which  it 
led  him,  that  he  had  volunteered  at  daybreak  to 
go  thither  all  alone.  The  magistrates,  fearing  a 
trap,  hesitated  for  a  moment  to  believe  the  truth, 
which  soon,  however,  became  quite  evident. 
Valdez,  flying  himself  from  Leyderdorp,  had  or 
dered  Colonel  Borgia  to  retire  with  all  his 
troops  from  Lammen.  Thus,  the  Spaniards  had 
retreated  at  the  very  moment  that  an  extraordi 
nary  accident  had  laid  bare  a  whole  side  of  the 
city  for  their  entrance.  The  noise  of  the  wall,  as 
it  fell,  only  inspired  them  with  fresh  alarm ;  for 
they  believed  that  the  citizens  had  sallied  forth  in 
the  darkness,  to  aid  the  advancing  flood  in  the 
work  of  destruction.  All  obstacles  being  now 
removed,  the  fleet  of  Boisot  swept  by  Lammen, 
and  entered  the  city  on  the  morning  of  the  3d  of 
October.  Leyden  was  relieved. 

The  quays  were  lined  with  the  famishing 
population,  as  the  fleet  rowed  through  the  canals, 
every  human  being  who  could  stand,  coming 
forth  to  greet  the  preservers  of  the  city.  Bread 
was  thrown  from  every  vessel  among  the  crowd. 
The  poor  creatures  who,  for  two  months  had 
tasted  no  wholesome  human  food,  and  who  had 
literally  been  living  within  the  jaws  of  death, 
snatched  eagerly  the  blessed  gift,  at  last  too  lib 
erally  bestowed.  Many  choked  themselves  to 
death,  in  the  greediness  with  which  they  devoured 
their  bread ;  others  became  ill  with  the  effects  of 
plenty  thus  suddenly  succeeding  starvation  ; — 
but  these  were  isolated  cases,  a  repetition  of  which 
was  prevented.  The  Admiral,  stepping  ashore, 
was  welcomed  by  the  magistracy,  and  a  solemn 
procession  was  immediately  formed.  Magistrates 
and  citizens,  wild  Zealanders,  emaciated  burgher 
guards,  sailors,  soldiers,  women,  children, — nearly 
every  living  person  within  the  walls,  all  repaired 
without  delay  to  the  great  church,  stout  Admiral 
Boisot  leading  the  way.  The  starving  and  heroic 
city,  which  had  been  so  firm  in  its  resistance  to 
an  earthly  king,  now  bent  itself  in  humble  grati 
tude  before  the  King  of  kings.  After  prayers, 
the  whole  vast  congregation  joined  in  the  thanks 
giving  hymn.  Thousands  of  voices  raised  the 
song,  but  few  were  able  to  carry  it  to  its 
conclusion,  for  the  universal  emotion,  deepened 
by  the  music,  became  too  full  for  utterance.  The 
hymn  was  abruptly  suspended,  while  the  multi 
tude  wept  like  children.  This  scene  of  honest 
pathos  terminated,  the  necessary  measures  for 
distributing  the  food  and  for  relieving  the  sick 
were  taken  by  the  magistracy.  A  note  dispatched 
to  the  Prince  of  Orange,  was  received  by  him  at 
two  o'clock,  as  he  sat  in  church  at  Delft.  It  was 


of  a  somewhat  different  purport  from  that  cf  the 
letter  which  he  had  received  early  in  the  same 
day  from  Boisot ;  the  letter  in  which  the  admiral 
had  informed  him  that  the  success  of  (he  enter 
prise  depended,  after  all,  upon  the  desperate 
assault  upon  a  nearly  impregnable  fort.  The 
joy  of  the  Prince  may  be  easily  imagined,  and  so 
soon  as  the  sermon  was  concluded,  he  handed 
the  letter  just  received  to  the  minister,  to  be  read 
tc  the  congregation.  Thus,  all  participated  in  his 
joy.  and  united  with  him  in  thanksgiving.' 

The  next  day,  notwithstanding  the  urgent 
entreaties  of  his  friends,  who  were  anxious  lest 
his  life  should  be  endangered  by  breathing,  in  his 
scarcely  convalescent  state,  the  air  of  the  city 
where  so  many  thousands  had  been  dying  of  the 
pestilence,  the  Prince  repaired  to  Leyden.  He, 
at  least,  had  never  doubted  his  own  or  his 
country's  fortitude.  They  could,  therefore,  most 
sincerely  congratulate  each  other,  now  that  the 
victory  had  been  achieved.  "  If  we  are  doomed 
to  perish,"  he  had  said  a  little  before  the  com 
mencement  of  the  siege,  "  in  the  name  of  God,  be 
it  so  !  At  any  rate,  we  shall  have  the  honor  to 
have  done  what  no  nation  ever  did  before  us, 
that  of  having  defended  and  maintained  ourselves, 
unaided,  in  so  small  a  country,  against  the  tre 
mendous  efforts  of  such  powerful  enemies.  So 
long  as  the  poor  inhabitants  here,  though  deserted 
by  all  the  world,  hold  firm,  it  will  still  cost  the 
Spaniards  the  half  of  Spain,  in  money  and  in 
men,  before  they  can  make  an  end  of  us." 

The  termination  of  the  terrible  siege  of  Leyden 
was  a  convincing  proof  to  the  Spaniards  that 
they  had  not  yet  made  an  end  of  the  Hollanders. 
It  furnished,  also,  a  sufficient  presumption  that 
until  they  had  made  an  end  of  them,  even  unto 
the  last  Hollander,  there  would  never  be  an  end 
of  the  struggle  in  which  they  were  engaged.  It 
was  a  slender  consolation  to  the  Governor-Gene 
ral,  that  his  troops  had  been  vanquished,  not  by 
the  enemy,  but  by  the  ocean.  An  enemy  whom 
the  ocean  obeyed  with  such  docility  might  well 
be  deemed  invincible  by  man.  In  the  head 
quarters  of  Valdez,  at  Leyderdorp,  many  plans  of 
Leyden  and  the  neighborhood  were  found  lying 
in  confusion  about  the  room. 

Valdez  had  fled  so  speedily  as  to  give  rise  to 
much  censure  and  more  scandal.  He  was  even 
accused  of  having  been  bribed  by  the  Hollanders 
to  desert  his  post,  a  tale  which  many  repeated, 
and  a  few  believed.  On  the  4th  of  October,  the 
day  following  that  on  which  the  relief  of  the  city 
was  effected,  the  wind  shifted  tc  the  north  east, 
and  again  blew  a  tempest.  It  was  as  if  the 
waters,  having  now  done  their  work,  had  been 
rolled  back  to  the  ocean  by  an  Omnipotent  hand, 
for  in  the  course  of  a  few  days,  the  land  was  bare 
again,  and  the  work  of  reconstructing  the  dykes 
commenced. 


ANDREW    JACKSON    DOWNING. 


[Bom  1815.    Died  1852.] 


A.  J.  DOWNING,  the  pioneer  and  father  of 
tasteful  Rural  Architecture  and  Landscape 
Gardening  in  this  country,  was  born  at  New- 
burgh,  on  the  Hudson,  October  30,  1815.  His 
father  was  a  nursery-man,  and  dying  in  1822, 
left  young  Downing  to  his  own  resources. 
His  education  was  limited,  being  derived  from 
the  Academy  at  Montgomery,  near  Newburgh. 
At  the  age  of  sixteen,  he  joined  his  brother  in 
the  management  of  his  nursery.  When  quite 
a  young  man  he  commenced  practice  with  his 
pen,  by  writing  Essays  on  Horticultural  topics, 
and  sketches  of  beautiful  scenery,  for  the  New 
York  Mirror  and  other  papers.  In  June,  1838, 
he  married  Miss  De  Wint,  residing  on  the 
opposite  bank  of  the  Hudson.  He  commenced 
the  practice  of  Architecture,  by  planning  a 
beautiful  Elizabethan  cottage  for  his  own 
residence. 

In  1841,  Mr.  Downing  published  his  Treatise 
on  the  Theory  and  Practice  of  Landscape 
Gardening,  adapted  to  North  America,  with  a 
view  to  the  improvement  of  Country  Resi 
dences,  with  remarks  on  Rural  Architecture. 
Mr.  Downing  produced  a  masterly  and  very 
delightful  book,  in  which  he  displayed  sound 
criticism  and  refined  judgment  in  matters  of 
taste ;  he  had  evidently  studied  the  works  of 
his  predecessors,  taking  from  them  the  richest 
ore,  but  refining  it  in  the  crucible  of  his  mind 
and  applying  it  to  the  wants  of  this  country. 
It  was  highly  successful,  and  orders  for  the 
construction  of  houses  and  decoration  of 
grounds,  followed  orders  for  copies  to  his 
publishers. 

In  1845,  he  published  the  first  full  and 
thorough  work,  with  systematic  arrangement, 
on  the  Fruits  and  Fruit  Trees  of  America,  in 
1  vol.,  12mo.,  and  an  edition  in  8vo.,  with 
many  beautifully  colored  portraits  of  fruits, 
imported  from  Paris.  The  sale  in  eight  years 
was  15,000  copies,  and  everywhere  acknowl 
edged  the  standard  work  on  the  subject;  it 
tended  much  to  promote  the  best  and  most 
judicious  selection  and  culture  of  fruit  trees. 
A  new  edition  revised,  and  much  enlarged  by 
his  son,  Charles  Downing,  bringing  it  down  to 


the  present  time,  was  issued  in  1869,  in  one 
large  volume,  8vo. 

In  1846,  he  became  editor  of  the  Horticultu 
rist,  published  at  Albany,  and  wrote  for  it  a 
monthly  essay,  and  other  articles.  By  his  tact, 
and  practical  knowledge,  he  soon  made  it  the 
leading  magazine  on  the  subject.  In  1849,  he 
edited  an  American  reprint  of  Wightwick's 
Hints  to  Young  Architects,  adding  Additional 
Notes  and  Hints  to  Persons  about  building  in 
this  country ;  in  one  volume,  8vo.,  which  passed 
through  several  editions. 

In  1850,  he  visited  England,  to  obtain  a 
competent  assistant  to  assist  him  in  his  large 
and  rapidly  increasing  architectural  business. 
He  spent  the  summer  there  visiting  those 
perfect  examples  of  his  art,  the  great  country- 
seats  of  England,  to  which  his  fame,  which 
had  already  preceded  him,  and  his  winning, 
gentle  manners,  gave  him  access.  He  wrote 
some  delightful  letters  and  accounts  of  his 
visits,  which  are  very  attractive,  and  display 
the  character  and  thoughts  of  the  man,  a 
gentleman  of  fine  taste,  and  a  thorough  artist 
in  his  profession. 

The  same  year  he  published,  Architecture 
of  Country  Houses ;  including  Designs  for 
Cottages,  Farm-houses,  Villas,  and  Furniture, 
one  volume,  8vo.,  which  has  passed  through 
sixteen  editions. 

In  1851,  he  was  commissioned  by  President 
Fillmore,  in  pursuance  of  an  act  of  Congress, 
to  lay  out  and  plant  the  public  grounds  in 
Washington,  surrounding  the  White  House, 
Capitol,  and  Smithsonian  Institution.  The 
appointment  gave  great  satisfaction  to  the 
public,  as  it  was  felt  he  was  the  man  pre 
eminently  fitted  for  the  work.  He  was  en 
gaged  actively  in  this  and  other  professional 
labors,  when  on  the  28th  of  July,  1852,  he 
embarked  on  board  the  Henry  Clay  steamboat 
for  New  York,  en  route  to  Newport,  with  his 
wife.  On  the  way  down  the  boat  commenced 
racing  with  the  Armenia,  and  was  soon  dis 
covered  to  be  on  fire.  In  the  crowd,  he  was 
separated  from  his  wife ;  when  last  seen  he 
was  assisting  others  to  escape,  was  heard  to 


ANDREW    JACKSON     DOWNING. 


653 


utter  a  prayei-  while  in  the  water  struggling 
with  others  clinging  to  him,  and  was  seen  no 
more.  His  body  was  recovered  next  day. 
His  loss  was  felt  by  all  who  had  interest  in 
the  subject  of  improving  our  homes  to  be  a 
national  one. 

After  his  decease,  his  Rural  Essays  were 
collected  in  one  volume,  8vo.,  prefaced  by  a 
well  written  and  sympathetic  memoir,  by 
George  W.  Curtis,  and  A  Letter  to  his  Friends, 


by  Miss  Bremer,  who  had  been  his  guest  while 
in  this  country. 

His  writings  have  undoubtedly  exercised  a 
great  and  salutary  influence  on  the  taste  for 
rural  architecture  and  improvements  in  this 
country.  His  books  still  remain  the  standard 
works  on  the  subject,  though  there  have  been 
many  others  written  since.  His  style  as  an 
essayist,  was  like  that  of  the  man,  pleasant, 
easy,  and  gentlemanly. 


CITIZENS    RETIRING    TO    THE    COUN 
TRY. 

FROM  RURAL  ESSAYS. 

PERHAPS  the  foundation  of  all  the  miscalcula 
tions  that  arise,  as  to  expenditure  in  forming  a 
country  residence,  is,  that  citizens  are  in  the  habit 
of  thinking  every  thing  in  the  country  cheap. 
Land  in  the  town  is  sold  by  the  foot,  in  the 
country  by  the  acre.  The  price  of  a  good  house, 
in  town  is,  perhaps,  three  times  the  cost  of  one  of 
the  best  farms  in  the  country.  The  town  buys 
every  thing :  the  country  raises  every  thing.  To 
live  on  your  own  estate,  be  it  one  acre  or  a  thou 
sand,  to  have  your  own  milk,  butter  and  eggs,  to 
raise  your  own  chickens  and  gather  your  own 
strawberries,  with  nature  to  keep  the  account  in 
stead  of  your  grocer  arid  market-woman,  that  is 
something  like  a  rational  life ;  and  more  than  ra 
tional,  it  must  be  cheap.  So  argues  the  citizen  about 
retiring,  not  only  to  enjoy  his  otium  cum  dignitate, 
but  to  make  a  thousand  dollars  of  his  income,  pro 
duce  him  more  of  the  comforts  of  life  than  two 
thousand  did  before. 

Well ;  he  goes  into  the  country.  He  buys  a 
farm  (run  down  with  poor  tenants  and  bad  tillage). 
He  builds  a  new  house,  with  his  own  ignorance 
instead  of  architect  and  master-builder,  and  is 
cheated  roundly  by  those  who  take  advantage  of 
this  masterly  ignorance  in  the  matter  of  bricks  and 
mortar;  or  he  repairs  an  old  house  at  the  full  cost 
of  a  new  one,  and  has  an  unsatisfactory  dwelling 
for  ever  afterwards.  He  undertakes  high  farming, 
and  knowing  nothing  of  the  practical  economy  of 
husbandry,  every  bushel  of  corn  that  he  raises 
costs  him  the  price  of  a  bushel  and  a  half  in  the 
market.  Used  in  town  to  a  neat  and  orderly 
condition  of  his  premises,  he  is  disgusted  with  old 
tottering  fences,  half  drained  fields  and  worn-out 
pastures,  and  employs  all  the  laboring  force  of 
the  neighborhood  to  put  his  grounds  in  good 
or  del. 

Now  there  is  no  objection  to  all  this  for  its  own 
sake.  On  the  contrary,  good  buildings,  good 
fences,  and  rich  pasture  fields  are  what  especially 
delight  us  in  the  country.  What  then  is  the 
reason  that,  as  the  country  place  gets  to  wear  a 
smiling  aspect,  its  citizen  owner  begins  to  look 
serious  and  unhappy  1  Why  is  it  that  country 


life  does  not  satisfy  and  content  him  1  Is  the 
country,  which  all  poets  and  philosophers  have 

celebrated  as  the  Arcadia  of  this  world, is  the 

country  treacherous?  Is  nature  a  cheat,  and  do 
seed-time  and  harvest  conspire  against  the  peace 
of  mind  of  the  retired  citizen  1 

Alas  !  It  is  a  matter  of  money.  Every  thing 
seems  to  be  a  matter  of  money  now-a-days.  The 
country  life  of  the  old  world,  of  the  poets  and 
romancers,  is  cheap.  The  country  life  of  our  re 
public  is  dear.  It  is  for  the  good  of  the  many  that 
labor  should  be  high,  and  it  is  high  labor  that  makes 
country  life  heavy  and  oppressive  to  such  men — 
only  because  it  shows  a  balance,  increasing  year 
after  year,  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  ledger.  Here 
is  the  source  of  all  the  trouble  and  dissatisfaction 
in  what  may  be  called  the  country  life  of  gentle 
men  amateurs,  or  citizens,  in  this  country — "  it 
don't  pay."  Land  is  cheap,  nature  is  beautiful, 
the  country  is  healthy,  and  all  these  conspire  to 
draw  our  well-to-do  citizen  into  the  country.  But 
labor  is  dear,  experience  is  dearer,  and  a  series  of 
experiments  in  unprofitable  crops  the  dearest  of 
all ;  and  our  citizen  friend,  himself,  as  we  have 
said,  is  in  the  situation  of  a  man  who  has  set  out 
on  a  delightful  voyage,  on  a  smooth  sea,  and  with 
a  cheerful  ship's  company ;  but  who  discovers, 
also,  that  the  ship  has  sprung  a  leak — not  large 
enough  to  make  it  necessary  to  call  all  hands  to 
the  pump — not  large  enough  perhaps  to  attract 
any  body's  attention  but  his  own,  but  quite  large 
enough  to  make  it  certain  that  he  must  leave  her 
or  be  swamped — and  quite  large  enough  to  make 
his  voyage  a  serious  piece  of  business. 

Every  thing  which  a  citizen  does  in  the  country, 
costs  him  an  incredible  sum.  In  Europe  (heaven 
save  the  masses),  you  may  have  the  best  of  labor 
ing  men  for  twenty  or  thirty  cents  a  day.  Here 
you  must  pay  them  a  dollar,  at  least  our  amateur 
must,  though  the  farmers  contrive  to  get  their  labor 
for  eight  or  ten  dollars  a  month  and  board.  The 
citizen's  home  once  built,  he  looks  upon  all  heavy 
expenditures  as  over  ;  but  how  many  hundreds — 
perhaps  thousands,  has  he  riot  paid  for  out-build 
ings,  for  fences,  for  roads,  &c.  Cutting  down 
yonder  hill,  which  made  an  ugly  blotch  in  the 
view, — it  looked  like  a  trifling  task  ;  yet  there 
were  five  hundred  dollars  swept  clean  out  of  his 
hank  account,  and  there  seems  almost  nothing  to 


654 


ANDREW    JACKSON    DOWNING. 


show  for  it.  You  would  not  believe  now  that  any 
hill  ever  stood  there — or  at  least  that  nature  had 
not  arranged  it  all  (as  you  feel  she  ought  to  have 
done),  just  as  you  see  it.  Your  favorite  cattle  and 
horses  have  died,  and  the  flock  of  sheep  have  been 
sadly  diminished  by  the  dogs,  all  to  be  replaced — 
and  a  careful  account  of  the  men's  time,  labor 
and  manure  on  the  grain  fields,  shows  that  for 
some  reason  that  you  cannot  understand,  the  crop 
— which  is  a  fair  one,  has  actually  cost  you  a 
trifle  more  than  it  is  worth  in  a  good  market. 

To  cut  a  long  story  short,  the  larger  part  of  our 
citizens  who  retire  upon  a  farm  to  make  it  a 
country  residence,  are  not  aware  of  the  fact,  that 
capital  cannot  be  profitably  employed  on  land  in 
•the  Atlantic  States  without  a  thorough  practical 
knowledge  of  farming.  A  close  and  systematic 
economy,  upon  a  good  soil,  may  enable,  and  does 
enable  some  gentlemen  farmers  that  we  could 
name,  to  make  a  good  profit  out  of  their  land — 
but  citizens  who  launch  boldly  into  farming, 
hiring  farm  laborers  at  high  prices,  and  trusting 
operations  to  others  that  should  be  managed 
under  the  master's  eye — are  very  likely  to  find 
their  farms  a  sinking  fund  that  will  drive  them 
back  into  business  again. 

To  be  happy  in  any  business  or  occupation 
(and  country  life  on  a  farm  is  a  matter  of  busi 
ness),  we  must  have  some  kind  of  success  in  it ; 
and  there  is  no  success  without  profit,  and  no 
profit  without  practical  knowledge  of  farming. 

The  lesson  that  we  would  deduce  from  these 
reflections  is  this ;  that  no  mere  amateur  should 
buy  a  large  farm  for  a  country  residence,  with  the 
expectation  of  finding  pleasure  and  profit  in  it  for 
liie  rest  of  his  life,  unless,  like  some  citizens  that 
we  have  known — rare  exceptions — they  have 
a  genius  for  all  manner  of  business,  and  can 
master  the  whole  of  farming,  as  they  would  learn 
a  running-hand  in  six  easy  lessons.  Farming,  in 
the  older  States,  where  the  natural  wealth  of  the 
soil  has  been  exhausted,  is  not  a  profitable  busi 
ness  for  amateurs — but  quite  the  reverse.  And  a 
citizen  who  has  a  sufficient  income  without  farm 
ing,  had  better  not  damage  it  by  engaging  in  so 
expensive  an  amusement. 

"But  we  must  have  something  to  do  ;  we  have 
been  busy  near  all  our  lives,  and  cannot  retire  into 
the  country  to  fold  our  hands  and  sit  in  the  sun 
shine  to  he  idle."  Precisely  so.  But  you  need 
not  therefore  ruin  yourself  on  a  large  farm.  Do 
not  be  ambitious  of  being  great  landed  pro 
prietors.  Assume  that  you  need  occupation  and 
interest,  and  buy  a  small  piece  of  ground — a  few 
acres  only — as  few  as  you  please — but  without 
any  regard  for  profit.  Leave  that  to  those  who 
have  learned  farming  in  a  more  practical  school. 
You  think,  perhaps,  that  you  can  find  nothing 
to  do  on  a  few  acres  of  ground.  But  that  is 
the  greatest  of  mistakes.  A  half  a  dozen  acres, 
the  capacities  of  which  are  fully  developed,  will 
give  you  more  pleasure  than  five  hundred  poorly 


cultivated.  And  the  advantage  for  you  is,  that 
you  can,  upon  your  few  acres,  spend  just  as  little 
or  just  as  much  as  you  please.  If  you  wish  to  be 
prudent,  lay  out  your  little  estate  in  a  simple  way, 
with  grass  and  trees,  and  a  few  walks,  and  a 
single  man  may  then  take  care  of  it.  If  you  wish 
to  indulge  your  taste,  you  may  fill  it  with  shrub 
beries,  and  arboretums,  and  conservatories,  and 
flower-gardens,  till  every  tree  and  plant  and  fruit 
in  the  whole  vegetable  kingdom,  of  really  superior 
beauty  and  interest,  is  in  your  collection.  Or,  if 
you  wish  to  turn  a  penny,  you  will  find  it  easier  to 
take  up  certain  fruits  or  plants  and  grow  them  to 
high  perfection  so  as  to  command  a  profit  in  the 
market,  than  you  will  to  manage  the  various 
operations  of  a  large  farm.  We  could  point  to 
ten  acres  of  ground  from  which  a  larger  income 
has  been  produced  than  from  any  farm  of  five 
hundred  acres  in  the  country.  Gardening,  too, 
offers  more  variety  of  interest  to  a  citizen  than 
farming;  its  operations  are  less  rude  and  toilsome, 
and  its  pleasures  more  immediate  and  refined. 
Citizens,  ignorant  of  farming,  should,  therefore, 
buy  small  places,  rather  than  large  ones,  if  they 
wish  to  consult  their  own  true  interest  and  hap. 
piness. 

But  some  of  our  readers,  who  have  tried  the 
thing,  may  say  that  it  is  a  very  expensive  thing  to 
settle  oneself  and  get  well  established,  even  on  a 
small  place  in  the  country.  And  so  it  is.  if  we 
proceed  upon  the  fallacy,  as  we  have  said,  that 
every  thing  in  the  country  is  cheap.  Labor  is 
dear;  it  costs  you  dearly  to-day,  and  it  will  cost 
you  dearly  to-morrow,  and  the  next  year.  There 
fore,  in  selecting  a  site  for  a  home  in  the  country, 
always  remember  to  choose  a  site  where  nature 
has  done  as  much  as  possible  for  you.  Don't  say 
to  yourself  as  many  have  done  before  you — "  Oh  ! 
I  want  occupation,  and  I  rather  like  the  new 
place — raw  and  naked  though  it  may  be.  I  will 
create  a  paradise  for  myself.  I  will  cut  down 
yonder  hill  that  intercepts  the  view,  I  will  level 
and  slope  more  gracefully  yonder  rude  bank,  I 
will  terrace  this  rapid  descent,  I  will  make  a  lake 
in  yonder  hollow."  Yes,  all  this  you  may  do  for 
occupation,  and  find  it  very  delightful  occupation 
too,  if  you  have  the  income  of  Mr.  Astor. 
Otherwise,  after  you  have  spent  thousands  in 
creating  your  paradise,  and  chance  to  go  to  some 
friend  who  has  bought  all  the  graceful  undulations, 
and  sloping  lawns,  and  sheets  of  water,  natural, 
ready  made — as  they  may  be  bought  in  thousands 
of  purely  natural  places  in  America,  for  a  few 
hundred  dollars,  it  will  give  you  a  species  of  plea 
sure-ground-dyspepsia  to  see  how  foolishly  you 
have  wasted  your  money,  and  this,  more  especially, 
when  you  find,  as  the  possessor  of  the  most  fin 
ished  place  in  America  finds,  that  he  has  no  want 
of  occupation,  and  that  far  from  being  finished,  he 
has  only  begun  to  elicit  the  highest  beauty,  keep 
ing  and  completeness  of  which  his  place  is 
capable. 


RICHARD    H.   DANA,  JR. 


[Born  1815.] 


RICHARD  H.  DANA,  JR.,  the  son  of  the  poet 
of  the  same  name,  was  born  at  Cambridge,  in 
1815.  In  his  boyhood,  he  had  a  strong  passion 
for  the  sea,  and  would  have  entered  the  Navy, 
if  he  had  not  taken  the  advice  of  his  father, 
and  entered  Harvard.  For  a  period  he  left 
Harvard,  and  was  under  the  tutorship  of  Rev. 
Leonard  Woods  of  Andover.  On  returning  to 
Cambridge,  an  attack  of  measles  affected  his 
eyesight  so  as  to  compel  him  to  give  up  his 
books.  Clinging  to  his  old  love  he  resolved 
to  go  to  sea,  and  rough  it  as  a  common  sailor 
before  the  mast.  Accordingly,  he  set  sail  on 
the  14th  of  August,  1834,  in  the  brig  Pilgrim, 
from  Boston,  for  a  voyage  around  Cape  Horn 
to  the  western  coast  of  North  America ;  visited 
California,  little  thinking  of  what  it  was  soon 
to  be,  performed  his  duty  throughout  the  voy 
age  with  spirit,  and  returned  in  the  ship  in 
September,  1836.  to  Boston. 

In  1840,  he  published  his  famous  narrativ0 
of  Two  Years  before  the  Mast,  a  Personal 
Narrative  of  Life  at  Sea,  in  one  volume,  18mo. 
It  was  immediately  successful,  passing  through 
many  editions,  being  reprinted  in  London, 
where  the  British  Admiralty  adopted  it  for 
distribution  in  the  navy  ;  was  also  translated 
into  several  languages.  It  has  been  quoted  as 
authority  in  the  House  of  Lords.  The  work  was 
written  to  present  a  true  picture  of  a  sailor's 
life  at  sea.  That  it  has  done  so,  is  evidenced  by 
its  popularity  with  not  only  the  masses  but  with 
Jack  Tar  himself;  it  is  one  of  the  most  popular 
of  books  at  the  lending  libraries  and  every 
nautical  library.  He  says  honestly  how  things 
were,  and  how  they  affected  him,  in  the  simple, 
straight-forward  language  of  a  disciplined 
mind,  without  any  appearance  of  seeking  for 
words,  but  those  that  will  best  answer  the 
purpose  come  and  fall  into  their  proper  places 
of  their  own  will  ;  good  sense  and  good  humor 
sum  up  the  enduring  merits  of  this  book. 

Up  to  this  time,  every  work  professing  to 
give  life  at  sea,  had  been  written  by  persons 
who  gained  their  experience  as  naval  officers 
or  passengers,  persons  who  must  take  a  very 
different  view  of  the  whole  matter  from  that 


which  would  be  taken  by  a  common  sailor. 
Besides  the  interest  which  every  one  must  feel 
in  exhibitions  of  life  in  those  forms,  in  which 
he  himself  has  never  experienced  it,  there  has 
been,  of  late  years,  a  great  deal  of  attention 
directed  toward  common  seamen,  and  a  strong 
sympathy  awakened  in  their  behalf.  Yet  no 
book  had  been  written  by  one  who  has  been 
of  them,  and  can  know  what  their  life  really  is ; 
no  voice  from  the  forecastle  had  been  heard. 

Mr.  Dana,  after  his  return,  entered  the  senior 
class  at  Harvard,  where  he  graduated  in  1837, 
and  pursued  the  study  of  the  law  at  the  Law 
school  under  Judges  Story  and  Greenleaf. 
With  a  well  disciplined  and  acute  legal  mind, 
his  success  at  the  bar  was  rapid  ;  his  book 
bringing  him  many  maritime  cases. 

In  1850,  he  edited  with  a  preface,  Washing 
ton  Allston's  Lectures  on  Art  and  Poems. 

His  Seamen's  Manual,  is  a  Treatise  on 
Practical  Seamanship,  with  plates,  a  technical 
dictionary  of  sea  terms,  and  an  epitome  of  the 
laws  affecting  the  mutual  position  of  Master 
and  Sailor.  It  is  reprinted  in  England,  and  is 
used  in  both  countries.  In  1859,  he  wrote,  a 
Vacation  Voyage  to  Cuba  and  Back,  one  vol 
ume,  12mo.  A  new  edition  of  his  Two  Years, 
has  recently  been  published  in  handsome 
form,  12mo. 

He  has  been  a  prominent  member  of  the 
Free-soil  party,  and  as  such  vigorously  at 
tacked  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law  ;  he  was  also 
an  able  and  efficient  member  of  the  State 
Convention  for  revising  the  Constitution  of 
Massachusetts.  He  married  a  grand-daughter 
of  the  Rev.  James  Marsh. 

In  1860,  for  his  health,  he  visited  California 
and  the  Islands  of  the  Pacific,  thence  by  China 
and  through  the  East  to  Europe.  As  a  leading 
member  of  the  Republican  party,  he  was 
appointed  by  Lincoln  to  the  office  of  U.  S. 
Attorney  for  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 

Besides  many  legal  opinions,  and  public 
addresses,  Mr.  Dana  has  published  his  Ad 
dress  upon  Edward  Everett ;  a  noble  and  in 
teresting  performance,  in  which  he  does  justice 
to  Mr.  Everett's  conduct  and  writings. 
655 


656 


RICHARD     H.    DANA,    JR. 


A  SOUTH-EASTER. 

FROM   TWO    YEARS    BEFORE   THE   MAST. 

THIS  night,  after  sundown,  it  looked  black  at 
the  southward  and  eastward,  and  we  were  told  to 
keep  a  bright  look-out.  Expecting  to  be  called  up, 
we  turned  in  early.  Waking  up  about  midnight,  I 
found  a  man  who  had  just  come  down  from  his 
watch,  striking  a  light.  He  said  that  it  was  be 
ginning  to  puff  up  from  the  southeast,  and  that 
the  sea  was  rolling  in,  and  he  had  called  the  cap 
tain  ;  and  as  he  threw  himself  down  on  his  chest 
with  all  his  clothes  on,  I  knew  that  he  expected  to 
be  called.  I  felt  the  vessel  pitching  at  her  anchor, 
and  the  chain  surging  and  snapping,  and  lay 
awake,  expecting  an  instant  summons.  In  a  few 
minutes  it  came — three  knocks  on  the  scuttle,  and 
"All  hands  ahoy!  bear-a-hand,  up  and  make  sail." 
We  sprang  up  for  our  clothes,  and  were  about  half 
way  dressed,  when  the  mate  called  out,  down  the 
scuttle,  "  Tumble  up  here,  men  !  tumble  up  !  be 
fore  she  drags  her  anchor."  We  were  on  deck  in 
an  instant.  "Lay  aloft  and  loose  the  topsails!" 
shouted  the  captain,  as  soon  as  the  first  man  showed 
himself.  Springing  into  the  rigging,  I  saw  that 
the  Ayacucho's  topsails  were  loosed,  and  heard 
her  crew  singing-out  at  the  sheets  as  they  were 
hauling  them  home.  This  had  probably  started  our 
captain ;  as  "  old  Wilson"  (the  captain  of  the  Aya 
cucho)  had  been  many  years  an  the  coast,  and 
knew  the  signs  of  the  weather.  We  soon  had 
the  topsails  loosed  ;  and  one  hand  remaining,  as 
usual,  in  each  top,  to  overhaul  the  rigging  and 
light  the  sail  out,  the  rest  of  us  laid  down  to  man 
the  sheets.  While  sheeting  home,  we  saw  the 
Ayacucho  standing  athwart  our  bows,  sharp  upon 
the  wind,  cutting  through  the  head  sea  like  a 
knife,  with  her  raking  masts  and  sharp  bows  run 
ning  up  like  the  head  of  a  greyhound.  It  was  a 
beautiful  sight.  She  was  like  a  bird  which  had 
been  frightened  and  had  spread  her  wings  in  flight. 
After  the  topsails  had  been  sheeted  home,  the  head 
yards  braced  aback,  the  fore-top-mast  staysail 
hoisted  and  the  buoys  streamed,  and  all  ready  for 
ward,  for  slipping,  we  went  aft  and  manned  the 
slip-rope  which  came  through  the  stern  port  with 
a  turn  round  the  timber-heads.  "All  ready  for 
ward  1"  asked  the  captain.  "Aye,  aye,  sir;  all 
ready,"  answered  the  mate.  "  Let  go !"  "  All  gone, 
sir ;"  and  the  iron  cable  grated  over  the  windlass 
and  through  the  hawse-hole,  and  the  little  vessel's 
head  swinging  off  from  the  wind  under  the  force 
of  her  backed  head  sails,  brought  the  strain  upon 
the  slip-rope.  "  Let  go  aft !"  Instantly  all  was 
gone,  and  we  were  under  weigh.  As  soon  as  she 
was  well  off  from  the  wind,  we  filled  away  the 
head  yards,  braced  all  up  sharp,  set  the  foresail 
and  trysail,  and  left  our  anchorage  well  astern, 
giving  the  point  a  good  berth.  "  Nye's  off  too," 
said  the  captain  to  the  mate;  and  looking  astern, 
tve  could  just  see  the  little  hermaphrodite  brig 
under  sail  standing  after  us. 

It  now  began  to  blow  fresh ;  the  rain  fell  fast, 
and  it  grew  vrry  black ;  but  the  captain  would  not 
take  in  sail  until  we  were  well  clear  of  the  point. 


As  soon  as  we  left  this  on  our  quarter,  and  were 
standing  out  to  sea,  the  order  was  given,  and  we 
sprang  aloft,  double  reefed  each  topsail,  furled  the 
foresail,  and  double  reefed  the  trysail,  and  were 
soon  under  easy  sail.  In  these  cases  of  slipping 
for  south-easters,  there  is  nothing  to  be  done,  after 
you  have  got  clear  of  the  coast,  but  to  lie-to  under 
easy  sail,  and  wait  for  the  gale  to  be  over,  which 
seldom  lasts  more  than  two  days,  and  is  often  over 
in  twelve  hours  ;  but  the  wind  never  comes  back 
to  the  southward  until  there  has  a  good  deal  of 
rain  fallen.  "  Go  below  the  watch,"  said  the  mate ; 
but  here  was  a  dispute  which  watch  it  should  be, 
which  the  mate  soon,  however,  settled  by  sending 
his  watch  below,  saying  that  we  should  have  our 
turn  the  next  time  we  got  under  weigh.  We  re 
mained  on  deck  till  the  expiration  of  the  watch, 
the  wind  blowing  very  fresh  and  the  rain  coming 
down  in  torrents.  When  the  watch  came  up,  we 
wore  ship,  and  stood  on  the  other  tack,  in  towards 
land.  When  we  came  up  again,  which  was  at 
four  in  the  morniiig,  it  was  very  dark,  and  there 
was  not  much  wind,  but  it  was  raining  as  I  thought 
I  had  never  seen  it  rain  before.  We  had  on  oil 
cloth  suits  and  south-wester  caps,  and  had  nothing 
to  do  but  to  stand  bolt  upright  and  let  it  pour 
down  upon  us.  There  are  no  umbrellas,  and  no 
sheds  to  go  under  at  sea. 

While  we  were  standing  about  on  deck,  we  saw 
the  little  brig  drifting  by  us,  hove  to  under  her 
fore  topsail  double  reefed  ;  and  she  glided  by  like 
a  phantom.  Not  a  word  was  spoken,  and  we  saw 
no  one  on  deck  but  the  man  at  the  wheel.  To 
ward  morning  the  captain  put  his  head  out  of  the 
companion-way  and  told  the  second  mate,  who 
commanded  our  watch,  to  )ook  out  for  a  change 
of  wind,  which  usually  followed  a  calm  and  heavy 
rain ;  and  it  was  well  that  he  did  ;  for  in  a  few 
minutes  it  fell  dead  calm,  the  vessel  lost  her  steer 
age-way,  and  the  rain  ceased.  We  hauled  up  the 
trysail  and  courses,  squared  the  after  yards,  and 
waited  for  the  change,  which  came  in  a  few  min 
utes,  with  a  vengeance,  from  the  northwest,  the 
opposite  point  of  the  compass.  Owing  to  our  pre 
cautions  we  were  not  taken  aback,  but  ran  before 
the  wind  with  square  yards.  The  captain  coming 
on  deck,  we  braced  up  a  little  and  stood  back  for 
our  anchorage.  With  the  change  of  wind  came  a 
change  of  weather,  and  in  two  hours  the  wind 
moderated  into  the  light  steady  breeze,  which  blows 
down  the  coast  the  greater  part  of  the  year,  and, 
from  its  regularity,  might  be  called  a  trade-wind. 
The  sun  came  up  bright,  and  we  set  royals,  sky- 
sails,  and  studding-sails,  and  were  under  fair  way 
for  Santa  Barbara.  The  Little  Loriotte  was  astern 
of  us,  nearly  out  of  sight ;  but  we  saw  nothing  of 
the  Ayacucho.  In  a  short  time  she  appeared,  stand 
ing  out  from  Santa  Rosa  Island,  under  the  lee  of 
which  she  had  been  hove  to,  all  night.  Our  cap 
tain  was  anxious  to  get  in  before  her,  for  it  would 
be  a  great  credit  to  us,  on  the  coast,  to  beat  the 
Ayacucho,  which  had  been  called  the  best  sailer  in 
the  North  Pacific,  in  which  she  had  been  known 
as  a  trader  for  six  years  or  more.  *  *  * 
But  he  walked  away,  as  you  would  haul  in  a  line. 


HENRY    DAVID    THOREAU- 


[Born  1817.    Died  1862.] 


HENRY  D.  THOREAU  was  born  in  Concord,  | 
Mass.,  July  12,  1817.  He  graduated  at  Har 
vard  in  1837.  He  taught  school,  and  tried  his 
hand  at  trade,  but  seems  not  to  have  been 
happy  or  succeeded  at  either.  He  contributed 
a  number  of  papers  to  the  Dial.  He  was 
rather  of  a  moody,  philosophically  speculative, 
turn  of  mind,  disliked  the  forms  and  customs 
of  society,  and  perhaps  with  a  somewhat 
indolent  turn  of  character. 

In  1849,  he  published,  A  Week  on  the  Con 
cord  and  Merrimack  Rivers ;  a  record  of  a 
trip  he  made  in  a  boat  with  his  brother  on 
those  rivers,  in  the  year  1839  ;  boating  by  day, 
and  sleeping  in  a  tent  at  night.  It  is  a  book 
of  mingled  essay  and  description,  of  illustra 
tions  of  physical  geography,  of  history  of  the 
settlements  on  the  route,  of  botanical  excur 
sions,  philosophical  speculations  and  literary 
studies.  It  is  occasionally  rash  and  conceited, 
in  a  certain  transcendental  affectation  of 
expression  on  religious  subjects  ;  but  in  many 
other  passages  remarkable  for  its  nicety  of 
observation,  and  acute  literary  and  moral 
perceptions.  The  trip  was  made  two  years 
after  he  left  college,  though  the  book  was  not 
published  for  nine  years  later. 

His  next  book  was  published  with  equal 
deliberation.  Walden,  or  Life  in  the  Woods, 
was  published  in  Boston  in  1854 ;  it  is  the 
story  of  a  humor  of  the  author,  to  see  how 
little  a  man  requires,  or  could  live  on,  which 
occupied  him  a  term  of  two  years  and  two 
months  from  March,  1845,  to  test  it ;  it  attracted 
attention  more  from  its  oddity  than  from  any 
practical  results.  Retiring  from  the  world,  to 
the  edge  of  a  pond  near  Concord,  Mass.,  with 
a  borrowed  axe  and  a  capital  of  about  twenty- 
five  dollars,  he  builds  himself  a  house,  assisted 
in  the  raising  by  R.  W.  Emerson  and  Geo.  W. 
Curtis,  ten  feet  wide  by  fifteen  feet  long, 
costing  him  $28.12.  His  food,  clothing,  etc., 
co^'t  him,  for  eight  months,  about  $19.15,  in  ad 
dition  to  what  he  raised  from  the  ground.  The 
cost  it  will  be  observed  is  trifling,  but,  so  was 
the  quality  of  the  fare  and  the  living,  such  as 
would  tempt  no  one  to  imitate  that  style  of  exis- 
83 


tence.  It  gave  him  ample  time  to  read,  think, 
and  observe.  His  descriptions  of  natural  history 
are  such  as  would  delight  Izaak  Walton  or 
Alexander  Wilson.  Mixed  with  considerable 
transcendental  speculation,  are  shrewd  humors, 
fresh,  nice  observation  of  books  and  men,  with 
occasionally  a  touch  of  the  poetic  vein. 

The  records  of  this  wayward  genius,  will  be 
found  in  his  books,  of  which  several  were 
published  after  his  death.  He  died  of  con 
sumption  at  Concord,  May  7,  1862.  During 
his  life,  he  enjoyed  the  friendship  and  society 
of  his  neighbors,  R.  W.  Emerson  and  Nathaniel 
Hawthorne,  the  former  of  whom  wrote  a 
biographical  sketch  of  him,  prefixed  to  Excur 
sions  in  Field  and  Forest,  12mo.,  Boston,  1863. 

Thoreau,  a  man  of  humors,  led  a  dreamy, 
meditative,  philosophic  sort  of  life,  apparently 
without  any  definite  aim.  His  books  are 
noticeable  on  the  score  of  a  certain  quaint 
study  of  natural  history  and  scenery,  and  may 
continue  to  be  read  as  the  works  of  a  thought 
ful  scholar  and  original  student  of  nature,  who 
possessed  peculiarities  and  humors  of  char 
acter,  love  of  independence,  a  kindly  vein  of 
observation,  and  a  happy  talent  of  description, 
which  invested  homely  and  every-day  subjects 
with  new  interest. 

His  works  have  been  published  in  seven 
uniform  volumes,  viz. :  A  Week  on  the  Con 
cord  and  Merrimack  Rivers;  Walden,  or  Life 
in  the  Woods  ;  Excursions  in  Field  and  Forest; 
The  Maine  Woods ;  Cape  Cod ;  Letters  to 
Various  Persons  ;  and,  A  Yankee  in  Canada. 

Thoreau  was  bred  to  no  profession  ;  he  never 
married  ;  he  lived  alone ;  he  never  went  to 
church  ;  he  never  voted  ;  he  refused  to  pay  a 
tax  to  the  State ;  he  ate  no  flesh,  drank  no 
wine,  and  never  knew  the  use  of  tobacco ;  and 
though  a  naturalist,  he  used  neither  trap  nor 
gun.  He  chose  to  be  the  bachelor  of  thought 
and  Nature;  to  be  rich,  by  making  his  wants 
few,  and  supplying  them  himself.  There  was 
somewhat  military  in  his  nature  not  to  be  sub 
dued,  always  manly  and  able,  but  rarely  ten 
der,  as  if  he  did  not  feel  himself  except  in 

opposition. 

657 


6")  8 


HENRY     D.    THOREAU. 


MY  HOUSE. 

FROM    WALDEN. 

NEAR  the  end  of  March,  1845,  I  borrowed  an 
axe  and  went  down  to  the  woods  by  Walden 
Pond,  nearest  to  where  I  intended  to  build  my 
house,  and  began  to  cut  down  some  tall  arrowy 
white  pines,  still  in  their  youth,  for  timber.  It  is 
difficult  to  begin  without  borrowing,  but  perhaps  it 
is  the  most  generous  course  thus  to  permit  your 
fullow-men  to  have  an  interest  in  your  enterprise. 
The  owner  of  the  axe,  as  he  released  his  hold  on 
it,  said  that  it  was  the  apple  of  his  eye ;  but  I  re 
turned  it  sharper  than  I  received  it.  It  was  a 
pleasant  hillside  where  I  worked,  covered  with 
pine  woods,  through  which  I  looked  out  on  the 
pond,  and  a  small  open  field  in  the  woods  where 
pines  and  hickories  were  springing  up.  The  ice 
iu  the  pond  was  not  yet  dissolved,  though  there 
were  some  open  spaces,  and  it  was  all  dark  colored 
and  saturated  with  water.  There  were  some  slight 
flurries  of  snow  during  the  days  that  I  worked 
there ;  but  for  the  most  part  when  I  came  out  on 
to  the  railroad,  on  my  way  home,  its  yellow  sand 
heap  stretched  away  gleaming  in  the  hazy  atmos 
phere,  and  the  rails  shone  in  the  spring  sun,  and  I 
heard  the  lark  and  pewee  and  other  birds  already 
come  to  commence  another  year  with  us.  They 
were  pleasant  spring  days,  in  which  the  winter  of 
man's  discontent  was  thawing  as  well  as  the  earth, 
and  the  life  that  had  lain  torpid  began  to  stretch 
itself.  One  day,  when  my  axe  had  come  off  and 
I  had  cut  a  green  hickory  for  a  wedge,  driving  it 
with  a  stone,  and  had  placed  the  whole  to  soak  in 
a  pond  hole  in  order  to  swell  the  wood,  I  saw  a 
striped  snake  run  into  the  water,  and  he  lay  on 
the  bottom,  apparently  without  inconvenience,  as 
long  as  I  staid  there,  or  more  than  a  quarter  of  an 
hour ;  perhaps  because  he  had  not  yet  fairly  come 
out  of  the  torpid  state. 

It  appeared  to  me  that  for  a  like  reason  men  re- 
maiii  in  their  present  low  and  primitive  condition  ; 
but  if  they  should  feel  the  influence  of  the  spring 
of  springs  arousing  them,  they  would  of  necessity 
rise  to  a  higher  and  more  ethereal  life.  I  had  pre 
viously  seen  the  snakes  in  frosty  mornings  in  my 
path  with  portions  of  their  bodies  still  numb  and 
inflexible,  waiting  for  the  sun  to  thaw  them.  On 
the  first  of  April  it  rained  and  melted  the  ice,  arid 
in  the  early  part  of  the  day,  which  was  very  foggy, 
I  heard  a  stray  goose  groping  about  over  the  pond 
and  cackling  as  if  lost,  or  like  the  spirit  of  the  fog. 

So  I  went  on  for  some  days  cutting  and  hewing 
timber,  and  also  studs  and  rafters,  all  with  my 
narrow  axe,  not  having  many  communicable  or 
scholar-like  thoughts,  singing  to  myself, — 

Men  say  they  know  many  tilings 

But  lo!  they  have  taken  wings, — 

The  arts  and  sciences, 

And  a  thousand  appliances; 

The  wind  that  blows 

Is  all  that  anybody  knows. 

I  hewed  the  main  timbers  six  inches  square, 
most  of  the  studs  on  two  sides  only,  and  the  rafters 
und  floor  timbers  on  one  side,  leaving  the  rest  of 


the  bark  on,  so  that  they  were  just  as  straight  and 
much  stronger  than  sawed  ones.  Each  stick  was 
carefully  mortised  or  tenoned  by  its  stump,  for  I 
had  borrowed  other  tools  by  this  time.  My  days 
in  the  woods  were  not  very  long  ones  ;  yet  I  us 
ually  carried  my  dinner  of  bread  and  butter,  and 
read  the  newspaper  in  which  it  was  wrapped,  at 
noon,  sitting  amid  the  green  pine  boughs  which  I 
had  cut  off,  and  to  my  bread  was  imparted  some 
of  their  fragrance,  for  my  hands  were  covered  with 
a  thick  coat  of  pitch.  Before  I  had  done  I  was 
more  the  friend  than  the  foe  of  the  pine  tree, 
though  I  had  cut  down  some  of  them,  having  be 
come  better  acquainted  with  it.  Sometimes  a 
rambler  in  the  wood  was  attracted  by  the  sound 
of  my  axe,  and  we  chatted  pleasantly  over  the 
chips  which  I  had  made. 

By  the  middle  of  April,  for  I  made  no  haste  in 
my  work,  but  rather  made  the  most  of  it,  my  house 
was  framed  and  ready  for  the  raising.  I  had  al 
ready  bought  the  shanty  of  James  Collins,  an 
Irishman  who  worked  on  the  Fitchburg  Railroad, 
for  boards.  James  Collins'  shanty  was  considered 
an  uncommonly  fine  one.  When  I  called  to  see 
it  he  was  not  at  home.  I  walked  about  the  out 
side,  at  first  unobserved  from  within,  the  window 
was  so  deep  and  high.  It  was  of  small  dimensions, 
with  a  peaked  cottage  roof,  and  not  much  else  to 
be  seen,  the  dirt  being  raised  five  feet  all  around 
as  if  it  were  a  compost  heap.  The  roof  was  the 
soundest  part,  though  a  good  deal  warped  and 
made  brittle  by  the  sun.  Door-sill  there  was  none, 
but  a  perennial  passage  for  the  hens  under  the 
door  board.  Mrs.  C.  came  to  the  door  and  asked 
me  to  view  it  from  the  inside.  The  hens  were 
driven  in  by  my  approach.  It  was  dark,  and  had  a 
dirt  floor  for  the  most  p'art,  dank,  clammy,  and  aguish, 
only  here  a  board  and  there  a  board  which  would 
not  bear  removal.  She  lighted  a  lamp  to  show  me 
the  inside  of  the  roof  and  the  walls,  and  also  that 
the  board  floor  extended  under  the  bed,  warning 
me  not  to  step  into  the  cellar,  a  sort  of  dust  hole 
two  feet  deep. 

In  her  own  words,  they  were  "  good  boards  over 
head,  good  boards  all  around,  and  a  good  window," 
— of  two  whole  squares  originally,  only  the  cat  had 
passed  out  that  way  lately.  There  was  a  stove,  a 
bed,  and  a  place  to  sit,  an  infant  in  the  house 
where  it  was  born,  a  silk  parasol,  gilt-framed  look 
ing-glass,  and  a  patent  new  coffee-mill  nailed  to 
an  oak  sapling,  all  told.  The  bargain  was  soon 
concluded,  for  James  had  in  the  meanwhile  re 
turned.  I  to  pay  four  dollars  and  tvventy-.ave 
cents  to-night,  he  to  vacate  at  five  to-morrow 
morning,  selling  to  nobody  else  meanwhile :  I  to 
take  possession  at  six.  It  were  well,  he  said,  to  be 
there  early,  and  anticipate  certain  indistinct  but 
wholly  unjust  claims  on  the  score  of  ground  rent 
and  fuel.  This  he  assured  me  was  the  only  en 
cumbrance.  At  six  I  passed  him  and  his  family 

on  the  road.  One  large  bundle  held  their  all, 

bed,  coffee-mill,  looking-glass,  hens, — all  but  the 
cat,  she  took  to  the  woods  and  became  a  wild-cat, 
and,  as  I  learned  afterward,  trod  in  a  trap  set  for 
woodchucks,  and  so  became  a  dead  cat  at  last. 


HENRY     D.    THOREAU. 


659 


I  took  down  this  dwelling  the  same  morning, 
drawing  the  nails,  and  removed  it  to  the  pond 
side  by  small  cartloads,  spreading  the  boards  on 
the  grass  there  to  bleach  and  warp  back  again  in 
the  sun.  One  early  thrush  gave  me  a  note  or  two 
as  I  drove  along  the  woodland  path.  I  was  in 
formed  treacherously  by  a  young  Patrick  that 
neighbor  Seelcy,  an  Irishman,  in  the  intervals  of 
the  carting,  transferred  the  still  tolerable,  straight, 
and  drivable  nails,  staples,  and  spikes  to  his  pocket, 
and  then  stood  when  I  came  back  to  pass  the 
time  of  day,  and  look  freshly  up,  unconcerned, 
with  spring  thoughts,  at  the  devastation ;  there 
being  a  dearth  of  work,  as  he  said.  He  was  there 
to  represent  spectatordom,  and  help  make  this 
seemingly  insignificant  event  one  with  the  removal 
of  the  gods  of  Troy. 

I  dug  my  cellar  in  the  side  of  a  hill  sloping  to 
the  south,  where  a  woodchuck  had  formerly  dug 
his  burrow,  down  through  sumach  and  blackberry 
roots,  and  the  lowest  stain  of  vegetation,  six  feet 
square  by  seven  deep,  to  a  fine  sand  where  potatoes 
would  riot  freeze  in  any  winter.  The  sides  were 
left  shelving,  and  not  stoned  ;  but  the  sun  having 
never  shone  on  them,  the  sand  still  keeps  its 
place.  It  was  but  two  hours  work.  I  took  partic 
ular  pleasure  in  this  breaking  of  ground,  for  in  al 
most  all  latitudes  men  dig  into  the  earth  for  an 
equable  temperature.  Under  the  most  splendid 
house  in  the  city  is  still  to  be  found  the  cellar 
where  they  store  their  roots  as  of  old,  a.nd  long 
after  the  superstructure  has  disappeared  posterity 
remark  its  dent  in  the  earth.  The  house  is  still 
but  a  sort  of  porch  at  the  entrance  of  a  burrow. 

At  length,  in  the  beginning  of  May,  with  the 
help  of  some  of  my  acquaintances,  rather  to  im 
prove  so  good  an  occasion  for  neighborliness  than 
from  any  necessity,  I  set  up  the  frame  of  my  house. 
No  man  was  ever  more  honored  in  the  character 
of  his  raisers  than  I.  They  are  destined,  I  trust, 
to  assist  at  the  raising  of  loftier  structures  one  day. 

I  began  to  occupy  my  house  on  the  4th  of  July, 
as  soon  as  it  was  boarded  and  roofed,  for  the  boards 
were  carefully  feather-edged  and  lapped,  so  that  it 
was  perfectly  impervious  to  rain  ;  but  before  board 
ing  I  laid  the  foundation  of  a  chimney  at  one  end, 
bringing  two  cartloads  of  stones  up  the  hill  from 
the  pond  in  my  arms.  I  built  the  chimney  after 
my  hoeing  in  the  fall,  before  a  fire  became  neces 
sary  for  warmth,  doing  my  cooking  in  the  mean 
while  out  of  doors  on  the  ground,  early  in  the 
morning  :  which  mode  I  still  think  is  in  some  re 
spects  more  convenient  and  agreeable  than  the 
usual  one.  When  it  stormed  before  my  bread  was 
baked,  I  fixed  a  few  boards  over  the  fire,  and  sat 
under  them  to  watch  my  loaf,  and  passed  some 
pleasant  hours  in  that  way.  In  those  days,  when 
my  hands  were  much  employed,  I  read  but  little, 
but  the  least  scraps  of  paper  which  lay  on  the 
ground,  my  holder,  or  tablecloth,  afforded  me  as 
much  entertainment,  in  fact  answered  the  same 
purpose  as  the  Iliad. 

It  would  be  worth  the  while  to  build  still  more 
deliberately  than  I  did,  considering,  for  instance, 


what  foundation  a  door,  a  window,  a  cellar,  a  gar 
ret,  have  in  the  nature  of  man,  and  perchance 
never  raising  any  superstructure  until  we  found  a 
better  reason  for  it  than  our  temporal  necessities 
even.  There  is  some  of  the  same  fitness  in  a 
man's  building  his  own  house  that  there  is  in  a 
bird's  building  its  own  nest.  Who  knows  but  if 
men  constructed  their  dwellings  with  their  own 
hands,  and  provided  food  for  themselves  and  fami 
lies  simply  and  honestly  enough,  the  poetic  faculty 
would  be  universally  developed,  as  birds  universally 
sing  when  they  are  so  engaged!  But  alas!  we 
do  like  cowbirds  and  cuckoos,  which  lay  their  eggs 
in  nests  which  other  birds  have  built,  and  cheer  no 
traveller  with  their  chattering  and  unmusical  notes. 
Shall  we  forever  resign  the  pleasure  of  construction 
to  the  carpenter  ?  What  does  architecture  amount 
to  in  the  experience  of  the  mass  of  men  1  I  never 
in  all  my  walks  came  across  a  man  engaged  in  so 
simple  and  natural  an  occupation  as  building  hi? 
house.  We  belong  to  the  community.  It  is  no 
the  tailor  alone  who  is  the  ninth  part  of  a  man  ;  i 
is  as  much  the  preacher,  and  the  merchant,  and 
the  farmer.  Where  is  this  division  of  labor  to  end  f 
and  what  object  does  it  finally  serve  1  No  doubt 
another  may  also  think  for  me  ;  but  it  is  not  there 
fore  desirable  that  he  should  do  so  to  the  exclusion 
of  mv  thinking  for  myself. 

Before  winter  I  built  a  chimney,  and  shingled 
the  sides  of  my  house,  which  were  already  imper 
vious  to  rain,  with  imperfect  and  sappy  shingles  made 
of  the  first  slice  of  the  log,  whose  edges  I  was  ob 
liged  to  straighten  with  a  plane. 

I  have  thus  a  tight  shingled  and  plastered  house, 
ten  feet  wide  by  fifteen  long,  and  eight-feet  posts, 
with  a  garret  and  -a  closet,  a  large  window  on 
each  side,  two  trap  doors,  one  door  at  the  end,  and 
a  brick  fireplace  opposite.  The  exact  cost  of  my 
house,  paying  the  usual  price  for  such  materials 
as  I  used,  but  not  counting  the  work,  all  of  which 
was  done  by  myself,  was  as  follows ;  and  I  give  the 
details  because  very  few  are  able  to  tell  exactly 
what  their  houses  cost,  and  fewer  still,  if  any,  the 
separate  cost  of  the  various  materials  which  com 
pose  them  : — 

Boards,        .        .         $8  03%,  mostly  shanty  boards. 

Refuse    shingles  for 
roof  and  sides,         .    400 

Laths,  .         .        .        .  1  25 

Two  second-hand  win 
dows  with  glass,      .  243 

One  thousand  old  brick  400 

Two  casks  of  lime,         2  40      That  was  high. 

Hair,  .        .  031      More  than  I  needed. 

Mantle-tree  iron,  015 

Nails,  .  3  90 

Hinges  and  Screws,        0 14 

Latch,          .         .  010 

Chalk,          .        .        .001 


Transportation 


.  1  40   <  I  carried  a  good  part  on  my 
(      back. 


In  all,        .     $28  12% 

These  arc  all  the  materials  excepting  the  tim 
ber,  stones  and  sand,  which  I  claimed  by  squatter's 
right.  I  have  also  a  small  wood-shed  adjoining, 
made  chiefly  of  the  stuff  which  was  left  after 
building  the  house. 


JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL, 


[Born  1819.] 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL,  more  noted  as  a 
poet  than  as  a  prose  writer,  was  born  in 
Cambridge,  Mass.,  Feb.  22,  1819,  at  his  father's 
country  seat  of  Elmwood.  His  father,  the 
Rev.  Charles  Lowell,  is  the  author  of  about  20 
published  Discourses  ;  a  volume  of  Occasional 
Sermons  ;  one  of  Practical  Sermons  ;  Medita 
tions  for  the  Afflicted,  Sick,  and  Dying ;  and, 
Devotional  Exercises  for  Communicants. 

James  Russell  Lowell  graduated  at  Harvard 
in  1838,  tried  law,  which  he  soon  relinquished 
for  poetry  and  letters.  In  1855,  he  succeeded 
Prof.  Longfellow  as  Professor  of  Belles-Lettres 
in  Harvard,  and  spent  some  months  in  Europe 
before  assuming  its  duties.  In  1841,  he 
published  his  first  volume,  A  Year's  Life ; 
and  in  1843,  The  Pioneer,  a  Literary  and  Criti 
cal  Magazine,  a  fashionable  illustrated  peri 
odical  of  which  only  three  numbers  were  issued. 
In  1844,  he  published  the  Legend  of  Brittany, 
Poems  and  Sonnets.  In  the  same  year  he 
married  Miss  Maria  White,  of  Watertown,  a 
lady  of  fine  culture,  who  left  at  her  decease  a 
number  of  excellent  poems,  which  her  husband 
had  privately  printed  as  a  memorial  volume. 

In  1845,  Mr.  Lowell  issued  his  Conversations 
on  the  Old  Poets,  a  series  of  critical  and  aes 
thetic  essays,  displaying  a  subtle  knowledge 
of  English  literature;  in  the  form  of  dialogue, 
an  unpleasant  vehicle  for  introducing  a  liberal 
stock  of  reflections  on  life  and  literature  gen 
erally.  They  show  a  deep  appreciation  of  the 
poetical  merit  of  the  authors  quoted,  and  a 
fineness  of  critical  tact  quite  unusual  in  the 
literature  of  the  magazines.  The  third  series 
of  his  poems  appeared  in  1848,  and  in  the 
same  year,  his  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal,  founded 
on  a  legend  of  a  search  for  the  San  Greal ;  and 
A  Fable  for  Critics,  a  review  article  done  into 
rhyme.  It  abounds  in  ingenious  turns  of  ex 
pression  and  felicitous  sketches  of  character : 
it  is  witty  and  humorous,  and,  for  the  most  part 
in  a  spirit  of  genial  appreciation  ;  but,  in  a  few 
instances,  the  judgments  indicate  too  narrow  a 
range  of  sympathies,  and  the  caustic  severity 
of  others  has  been  attributed  to  desires  of  re 
taliation.  Both  of  these  volumes  have  been 


very  popular ;  and,  The  Bigelow  Papers,  a  po 
litical  satire  in  Yankee  rhyme  upon  the  Inva 
sion  of  Mexico,  and  Slavery.  A  second  series 
of  these  witty  poems  was  afterwards  collected 
from  the  papers  and  magazines. 

He  published  also,  Fireside  Travels,  16mo. ; 
in  1868,  Under  the  Willows,  and  other  Poems  ; 
and  in  1870,  Among  my  Books,  Essays  upon 
Dryden,  Witchcraft,  Shakspeare,  New  England 
two  centuries  ago,  Lessing,  and,  Rousseau  and 
the  Sentimentalists. 

His  collected  poems  were  first  issued  in 
1850,  in  2  vols.,  16mo.,  and  afterwards  in 
32mo.,  and  have  passed  through  many  editions. 
He  has  written  many  articles  for  the  periodicals. 

In  1857,  he  married  Miss  Frances  Dunlap, 
niece  of  ex-Governor  Dunlap,  of  Maine. 

Lowell  is  generally  looked  upon  as  a  serious 
poet,  and,  indeed,  no  one  has  a  better  claim  to 
be  so  regarded,  for  seriousness  is  one  of  the 
flrst  essentials  of  genuine  poetry.  But  seri 
ousness  is  not  necessarily  sadness.  Much  of 
his  poetry  overflows  with  mirthful  and  jocund 
feelings,  and  in  his  most  pungent  satire  there 
is  a  bubbling  up  of  a  genial  and  loving  nature  ; 
the  brilliant  flashes  of  his  wit  are  softened  by 
an  evident  gentleness  of  motive. 

Lowell's  prose  writings  are  as  remarkable 
as  his  poetry  :  the  copiousness  of  his  illustra 
tions,  the  richness  of  his  imagery,  the  easy 
flow  of  his  sentences,  the  keenness  of  his  wit, 
and  the  force  and  clearness  of  his  reasoning, 
give  to  his  reviews  and  essays,  a  fascinating 
charm  that  would  place  him  in  the  front  rank 
of  our  prose  writers,  if  he  did  not  occupy  a 
similar  position  among  our  poets.  He  unites, 
in  his  most  effective  power,  the  dreamy, 
suggestive  character  of  the  transcendental 
bards  with  the  philosophic  simplicity  of 
Wordsworth.  He  has  written  clever  satires, 
good  sonnets,  and  some  long  poems  with  fine 
descriptive  passages.  He  reminds  us  often  of 
Tennyson  in  the  sentiment  and  the  construc 
tion  of  his  verse.  Imagination  and  philan 
thropy  are  the  dominant  elements  in  his 
writings, — some  of  which  are  marked  by  a 
graceful  flow  and  earnest  tone. 


JAMES     R.    LOWELL. 


661 


NEW    ENGLAND 

FROM    AMONG    MY  BOOKS. 

NEW  ENGLAND  history  has  rather  a  gregarious 
than  a  personal  interest.  Here,  by  inherent  ne 
cessity  rather  than  design,  was  made  the  first  ex 
periment  in  practical  democracy,  and  accordingly 
hence  began  that  reaction  of  the  New  World  upon 
the  Old  whose  result  can  hardly  yet  be  estimated. 
There  is  here  no  temptation  to  make  a  hero,  who 
shall  sum  up  in  his  own  individuality  and  carry 
forward  by  his  own  will  that  purpose  of  which  we 
seem  to  catch  such  bewitching  glances  in  history, 
which  reveals  itself  more  clearly  and  constantly, 
perhaps,  in  the  annals  of  New  England  than  else 
where,  and  which  yet,  at  best,  is  but  tentative, 
doubtful  of  itself,  turned  this  way  and  that  by 
chance,  made  up  of  instinct,  and  modified  by  cir 
cumstance  quite  as  much  as  it  is  directed  by  delib 
erate  forethought.  Such  a  purpose,  or  natural 
craving,  or  result  of  temporary  influences,  may  be 
misguided  by  a  powerful  character  to  his  own  ends, 
or,  if  he  be  strongly  in  sympathy  with  it,  may  be 
hastened  toward  its  own  fulfilment ;  but  there  is  no 
such  heroic  element  in  our  drama,  and  what  is 
remarkable  is,  that,  under  whatever  government, 
democracy  grew  with  the  growth  of  the  New 
England  Colonies,  and  was  at  last  potent  enough 
to  wrench  them,  and  the  better  part  of  the  conti 
nent  with  them,  from  the  mother  country.  It  is 
true  that  Jefferson  embodied  in  the  Declaration  of 
Independence  the  speculative  theories  he  had 
learned  in  France,  but  the  impulse  to  separation 
came  from  New  England;  and  those  theories  had 
been  long  since  embodied  there  in  the  practice  of 
the  people,  if  they  had  never  been  formulated  in 
distinct  propositions. 

I  have  little  sympathy  with  declaimers  about 
the  Pilgrim  Fathers,  who  look  upon  them  all  as 
men  of  grand  conceptions  and  superhuman  fore 
sight.  An  entire  ship's  company  of  Columbuses 
is  what  the  world  never  saw.  It  is  not  wise  to 
form  any  theory  and  fit  our  facts  to  it,  as  a  man  in 
a  hurry  is  apt  to  cram  his  travelling-bag,  with  a 
total  disregard  of  shape  or  texture.  But  perhaps 
it  may  be  found  that  the  facts  will  only  fit  com 
fortably  together  on  a  single  plan,  namely,  that 
the  fathers  did  have  a  conception  (which  those 
will  call  grand  who  regard  simplicity  as  a  neces 
sary  element  of  grandeur)  of  founding  here  a  com- 
infMlwealtfe  on  those  two  eternal  bases  of  Faith  and 
Work  ;  that  they  had,  indeed,  no  revolutionary 
ideas  of  universal  liberty,  but  yet,  what  answered 
the  purpose  quite  as  well,  an  abiding  faith  in  the 
brotherhood  of  man  and  the  fatherhood  of  God ; 
ami  that  they  did  not  so  much  propose  to  make 
all  things  new,  as  to  develop  the  latent  possibilities 
of  English  law  and  English  character,  by  clearing 
away  the  fences  by  which  the  abuse  of  the  one 
was  gradually  discommoning  the  other  from  the 
broad  fields  of  natural  right.  They  were  not  in 
advance  of  their  age,  as  it  is  called,  for  no  one 
who  is  so  can  ever  work  profitably  in  it;  but  they 
were  alive  to  the  highest  and  most  earnest  think 
ing  of  their  time. 


WITCHCRAFT. 

FROM    THE   SAME. 

AND  if  there  are  men  who  regret  the  Good  Old 
Times,  without  too  clear  a  notion  of  what  they 
were,  they  should  at  least  be  thankful  that  we  are 
rid  of  that  misguided  energy  of  faith  which  justi 
fied  conscience  in  making  men  unrelentingly 
cruel.  Even  Mr.  Leckie  softens  a  little  at  the 
thought  of  the  many  innocent  and  beautiful  beliefs 
of  which  a  growing  scepticism  has  robbed  us  in 
the  decay  of  supernaturalisrn.  But  we  need  not 
despair  ;  for,  after  all,  scepticism  is  first  cousin  of 
credulity,  and  we  are  not  surprised  to  see  the 
tough  doubter  Montaigne  hanging  up  his  offerings 
in  the  shrine  of  our  Lady  of  Loreto.  Scepticism 
commonly  takes  up  the  room  left  by  defect  of  im 
agination,  and  is  the  very  quality  of  mind  most  likely 
to  seek  for  sensual  proof  of  supersensual  things. 
If  on,e  came  from  the  dead,  it  could  not  believe ; 
and  yet  it  longs  for  such  a  witness,  and  will  put 
up  with  a  very  dubious  one.  So  long  as  night  is 
left  and  the  helplessness  of  dream,  the  wonderful 
will  not  cease  from  among  men.  While  we  are 
the  solitary  prisoners  of  darkness,  the  witch  seats 
herself  at  the  loom  of  thought,  and  weaves  strange 
figures  into  the  web  that  looks  so  familiar  and 
ordinary  in  the  dry  light  of  every-day.  Just  as  we 
are  flattering  ourselves  that  the  old  spirit  of  sorcery 
is  laid,  behold  the  tables  are  tipping  and  the  floors 
drumming  all  over  Christendom.  The  faculty  of 
wonder  is  not  defunct,  but  is  only  getting  more 
and  more  emancipated  from  the  unnatural  service 
of  terror,  and  restored  to  its  proper  function  as  a 
minister  of  delight.  A  higher  mode  of  belief  is 
the  best  exorciser,  because  it  makes  the  spiritual 
at  one  with  the  actual  world  instead  of  hostile,  or 
at  best  alien.  It  has  been  the  grossly  material  in 
terpretations  of  spiritual  doctrine  that  have  given 
occasion  to  the  two  extremes  of  superstition  and 
unbelief.  While  the  resurrection  of  the  body  has 
been  insisted  on,  that  resurrection  from  the  body 
which  is  the  privilege  of  all  has  been  forgotten. 
Superstition  in  its  baneful  form  was  largely  due 
to  the  enforcement  by  the  Church  of  arguments 
that  involved  a  pelitio  principii,  for  it  is  the  mis 
erable  necessity  of  all  false  logic  to  accept  of  very 
ignoble  allies.  Fear  became  at  length  its  chief 
expedient  for  the  maintenance  of  its  power;  and 
as  there  is  a  beneficent  necessity  laid  upon  a  ma 
jority  of  mankind  to  sustain  and  perpetuate  the 
order  of  things  they  are  born  into,  arid  to  make  all 
new  ideas  manfully  prove  their  right,  first,  to  be  at 
all,  and  then  to  be  heard,  many  even  superior 
minds  dreaded  the  tearing  away  of  vicious  accre 
tions  as  dangerous  to  the  whole  edifice  of  religion 
and  society.  But  if  this  old  ghost  be  fading  away 
in  what  we  regard  as  the  dawn  of  a  better  day, 
we  may  console  ourselves  by  thinking  that  per 
haps,  after  all,  we  are  not  so  much  wiser  than  our 
ancestors.  The  rappings,  the  trance  mediums, 
the  visions  of  hands  without  bodies,  the  sounding 
of  musical  instruments  without  visible  fingers,  the 
miraculous  inscriptions  on  the  naked  flesh,  the  en- 
livenment  of  furniture, — we  have  invented  none 
of  them,  they  are  all  heirloom?. 


JOSIAH    GILBERT    HOLLAND,  M.  D. 

[Born  1819.] 


DR.  J.  G.  HOLLAND  was  born  atBelchertown, 
Mass.,  July  24,  1819.  When  he  had  partly 
completed  his  studies,  preparatory  to  entering 
college,  his  health  became  enfeebled  by  too 
severe  application,  and  he  concluded,  after  a 
period  of  relaxation,  to  study  medicine,  which 
he  did,  in  the  meantime  teaching  as  a  means 
of  support.  In  1845,  he  took  his  degree  of 
M.  D.,  at  the  Berkshire  Medical  College,  Pitts- 
field,  Mass.,  and  practiced  about  two  years  at 
Springfield,  where  he  married  Elizabeth  L. 
Chapin.  He  afterwards  became  teacher  of  a 
private  school  at  Richmond,  Va.,  for  three 
months,  and  then  accepted  the  appointment 
of  Superintendent  of  Public  Schools  in  Vicks- 
burg,  Miss.  While  there,  he  wrote  frequently  for 
the  press  ;  but,  after  discharging  the  duties  of 
his  office  with  great  satisfaction  fora  year  and 
half,  he  accepted  an  offer  as  editor  of  the 
Springfield  Republican,  and  removed  back  to 
Massachusetts.  He  has  discharged  his  edito 
rial  duties  with  such  tact  and  ability,  that  that 
paper  is  one  of  the  most  successful  and  widely  . 
known  and  quoted  journals  in  the  country. 

In  1855,  Dr.  Holland  published  the  History 
of  Western  Massachusetts,  of  four  counties,  in 
2  vols.,  12mo.,  which  he  had  written  the  pre 
vious  year.  In  1857,  appeared  the  Bay  Path, 
a  novel  founded  on  some  of  the  colonial  inci 
dents  of  his  history  ;  which  did  not  meet  with 
much  success,  nor  at  a  later  period  when  it  was 
reissued. 

In  1858,  he  reprinted  from  the  Republican, 
Timothy  Titcomb's  Letters  to  Young  People, 
that  had  an  immediate  and  great  success,  and 
which  very  deservedly  still  continues.  Emi 
nently  successful  in  their  manner  and  adapta 
tion  to  the  wants  of  the  country,  they  attracted 
attention  for  their  beauty  of  style,  purity  of 
English,  and  sound  common  sense.  The  advice 
contained  in  them  is  excellent,  entirely  prac 
tical,  sufficiently  minute,  and  eminently  judi 
cious, — intended  to  make  useful  and  happy  men 
and  women. 

The  same  year  he  published,  Bitter  Sweet, 
a  poem  of  New  England  rustic  life,  unique  in 


its  structure,  for  the  most  part  in  blank  verse, 
of  a  somewhat  rugged  character,  in  keeping 
with  the  subject  matter.  It  opens  with  a 
picture  of  a  wild  November  storm  raging 
around  a  country  homestead  on  a  New  England 
Thanksgiving,  at  which  the  gathered  family, 
after  the  bountiful  repast  and  the  pleasantries 
of  the  evening,  talk  far  into  the  night  upon 
questions  of  theology,  in  connection  with  their 
personal  experiences  of  the  joys  and  sorrows 
of  life.  It  met  with  great  success  in  both  il 
lustrated  and  plain  editions. 

In  1859,  he  issued  Gold  Foil  Hammered 
from  Popular  Proverbs,  in  which,  with  a  wider 
scope  in  its  treatment  of  social  subjects  than 
in  Titcomb's  Letters,  it  treated  of  matters  of 
the  same  general  character  in  the  same  com 
mon  sense  way.  This  was  followed  by  three 
other  books  of  somewhat  similar  character ; 
Letters  to  the  Joneses  ;  Lessons  in  Life,  a  series 
of  familiar  essays  ;  and  Plain  Talk  on  Familiar 
Subjects. 

In  1860,  Dr.  Holland  published  his  second 
novel,  Miss  Gilbert's  Career,  a  tale  of  American 
village  life,  well  told,  with  some  powerfully 
drawn  characters,  truthful  pictures,  and  hu 
morous  delineations.  It  met  with  a  fair 
share  of  success. 

Upon  the  death  of  Mr.  Lincoln,  Dr.  Holland 
wrote  a  very  excellent  biography,  which  had 
a  large  sale  by  subscription. 

In  186*7,  he  published  his  second  long  poem, 
Kathriua,  her  sorrows  and  mine,  which  at 
once  attained  to  great  popularity  in  an  ele 
gantly  illustrated  octavo  edition,  also  in  plain 
12mo. 

Dr.  Holland  now  ranks  as  one  of  the  most 
popular  of  American  authors  ;  and  perhaps  no 
American  poet  has  met  with  such  instant  and 
ready  recognition,  such  universal  popularity, 
and  with  so  great  literary  and  pecuniary 
success.  Two  editions  of  his  works  are  pub 
lished,  one  in  12mo.,  and  his  most  popular 
works  in  16mo.,  uniform  style,  called  the 
Brightwood  edition. 


JOSIAH    GILBERT     HOLLAND. 


663 


FEMALE  SOCIETY—THE  WOMAN  FOR 
A  WIFE. 

FROM  TITCOMB'S  LETTERS. 

IN  many  of  the  books  addressed  to  young  men,  a 
great  deal  is  said  about  the  purifying  and  elevating 
influences  of  female  society.  Sentimental  young 
men  affect  this  kind  of  reading,  and  if  anywhere 
in  it  they  can  find  countenance  for  the  policy  of 
early  marriage,  they  are  delighted.  Now,  while  I 
will  be  the  last  to  deny  the  purifying  and  elevating 
influence  of  pure  and  elevated  women,  I  do  deny 
that  there  is  anything  in  indiscriminate  devotion 
to  female  society,  which  makes  a  man  better  or 
purer.  Suppose  a  man  cast  away  on  the  Cannibal 
Islands,  and  not  in  sufficiently  good  flesh  to  ex 
cite  the  appetites  of  the  gentle  epicureans  among 
whom  he  has  fallen.  Suppose  him,  in  fact,  to  be 
"  received  into  society,"  and  made  the  private  secre 
tary  of  a  king  without  a  liberal  education.  Sup 
pose  after  a  while,  he  feels  himself  subsiding  into 
a  state  of  barbarism,  and  casts  around  for  some 
redeeming  or  conservative  influence.  At  this  mo 
ment  it  occurs  to  him  that  in  the  trunk  on  which 
he  sailed  ashore  were  a  number  of  books.  He 
flies  to  the  trunk,  and,  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight, 
discovers  that  among  them  is  a  volume  addressed 
to  young  men.  He  opens  it  eagerly,  and  finds 
the  writer  to  declare  that  next  to  the  Christian 
religion,  there  is  nothing  that  will  tend  so  strongly 
to  the  elevation  and  purification  of  young  men,  as 
female  society.  He  accordingly  seeks  the  society 
of  women,  and  drinks  in  the  marvellous  influ 
ences  of  their  presence.  He  finds  them  unac 
quainted  with  some  of  the  most  grateful  uses  of 
water,  and  in  evident  ignorance  of  the  existence 
of  ivory  combs.  About  what  year  of  the  popular 
era  is  it  to  be  supposed  that  he  will  arrive  at  a 
desirable  state  of  purification  and  perfection  ] 

Now,  perhaps  you  do  not  perceive  the  force  of 
this  illustration.  Let  us  get  at  it,  then.  When 
you  find  youself  shut  out  from  all  female  society 
except  that  which  is  beneath  you,  that  society 
will  do  you  just  as  much  and  no  more  good  than 
that  of  the  fair  cannibals,  especially  if  it  be  young. 
If,  in  all  this  society,  you  can  find  one  old  woman 
of  sixty,  who  has  common  sense,  genial  good 
nature,  experience,  some  reading,  and  a  sympa 
thetic  heart,  cherish  her  as  you  would  her  weight 
in  gold,  but  let  the  young  trash  go.  You  will  hear 
nothing  from  them  but  gossip  and  nonsense,  and 
you  will  only  get  disgusted  with  the  world  and 
yourself.  Inspiration  to  higher  and  purer  life 
always  comes  from  above  a,  man ;  and  female 
society  can  only  elevate  and  purify  a  man  when 
it  is  higher  and  purer  than  he  is.  In  the  element 
of  purity,  I  doubt  not  that  women  generally  are 
superior  to  men,  but  it  is  very  largely  a  negative 
or  unconscious  element,  and  has  not  the  power 
and  influence  of  a  positive  virtue. 

Therefore,  whenever  you  seek  for  female  so 
ciety,  as  an  agency  in  the  elevation  of  your 
tastes,  the  preservation  of  your  morals,  and  the 
improvement  of  your  mind,  seek  for  that  which  is 
above  you.  I  do  not  counsel  you  to  treat  with 
rudeness  or  studied  neglect  such  inferior  female 


society  as  you  are  obliged  to  come  in  contact  with. 
On  the  contrary,  you  owe  such  society  a  duty. 
You  should  stimulate  it,  infuse  new  life  into  it,  if 
possible,  and  do  for  it  what  you  would  have 
female  society  do  for  yourself. 

This  matter  of  seeking  female  society  above 
yourself  you  should  carry  still  further  Never 
content  yourself  with  the  idea  of  having  a  com 
mon-place  wife.  You  want  one  who  will  stimu 
late  you,  stir  you  up,  keep  you  moving,  show  you 
your  weak  points,  and  make  something  of  you. 
Don't  fear  that  you  cannot  get  such  a  wife.  I  very 
well  remember  the  reply  which  a  gentleman  who 
happened  to  combine  the  qualities  of  wit  and  com 
mon  sense,  made  to  a  young  man  who  expressed 
a  fear  that  a  certain  young  lady  of  great  beauty 
and  attainments  would  dismiss  him,  if  he  should 
become  serious.  "  My  friend,"  said  the  wit,  "  in 
finitely  more  beautiful  and  accomplished  women 
than  she  is,  have  married  infinitely  uglier  and 
meaner  men  than  you  are."  And  such  is  the 
fact.  If  you  are  honest  and  honorable,  if  your 
character  is  spotless,  if  you  are  enterprising  and 
industrious,  if  you  have  some  grace  and  a  fair  de 
gree  of  sense,  and  if  you  love  appreciatingly  arid 
truly,  you  can  marry  almost  anybody  worth  your 
having.  So,  to  encourage  yourself,  carry  in  your 
memory  the  above  aphorism  reduced  to  a  form 
something  like  this :  "  Infinitely  finer  women 
than  I  ever  expect  to  marry,  have  loved  and  mar 
ried  men  infinitely  meaner  than  I  am." 

The  apprehensions  of  women  are  finer  and 
quicker  than  those  of  men.  With  equally  early 
advantages,  the  woman  is  more  of  a  woman  at 
eighteen  than  a  man  is  a  man  at  twenty-one. 
After  marriage,  as  a  general  thing,  the  woman 
ceases  to  acquire.  Now,  I  do  not  say  that  this  is 
necessary,  or  that  it  should  be  the  case,  but  I 
simply  state  a  general  fact.  The  woman  is  ab 
sorbed  in  family  cares,  or  perhaps  devotes  from  ten 
to  twenty  years  to  the  bearing  and  rearing  of 
children — the  most  dignified,  delightful,  and 
honorable  office  of  her  life.  This  consumes  her 
time,  and,  in  a  great  multitude  «f  instances,  de 
prives  her  of  intellectual  culture. 

In  the  meantime,  the  man  is  out,  engaged  in 
business.  He  comes  in  daily  contact  with  minds 
stronger  and  sharper  than  his  own.  He  grows 
and  matures,  and  in  ten  years  from  the  date  of  his 
marriage,  becomes  in  reality,  a  new  man.  Now, 
if  he  was  so  foolish  as  to  marry  a  woman  because 
she  had  a  pretty  form  and  face,  or  sweet  eyes,  or 
an  amiable  disposition,  or  a  pleasant  temper,  or 
wealth,  he  will  find  that  he  has  passed  entirely  by 
his  wife,  and  that  she  is  really  no  more  of  a  com 
panion  for  him  than  a  child  would  be.  I  know  of 
but  few  sadder  sights  in  this  world  than  that  of 
mates  whom  the  passage  of  years  has  miss-mated. 
A  woman  ought  to  have  a  long  start  of  a  man, 
and  then,  ten  to  one  the  man  will  come  out 
ahead  in  the  race  of  a  long  life. 

I  suppose  that  in  every  young  man's  mind  there 
exist  the  hope  and  the  expectation  of  marriage. 
When  a  young  man  pretends  to  me  that  he  has 
no  wish  to  marry,  and  that  he  never  expects  to 
marry,  I  always  infer  one  of  two  things :  that  he 


GG4 


JOSIAH    GILBERT    HOLLAND. 


lies,  and  is  really  very  anxious  for  marriage,  or 
that  his  heart  has  been  polluted  by  associations 
with  unworthy  women.  In  a  thousand  cases  we 
shall  not  find  three  exceptions  to  this  rule.  A 
young  man  who,  with  any  degree  of  earnestness, 
declares  that  he  intends  never  to  marry,  confesses 
to  a  brutal  nature  or  perverted  morals. 

But  how  shall  a  good  wife  be  won  ?  I  know 
that  men  naturally  shrink  from  the  attempt  to  ob 
tain  companions  who  are  their  superiors ;  but  they 
will  find  that  really  intelligent  women,  who  pos 
sess  the  most  desirable  qualities,  are  uniformly 
modest,  and  hold  their  charms  in  modest  estima 
tion.  What  such  women  most  admire  in  men  is 
gallantry ;  not  the  gallantry  of  courts  and  fops, 
but  boldness,  courage,  devotion,  decision,  and  re 
fined  civility.  A  man's  bearing  wins  ten  superior 
women  where  his  boots  and  brains  win  one.  If 
a  man  stand  before  a  woman  with  respect  for 
himself  and  fearlessness  of  her,  his  suit  is  half 
won.  The  rest  may  safely  be  left  to  the  parties 
most  interested.  Therefore,  never  be  afraid  of  a 
woman.  Women  are  the  most  harmless  and 
agreeable  creatures  in  the  world,  to  a  man  who 
shows  that  he  has  got  a  man's  soul  in  him.  If 
you  have  not  got  the  spirit  in  you  to  come  up  to  a 
test  like  this,  you  have  not  got  that  in  you  which 
most  pleases  a  high-souled  woman,  and  you  will 
be  obliged  to  content  yourself  with  the  simple  girl 
who,  in  a  quiet  way,  is  endeavoring  to  attract  and 
fasten  you. 

But  don't  be  in  a  hurry  about  the  matter. 
Don't  get  into  a  feverish  longing  for  marriage.  It 
isn't  creditable  to  you.  Especially  don't  imagine 
that  any  disappointment  in  love  which  takes  place 
before  you  are  twenty-one  years  old  will  be  of  any 
material  damage  to  you.  The  truth  is,  that  before 
a  man  is  twenty-five  years  old  he  does  not  know 
what  he  wants  himself.  So  don't  be  in  a  hurry. 
The  more  of  a  man  you  become,  and  the  more  of 
manliness  you  become  capable  of  exhibiting  in 
your  association  with  women,  the  better  wife  you 
will  be  able  to  obtain  ;  and  one  year's  possession 
of  the  heart  and  hand  of  a  really  noble  specimen 
of  her  sex,  is  worth  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine 
years'  possession  of  a  sweet  creature  with  two 
ideas  in  her  head,  and  nothing  new  to  say  about 
either  of  them.  "  Better  fifty  years  of  Europe 
than  a  cycle  of  Cathay."  So  don't  be  in  a  hurry, 
I  say  again.  You  don't  want  a  wife  now,  and 
you  have  not  the  slightest  idea  of  the  kind  of  a 
wife  you  will  want  by-and-by.  Go  into  female 
society  if  you  can  find  that  which  will  improve 
you,  but  not  otherwise.  You  can  spend  your 
time  better.  Seek  the  society  of  good  men.  This 
is  often  more  accessible  to  you  than  the  other,  and 


it  is  through  that  mostly  that  you  will  find  your 
way  to  good  female  society. 

If  any  are  disposed  to  complain  of  the  injustice 
to  woman  of  advice  like  this,  and  believe  that  it 
involves  a  wrong  to  her,  I  reply  that  not  the 
slightest  wrong  is  intended.  Thorough  appre 
ciation  of  a  good  woman,  on  the  part  of  a  young 
man,  is  one  of  his  strongest  recommendations  to 
her  favor.  The  desire  of  such  a  man  to  possess 
and  associate  his  life  with  such  a  woman,  gives 
evidence  of  qualities,  aptitudes,  and  capacities 
which  entitle  him  to  any  woman's  consideration 
and  respect.  There  is  something  good  in  him; 
and  however  uncultivated  he  may  be — however 
rude  in  manner,  and  rough  in  person — he  only 
needs  development  to  become  worthy  of  her,  in 
some  respects,  at  least.  I  shall  not  quarrel  with  a 
woman  who  desires  a  husband  superior  to  herself, 
for  I  know  it  will  be  well  for  her  to  obtain  such  an 
one,  if  she  will  be  stimulated  by  contact  with  a 
higher  mind  to  a  brighter  and  broader  develop 
ment.  At  the  same  time,  I  must  believe  that  for 
a  man  to  marry  his  inferior,  is  to  call  upon  him 
self  a  great  misfortune ;  to  deprive  himself  of  one 
of  the  most  elevating  and  refining  influences  which 
can  possibly  affect  him.  1  therefore  believe  it  to  be 
the  true  policy  of  every  young  man  to  aim  high  in 
his  choice  of  a  companion.  I  have  previously  given 
a  reason  for  this  policy,  and  both  that  and  this 
conspire  to  establish  the  soundness  of  my  counsel. 

One  thing  more:  not  the  least  important,  but 
the  last  in  this  letter.  No  woman  without  piety 
in  her  heart  is  fit  to  be  the  companion  of  any 
man.  You  may  get,  in  your  wife,  beauty,  ami 
ability,  sprightliness,  wit,  accomplishments,  wealth, 
and  learning,  but  if  that  wife  have  no  higher  love 
than  herself  and  yourself,  she  is  a  poor  creature. 
She  cannot  elevate  you  above  mean  aims  and  ob 
jects,  she  cannot  educate  her  children  properly, 
she  cannot  in  hours  of  adversity  sustain  and  com 
fort  you,  she  cannot  bear  with  patience  your  petu 
lance  induced  by  the  toils  and  vexations  of  business, 
and  she  will  never  be  safe  against  the  seductive 
temptations  of  gaiety  and  dress. 

Then,  again,  a  man  who  has  the  prayers  of  a 
pious  wife,  and  knows  that  he  has  them — upheld 
by  heaven,  or  by  a  refined  sense  of  obligation  and 
gratitude — can  rarely  become  a  very  bad  man. 
A  daily  prayer  from  the  heart  of  a  pure  and  pious 
wife,  for  a  husband  engrossed  in  the  pursuits  of 
wealth  and  fame,  is  a  chain  of  golden  words  that 
links  his  name  every  day  with  the  name  of  God. 
He  may  snap  it  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  times 
in  a  year,  for  many  years,  but  the  chances  are  that 
in  time  he  will  gather  the  sundered  filaments,  and 
seek  to  re-unite  them  in  an  everlasting  bond. 


HERMAN    MELVILLE. 


[Born  1819.] 


HERMAN  MELVILLE  was  born  in  New  York, 
August  1,  1819.  His  father  was  an  importer 
and  made  frequent  trips  across  the  Atlantic. 
Herman  seemed  to  inherit  a  love  for  the 
ocean ;  his  early  boyhood  was  passed  at 
Albany,  and  Lansingburg,  in  New  York,  and 
at  Berkshire,  Mass.,  where  he  now  resides  ; 
but  in  his  eighteenth  year,  he  shipped  as  a 
sailor  on  a  vessel  leaving  New  York  for 
Liverpool.  He  made  a  hurried  visit  to  London, 
and  returned  home  "before  the  mast." 

He  liked  his  marine  life  well  enough  to 
embark  on  a  whaling  vessel  for  the  Pacific  for 
the  sperm  fishery,  Jan.  1, 1841.  After  eighteen 
months  of  the  cruise,  the  vessel  arrived  at  the 
Marquesas  Islands,  at  Nukuheva.  Melville 
with  a  fellow  sailor,  tired  of  the  ship  and  its 
discipline,  took  "  French  leave",  and  hid  them 
selves  in  the  forest,  with  the  intention  of 
resorting  to  a  peaceful  tribe  of  natives,  but 
mistaking  their  way,  fell  into  the  hands  of  a 
warlike  tribe  in  the  Typee  valley.  Here  they 
were  detained  in  a  sort  of  captivity  for  four 
months ;  he  was  separated  from  his  compan 
ion,  arid  was  rescued  one  day  when  on  the 
shore,  by  a  boat's  crew  from  a  Sidney  whaler. 
He  shipped  on  board  the  vessel,  and  was 
landed  at  Tahiti ;  from  thence  he  went  to  the 
Sandwich  Islands,  stayed  a  few  months,  and 
then  shipped  as  ordinary  seaman  on  board 
the  man-of-war,  the  frigate  United  States, 
then  on  its  return  voyage,  and  reached  Boston, 
in  October,  1844,  having  been  absent  from 
home  three  years.  In  1847,  he  married  the 
daughter  of  Chief  Justice.  Shaw  of  Boston, 
resided  in  New  York  for  a  short  time,  and 
then  removed  to  Berkshire,  Mass.,  on  a  finely 
situated  farm,  adjacent  to  the  old  Melville 
House,  in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  the 
residence  of  0.  W.  Holmes,  the  poet;  he  over 
looks  the  town  of  Pittsfield,  and  its  mountain 
ous  vicinity.  In  the  fields  and  his  study,  and 
in  the  society  of  his  family  and  friends,  so 
different  from  his  earlier  experiences,  he  has 
spent  his  later  years;  and  written  most  of  his 
later  works,  which  may  account  for  the  specu 
lative  and  dreamy  character  of  them. 
84 


His  first  book,  Typee,  a  narrative  or  a  resi 
dence  in  the  Marquesas,  was  published  in  New 
York  and  London,  in  1846.  That  he  was  no 
unobservant  spectator  of  the  peculiar  phases 
of  society  which  he  encountered  during  his 
travels,  we  have  ample  evidence  in  his  descrip 
tive  volumes.  Typee,  a  peep  at  Polynesian 
Life,  was  a  curiosity,  it  was  the  first  account 
of  a  residence  among  those  natives  by  a  person 
who  has  lived  with  them  in  their  own  fashion, 
and  as  near  as  may  be,  on  terms  of  social 
equality.  It  has  such  a  picturesque,  dreamy, 
glowing,  air  about  it ;  such  a  spirited  and 
vigorous  fancy  of  the  style;  such  freshness 
and  novelty  of  interest ;  so  romantic  and  be 
witching  incidents  in  the  narrative  ;  that  it  at 
once  piqued  curiosity,  and  arrested  the  atten 
tion  and  excited  the  enthusiasm  of  the  reading 
public.  It  made  a  reputation  for  the  author 
in  a  day.  The  Robinson-Crusoe  style  was 
heightened  by  the  introduction  of  the  lovely 
Fayaway,  and  his  simple  mode  of  life  with  her 
and  the  natives. 

Mr.  Melville  followed  up  this  success  the 
next  year  with  Omoo,  a  narrative  of  Adventure 
in  the  South  Seas,  which  takes  up  the  story 
with  the  escape  from  Typee  and  gives  a  hu 
morous  account  of  his  adventures  in  Tahiti. 
For  pleasant,  easy  narrative,  it  is  the  most 
natural  and  agreeable  of  his  books.  His  de 
lineations  of  island  life  and  scenery  ,  are  most 
correctly  and  faithfully  drawn. 

In  1849,  appeared  Mardi,  and  a  Voyage 
Thither,  2  vols.,  12mo.,  a  rambling  philosophi 
cal  romance,  with  many  delicate  traits  and 
fine  bursts  of  fancy,  but  which  it  will  pay 
nobody  to  wade  through,  consequently  it  was 
not  a  success.  He  did  better  th'b  same  year, 
in  Redburn,  his  first  voyage  ;  being  the  Sailor- 
boy  Confessions  and  Reminiscences  of  the  Son 
of  a  Gentleman,  in  the  merchant  service.  The 
style  is  more  natural  and  manly  than  Mardi ; 
with  less  of  its  obscurity  and  nonsense  ;  it  was 
not  very  popular. 

In  1850,  he  published,  White-Jacket,  or  the 
World  in  a  Man-of-War.  A  truthful  and 
interesting  work  in  which  he  says  a  good  word 

665 


HERMAN    MELVILLE. 


for  Poor  Jack.  This  was  followed  in  1851,  by 
Moby  Dick,  or  the  Whale ;  the  details  of  the  fish 
ery  and  the  natural  history  of  the  animal  are 
well  told,  but  the  metaphysical  portions  of  the 
narrative  destroy  its  interest.  He  also  published 
Pierre,  or  the  Ambiguities  ;  The  Piazza  Tales  ; 
The  Confidence  Man,  his  Masquerade ;  and  a 
number  of  magazine  articles  in  Putnam's  and 
Harper's  magazines. 

Herman  Melville  is  an  original  thinker,  and 
boldly  and  unreservedly  expresses  his  opinions, 
often  in  a  way  that  irresistibly  startles  and 


enchains  the  interest  of  the  reader.  He  pos> 
sesses  amazing  powers  of  expression  :  he  can 
be  terse,  copious,  eloquent,  brilliant,  imagina 
tive,  poetical,  satirical,  pathetic,  at  will.  He 
is  never  stupid,  never  dull ;  but,  alas  !  he  is 
often  mystical  and  unintelligible, — not  from 
any  inability  to  express  himself,  for  his  writing 
is  pure,  manly  English,  and  a  child  can  always 
understand  what  he  says, — but  the  ablest 
critic  cannot  always  tell  what  he  really  means ; 
solely  from  his  incorrigible  perversion  of  his 
rare  and  lofty  gifts 


POLYNESIAN    LIFE. 


FROM   TYPEE. 


THERE  was  no  boat  on  the  lake ;  but  at  my  so 
licitation  and  for  my  special  use,  some  of  the  young 
men  attached  to  Marheyo's  household,  under  the 
direction  of  the  indefatigable  Kory-Kory,  brought 
up  a  light  and  tastefully  carved  canoe  from  the  sea. 
It  was  launched  upon  the  sheet  of  water,  and 
floated  there  as  gracefully  as  a  swan.  But,  mel 
ancholy  to  relate,  it  produced  an  effect  I  had  not 
anticipated.  The  sweet  nymphs,  who  had  sported 
with  me  before  in  the  lake,  now  all  fled  its  vicinity. 
The  prohibited  craft,  guarded  by  the  edicts  of  the 
"  taboo,"  extended  the  prohibition  to  the  waters  in 
which  it  lay. 

For  a  few  days,  Kory-Kory,  with  one  or  two 
other  youths,  accompanied  me  in  my  excursions  to 
the  lake,  and  while  I  paddled  about  in  my  light 
canoe,  would  swim  after  me  shouting  and  gam 
bolling  in  pursuit.  But  I  was  ever  partial  to  what 
is  termed  in  the  "  Young  Men's  Own  Book" — 
« the  society  of  virtuous  and  intelligent  young 
ladies ;"  and  in  the  absence  of  the  mermaids,  the 
amusement  became  dull  and  insipid.  One  morning 
I  expressed  to  my  faithful  servitor  my  desire  for 
the  return  of  the  nymphs.  The  honest  fellow 
looked  at  me  bewildered  for  a  moment,  and  then 
shook  his  head  solemnly,  and  murmured  "  taboo  ! 
taboo  I1"1  giving  me  to  understand  that  unless  the 
canoe  was  removed,!  could  not  expect  to  have  the 
young  ladies  back  again.  But  to  this  procedure  I 
was  averse ;  I  not  only  wanted  the  canoe  to  stay 
where  it  was,  but  I  wanted  the  beauteous  Fayaway 
to  get  into  it,  and  paddle  with  me  about  the  lake. 
This  latter  proposition  completely  horrified  Kory- 
Kory's  notions  of  propriety.  He  inveighed  against 
it,  as  something  too  monstrous  to  be  thought  of. 
It  not  only  shocked  their  established  notions  of 
propriety,  but  was  at  variance  with  all  their  religious 
ordinances. 

However,  although  the  "  taboo  "  was  a  ticklish 
thing  to  meddle  with,  I  determined  to  test  its  cap 
abilities  of  resisting  an  attack.  I  consulted  the 
chief  Mehevi,  who  endeavored  to  persuade  me  from 
my  object :  but  I  was  not  to  be  repulsed  ;  and  ac 
cordingly  increased  the  warmth  of  my  solicitations. 


At  last  he  entered  into  a  long,  and  I  have  no  doubt 
a  very  learned  and  eloquent  exposition  of  the  his 
tory  and  nature  of  the  "  taboo  "  as  affecting  this 
particular  case  ;  employing  a  variety  of  most  ex 
traordinary  words,  which,  from  their  amazing  length 
and  sonorousness,  I  have  every  reason  to  believe 
were  of  a  theological  nature.  But  all  that  he  said 
failed  to  convince  me :  partly,  perhaps,  because  I 
could  not  comprehend  a  word  that  he  uttered ; 
but  chiefly,  that  for  the  life  of  me  I  could  not  un 
derstand  why  a  woman  should  not  have  as  much 
right  to  enter  a  canoe  as  a  man.  At  last  he  be 
came  a  little  more  rational,  and  intimated  that,  out 
of  the  abundant  love  he  bore  me,  he  would  con 
sult  with  the  priests  and  see  what  could  be  done. 

How  it  was  that  the  priesthood  of  Typee  satis 
fied  the  affair  with  their  consciences,  I  know  not; 
but  so  it  was,  and  Fayaway's  dispensation  from 
this  portion  of  the  taboo  was  at  length  procured. 
Such  an  event  I  believe  never  before  had  occured 
in  the  valley  ;  but  it  was  high  time  the  island 
ers  should  be  taught  a  little  gallantry,  and  I  trust 
that  the  example  I  set  them  may  produce  benefi 
cial  effects.  Ridiculous,  indeed,  that  the  lovely 
creatures  should  be  obliged  to  paddle  about  in  the 
water,  like  so  many  ducks,  while  a  parcel  of  great 
strapping  fellows  skimmed  over  its  surface  in  their 
canoes. 

The  first  day  after  Fayaway's  emancipation,  I 
had  a  delightful  little  party  on  the  lake — the  dam 
sel,  Kory-Kory,  and  myself.  My  zealous  body- 
servant  brought  from  the  house  a  calabash  of  poee- 
poee,  half  a  dozen  young  cocoa-nuts — stripped  of 
their  husks — three  pipes,  as  many  yams,  and  me 
on  his  back  a  part  of  the  way.  Something  of  a 
load ;  but  Kory-Kory  was  a  very  strong  man  for 
his  size,  and  by  no  means  brittle  in  the  spine.  We 
had  a  very  pleasant  day  ;  my  trusty  valet  plied  the 
paddle  and  swept  us  gently  along  the  margin  of 
the  water,  beneath  the  shades  of  the  overhanging 
thickets.  Fayaway  and  I  reclined  in  the  stern  of 
the  canoe,  on  the  very  best  terms  possible  with  one 
another;  the  gentle  nymph  occasionally  placing 
her  pipe  to  her  lip,  and  exhaling  the  mild  fumes 
of  the  tobacco,  to  which  her  rosy  breath  added  a 
fresh  perfume.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  there  is 
nothing  in  which  a  young  and  beautiful  female 


HERMAN    MELVILLE. 


667 


appears  to  more  advantage  than  in  the  act  of  smok 
ing.  How  captivating  is  a  Peruvian  lady,  swinging 
in  her  gaily-woven  hammock  of  grass,  extended 
between  two  orange-trees,  and  inhaling  the  frag 
rance  of  a  choice  cigarro!  But  Fayaway,  holding 
in  her  delicately-formed  olive  hand  the  long  yellow 
reed  of  her  pipe,  with  its  quaintly  carved  bowl,  and 
every  few  moments  languishingly  giving  forth 
light  wreaths  of  vapor  from  her  mouth  and  nostrils, 
looked  still  more  engaging. 

We  floated  about  thus  for  several  hours,  when  I 
looked  up  to  the  warm,  glowing,  tropical  sky,  and 
then  down  into  the  transparent  depths  below  ;  and 
when  my  eye,  wandering  from  the  bewitching 
scenery  around,  fell  upon  the  grotesquely-tattooed 
form  of  Kory-Kory,  and  finally  encountered  the 
pensive  gaze  of  Fayaway,  I  thought  I  had.been 
transported  to  some  fairy  region,  so  unreal  did 
everything  appear. 

This  lovely  piece  of  water  was  the  coolest  spot 
in  all  the  valley,  and  I  now  made  it  a  place  of  con 
tinual  resort  during  the  hottest  period  of  the  day. 
One  side  of  it  lay  near  the  termination  of  a  long, 
gradually  expanding  gorge,  which  mounted  to  the 
heights  that  environed  Phe  vale.  The  strong  trade 
wind,  met  in  its  course  by  these  elevations,  circled 
and  eddied  about  their  summits,  and  was  sometimes 
driven  down  the  steep  ravine  and  swept  across  the 
valley,  ruffling  in  its  passage  the  otherwise  tranquil 
surface  of  the  lake. 

One  day,  after  we  had  been  paddling  ahout  for 
some  time,  I  disembarked  Kory-Kory,  and  paddled 
the  canoe  to  the  windward  side  of  the  lake.  As  I 
turned  the  canoe,  Fayaway,  who  was  with  me, 
seemed  all  at  once  to  be  struck  with  some  happy 
idea,-  Wiib,  a  wild  exclamation  of  delight,  she 
disengaged  from  her  person  the  ample  robe  of  tappa 
which  was  knotted  over  her  shoulder  (for  the  pur 
pose  of  shielding  her  from  the  sun),  and  spreading 
it  out  like  a  sail,  stood  erect  with  upraised  arms  in 
the  head  of  the  canoe.  \Ve  American  sailors  pride 
•urselves  upon  our  straight  clean  spars,  but  a  pret 
tier  little  mast  than  Fayaway  made  was  never 
shipped  aboard  of  any  craft. 

In  a  moment  the  tappa  was  distended  by  the 
breeze — the  long  brown  tresses  of  Fayaway 
streamed  in  the  air — and  the  canoe  glided  rapidly 
through  the  water,  arid  shot  towards  the  shore. 
Seated  in  the  stern,  I  directed  its  course  with  my 
puddle  until  it  dashed  up  the  soft  sloping  bank,  and 
Fayaway,  with  a  light  spring,  alighted  on  the 
ground. 


OUTBREAK  OF  THE  CREW. 

FROM   OMOO. 

THE  purpose  of  Bembo  had  been  made  known 
to  the  men  generally  by  the  watch  ;  and  now  that 
our  salvation  was  certain,  by  an  instinctive  im 
pulse  they  raised  a  cry,  and  rushed  toward  him. 

Just  before  liberated  by  Dunk  and  the  steward, 
he  was  standing  doggedly  by  the  mizen-mast; 
and,  as  the  infuriated  sailors  came  on,  his  blood 
shot  eye  rolled,  and  ^is  sheath-knife  glittered  over 
his  head. 


« Down  with  him  !"  «  Strike  him  dewn  !' 
"  Hang  him  at  the  main-yard !"  such  were  the 
shouts  now  raised.  But  he  stood  unmoved,  and, 
for  a  single  instant,  they  absolutely  faltered. 

"Cowards  !"  cried  Salem,  and  he  flung  himself 
upon  him.  The  steel  descended  like  a  ray  of 
light ;  but  did  no  harm  ;  for  the  sailor's  heart  was 
beating  against  the  Mowree's  before  he  was  aware. 
They  both  fell  to  the  deck,  when  the  knife  was 
instantly  seized,  and  Bembo  secured. 

«  For'ard  !  for'ard  with  him  !"  was  again  the 
cry;  "give  him  a  sea-toss!"  "overboard  with 
him  !"  and  he  was  dragged  along  the  deck,  strug 
gling  and  fighting  with  tooth  and  nail. 

All  this  uproar  immediately  over  the  mate's 
head  at  last  roused  him  from  his  drunken  nap,  and 
he  came  staggering  on  deck. 

"What's  this  1"  he  shouted,  running  right  in 
among  them. 

"  It's  the  Mowree,  zur;  they  are  going  to  mur 
der  him,  zur,"  here  sobbed  poor  Rope  Yarn,  crawl 
ing  close  up  to  him. 

"  Avast !  avast!"  roared  Jermin,  making  a  spring 
toward  Bembo,  and  dashing  two  or  three  of  the 
sailors  aside.  At  this  moment  the  wretch  was 
partly  flung  over  the  bulwarks,  which  shook  with 
his  frantic  struggles.  In  vain  the  doctor  and  others 
tried  to  save  him :  the  men  listened  to  nothing. 

"  Murder  and  mutiny,  by  the  salt  sea!"  shouted 

the  mate  ;  and  dashing  his  arms  right  and  left,  he 

planted  his  iron  hand  upon  the  Mowree's  shoulder. 

"  There  are  two  of  us  now  ;   and  as  you  serve 

him,  you  serve  me,"  he  cried,  turning  fiercely  round. 

"  Over  with    them   together,  then,"  exclaimed 

the  carpenter,  springing  forward  ;  but  the  rest  fell 

back  before  the  courageous  front  of  Jermin,  and, 

with   the   speed    of  thought,  Bembo,  unharmed, 

stood  upon  deck. 

"Aft  with  ye !"  cried  his  deliverer ;  and  he 
pushed  him  right  among  the  men,  taking  care  to 
follow  him  up  close.  Giving  the  sailors  no  time 
to  recover,  he  pushed  the  Morwee  before  him,  till 
they  came  to  the  cabin  scuttle,  when  he  drew  the 
slide  over  him,  and  stood  still.  Throughout, 
Bembo  never  spoke  one  word. 

"  Now   for'ard    where   ye    belong !"  cried    the 
mate,  addressing   the  seamen,  who  by  this  time, 
rallying  again,  had  no  idea  of  losing  their  victim. 
"  The  Mowree  !  the  Mowree  !"  they  shouted. 
Here  the  doctor,  in  answer  to  the  mate's  re 
peated    questions,    stepped    forward,    and    related 
what  Bembo  had  been  doing ;  a  matter  which  the 
mate  but  dimly  understood  from  the  violent  threat- 
enings  he  had  been  hearing. 

For  a  moment  he  seemed  to  waver ;  but  at  last, 
turning  the  key  in  the  padlock  of  the  slide,  he 
breathed  through  his  set  teeth — "  Ye  can't  have 
him  ;  I'll  hand  him  over  to  the  consul,  so  for'ard 
with  ye,  I  say  :  when  there's  any  drowning  to  be 
done,  I'll  pass  the  word ;  so  away  with  ye,  ye  blood 
thirsty  pirates  !" 

It  was  to  no  purpose  that  they  begged  or  threat 
ened  :  Jermin,  although  by  no  means  sober,  stood 
his  ground  manfully,  and  before  long  they  dis 
persed,  soon  to  forget  everything  that  had  hap 
pened. 


JAMES    PARTON. 


[Born  1822.] 


JAMES  PARTON,  a  resident  of  New  York,  was 
born  at  Canterbury,  England,  Feb.  9,  1822. 
Brought  to  New  York  when  he  was  five  years 
old,  he  was  educated  in  its  vicinity,  and 
afterwards  taught  for  seven  years,  when  he 
became  a  writer  for  the  Home  Journal. 

He  published  his  first  work,  the  Life  of 
Horace  Greeley,  in  1855,  in  one  volume,  12mo., 
and  enlarged  it  in  1869.  From  the  popularity 
of  his  subject,  and  the  ability  of  his  biography, 
it  was  very  successful.  It  is  noticeable  for 
its  research,  the  minuteness  of  its  statements, 
its  picturesque  incidents,  a  certain  dashing 
enthusiasm,  and  forms  an  interesting  contribu 
tion  to  the  history  of  American  journalism. 

Mr.  Parton,  in  1855,  edited  the  Humorous 
Poetry  of  the  English  Language  ;  a  spirited 
selection,  of  which  many  editions  were  sold. 

In  1859,  appeared  his  Life  and  Times  of 
Aaron  Burr ;  which,  from  the  nature  of  his 
subject,  and  the  manner  in  which  he  handled 
it,  excited  enough  interest  and  criticism,  to 
sell  more  than  twenty  editions.  The  author,  a 
hearty  admirer  of  the  brilliant  qualities  of 
Burr,  attempts  a  vindication  of  his  character 
from  the  wholesale  reproaches  cast  upon  him. 
In  some  respects  it  is  almost  a  model  biogra 
phy,  certainly  one  of  more  than  ordinary 
interest ;  contradictory  enough  in  phenomena 
of  good  and  evil ;  a  romance  in  real  life ;  or 
the  story  of  an  American  Barry  Lindon.  A 
letter  was  published  in  the  New  York  Observer, 
from  a  relative  of  Burr's  family,  protesting 
strongly  against  Mr.  Parton's  presentation  of 
Burr's  character. 

In  1860,  he  issued  his  Life  of  Andrew  Jack 
son,  4  vols.,  royal  8vo.,  and  later  editions  in 
crown  8vo.,  and  an  abridged  edition  in  one 
volume,  12mo.,  in  1862.  Said  to  be  the  best 
biography  of  any  American  politician,  for  its 
unfailing  spirit,  its  industrious  research,  and 
its  air  of  candor  and  impartiality  in  handling 
the  perplexing  facts  of  the  hero's  career,  neither 
transmuting  the  faults  nor  exaggerating  in 
ordinately  the  merits  of  its  subject.  With 
unwearied  industry,  he  sought  out  the  details 
of  the  story  in  the  newspaper  and  other  original 


memorials  of  the  times ;  sifted  interests  and 
contradictory  testimony ;  visited  localities  and 
examined  living  witnesses.  The  style  is  easy 
and  flowing,  warmly  colored  without  extrava 
gance,  and  his  pages  are  filled  with  striking 
incidents  and  events. 

During  the  war,  in  1863,  he  published : 
General  Butler  in  New  Orleans,  History  of  the 
Administration  of  the  Department  of  the  Gulf 
in  the  year  1862.  One  stout  volume,  crown, 
8vo.  It  passed  through  eighteen  editions,  also 
an  abridged  edition,  in  8vo.,  paper,  and  an 
edition  in  German.  Treating  of  subjects  of 
the  period  which  no  writer  could  make  un 
interesting,  and  certainly  not  Mr.  Parton. 

In  1864,  appeared  his  Life  and  Times  of 
Benjamin  Franklin,  in  2  vols.,  crown,  8vo.,  in 
which  he  displays  his  accustomed  skill,  indus 
try,  love  of  anecdote,  and  perception  of  char 
acter,  in  giving  a  living  and  animated  portrait 
of  his  great  subject,  full  of  interest  and  instruc 
tion. 

In  1865,  he  wrote  the  Life  of  John  Jacob 
Astor,  to  which  is  appended  his  will.  In  1866, 
Manual  for  the  Instruction  of  "  Rings",  rail 
road  and  political,  24mo.  ;  How  New  York 
City  is  Governed,  16mo.  ;  Famous  Americans 
of  Recent  Times,  containing  Lives  of  Clay, 
Webster,  Calhoun,  Randolph,  Girard,  Bennett, 
Goodyear,  Beecher,Vanderbilt,Theodosia  Burr, 
and  Astor.  In  1868,  People's  Book  of  Biography; 
or,  short  Lives  of  the  most  interesting  Persons 
of  all  Ages  and  Countries,  8vo.,  a  book  made 
to  sell  by  subscription ;  Smoking  and  Drinking, 
16mo.,  an  article  from  the  Atlantic  Monthly.  In 
1869,  The  Danish  Islands,  are  we  bound  in 
honor  to  pay  for  them  ?  and  a  new  edition  of  his 
Life  of  Horace  Greeley,  with  eight  additional 
chapters.  He  is  now  said  to  be  engaged  on 
the  Life  and  Times  of  Voltaire ;  and  the  Life 
of  ex-Governor  Yates,  of  Illinois.  He  constantly 
contributes  to  the  magazines. 

His  reputation  is  that  of  a  painstaking, 
honest,  and  courageous  historian,  ardent  with 
patriotism,  but  unprejudiced  ;  his  style  is  easy, 
natural,  and  flowing ;  whatever  subject  he 
undertakes  the  biography  of  is  sure  to  be  well 


JAMES     PARTON. 


669 


and  justly  done,  and  his  book  will  command 
attention. 

Mr.  Parton  married  in  1855,  Sarah  Payson 
Eldredge,  formerly  Miss  Willis,  a  sister  of  N.  P. 
Willis,  but  married  in  1834,  to  Chas.  H.  Eldredge 
of  Boston,  who  died  in  1846.  Under  the  nom- 
de-plume  of  Fanny  Fern  she  was  widely  known 
as  the  author  of  short  sketches  of  sparkling 
vivacity  and  piquant  thoughts.  Her  first 
volume,  Fern  Leaves,  1st  series,  was  issued  in 
1853  ;  her  second,  Little  Ferns  for  Fanny's 
Little  Friends,  in  Dec.,  1853  ;  and  her  third, 
Fern  Leaves,  second  series,  in  1854;  the  sale 
of  these  volumes  reached  200,000  copies  in  a 
year. 

In  1854,  Fanny  Fern  published  her  first 
continuous  story,  Ruth  Hall,  which  had  the 


extraordinary  sale  of  over  50,000  copies  in 
eight  months,  owing  to  her  previous  popularity 
and  the  curiosity  to  read  a  novel  from  her  pen, 
and  the  various  and  sweeping  criticisms  which 
it  gave  rise  to.  In  the  autumn  of  1855,  her 
second  novel,  Rose  Clark,  was  issued,  also 
meeting  with  great  success.  In  1856,  her 
second  book  for  Juveniles,  the  Play-Day  Book, 
and  in  1857  her  volume  of  Fresh  Leaves, 
were  issued.  In  1868,  she  issued  Folly  as  it 
Flies,  hit  at  by  Mrs.  S.  Parton ;  which  excited 
but  little  attention.  She  had  a  permanent 
engagement  with  the  New  York  Ledger,  where 
most  of  her  short  articles  appeared.  The  Life 
and  Beauties  of  Fanny  Fern  was  published  in 
England. 


HENRY  CLAY'S  POPULARITY. 

FROM  FAMOUS  AMERICANS  OF  RECENT  TIMES. 

OF  our  public  men  of  the  sixty  years  proceeding 
the  war,  Henry  Clay  was  certainly  the  most  shin 
ing  figure.  Was  there  ever  a  public  man,  not  at 
the  head  of  a  state,  so  beloved  as  he  1  Who  ever 
heard  such  cheers,  so  hearty,  distinct,  and  ringing, 
as  those  which  his  name  evoked  1  Men  shed 
tears  at  his  defeat,  and  women  went  to  bed  sick 
from  pure  sympathy  with  his  disappointment.  He 
could  not  travel  during  the  last  thirty  years  of  his 
life,  but  only  make  progresses.  When  he  left  his 
home  the  public  seized  him  and  bore  him  along 
over  the  land,  the  committee  of  one  State  passing 
him  on  to  the  committee  of  another,  and  the  hur 
rahs  of  one  town  dying  away  as  those  of  the  next- 
caught  his  ear.  The  country  seemed  to  place  all 
its  resources  at  his  disposal  ;  all  commodities 
sought  his  acceptance.  Passing  through  Newark 
once,  he  thoughtlessly  ordered  a  carriage  of  a  cer 
tain  pattern  :  the  same  evening  the  carriage  was 
at  the  door  of  his  hotel  in  New  York,  the  gift  of  a 
few  Newark  friends.  It  was  so  everywhere  and 
with  everything.  His  house  became  at  last  a 
museum  of  curious  gifts.  There  was  the  coun 
terpane  made  for  him  by  a  lady  ninety-three  years 
of  age,  and  Washington's  camp-goblet  given  him 
by  a  lady  of  eighty ;  there  were  pistols,  rifles,  and 
fowling-pieces  enough  to  defend  a  citadel ;  and, 
among  a  bundle  of  walking-sticks,  was  one  cut 
for  him  from  a  tree  that  shaded  Cicero's  grave. 
There  were  gorgeous  prayer-books,  and  Bibles  of 
exceeding  magnitude  and  splendor,  and  silver-ware 
in  great  profusion.  On  one  occasion  there  arrived 
at  Ashland  the  substantial  present  of  twenty-three 
barrels  of  salt.  In  his  old  age,  when  his  fine  es 
tate,  through  the  misfortunes  of  his  sons,  was 
burdened  with  mortgages  to  the  amount  of  thirty 
thousand  dollars,  and  other  large  debts  weighed 
heavily  upon  his  soul,  and  he  feared  to  be  com 


pelled  to  sell  the  home  of  fifty  years  and  seek  a 
strange  abode,  a  few  old  friends  secretly  raised  the 
needful  sum,  secretly  paid  the  mortgages  and  dis 
charged  the  debts,  and  then  caused  the  aged  orator 
to  be  informed  of  what  had  been  done,  but  not  of 
the  names  of  the  donors.  "  Could  my  life  insure 
the  success  of  Henry  Clay,  I  would  freely  lay  it 
down  this  day,"  exclaimed  an  old  Rhode  Island 
sea-captain  on  the  morning  of  the  Presidential 
election  of  1844.  Who  has  forgotten  the  passion 
of  disappointment,  the  amazement  and  despair,  at 
the  result  of  that  day's  fatal  work  1  Fatal  we 
thought  it  then,  little  dreaming  that,  while  it 
precipitated  evil,  it  brought  nearer  the  day  of 
deliverance. 

It  must  be  confessed,  however,  that  Henry 
Clay,  who  was  for  twenty-eight  years  a  candidate 
for  the  Presidency,  cultivated  his  popularity. 
Without  ever  being  a  hypocrite,  he  was  habitually 
an  actor;  but  the  part  which  he  enacted  was  Henry 
Clay  exaggerated.  He  was  naturally  a  most  cour 
teous  man  ;  but  the  consciousness  of  his  position 
made  him  more  elaborately  and  universally  cour 
teous  than  any  man  ever  was  from  mere  good 
nature.  A  man  on  the  stage  must  overdo  his  part, 
in  order  not  to  seem  to  underdo  it.  There  was  a 
time  when  almost  every  visitor  to  the  city  of  Wash 
ington  desired,  above  all  things,  to  be  presented  to 
three  men  there,  Clay,  Webster,  and  Calhoun, 
whom  to  have  seen  was  a  distinction.  When  the 
country  member  brought  forward  his  agitated  con 
stituent  on  the  floor  of  the  Senate-chamber,  and 
introduced  him  to  Daniel  Webster,  the  Expounder 
was  likely  enough  to  thrust  a  hand  at  him  without 
so  much  as  turning  his  head  or  discontinuing  his 
occupation,  and  the  stranger  shrunk  away  painfully 
conscious  of  his  insignificance.  Calhoun,  on  the 
contrary,  besides  receiving  him  with  civility,  would 
converse  with  him,  if  opportunity  favored,  and 
treat  him  to  a  disquisition  on  the  nature  of  govern 
ment  and  the  "  beauty  "  of  nullification,  striving  to 


670 


JAMES    PARTON. 


make  a  lasting  impression  on  his  intellect.  Clay 
would  rise,  extend  his  hand  with  that  winning 
grace  of  his,  and  instantly  captivate  him  by  his  all- 
conquering  courtesy.  He  would  call  him  by  name, 
inquire  respecting  his  health,  the  town  whence  he 
came,  how  long  he  had  been  in  Washington,  and 
send  him  away  pleased  with  himself  and  enchanted 
with  Henry  Clay.  And  what  was  his  delight  to 
receive  a  few  weeks  after,  in  his  distant  village,  a 
copy  of  the  Kentuckian's  last  speech,  bearing  on 
the  cover  the  frank  of  «  H.  Clay"!  It  was  almost 
enough  to  make  a  man  think  of  "running  for 
Congress"!  And,  what  was  still  more  intoxicat 
ing,  Mr.  Clay,  who  had  a  surprising  memory, 
would  be  likely,  on  meeting  this  individual  two 
years  after  the  introduction,  to  address  him  by 
name. 

There  was  a  gamy  flavor,  in  those  days,  about 
Southern  men,  which  was  very  pleasing  to  the 
people  of  the  North.  Reason  teaches  us  that  the 
barn-yard  fowl  is  a  more  meritorious  bird  than  the 
game-cock;  but  the  imagination  does  not  assent  to 
the  proposition.  Clay  was  at  once  game-cock  and 
domestic  fowl.  His  gestures  called  to  mind  the 
magnificently  branching  trees  of  his  Kentucky 
forests,  and  his  handwriting  had  the  neatness  and 
delicacy  of  a  female  copyist.  There  was  a  care 
less,  graceful  ease  in  his  movements  and  attitudes, 
like  those  of  an  Indian  chief;  but  he  was  an  exact 
man  of  business,  who  docketed  his  letters,  and 
could  send  from  Washington  to  Ashland  for  a 
document,  telling  in  what  pigeon-hole  it  could  be 
found.  Naturally  impetuous,  he  acquired  early  in 
life  an  habitual  moderation  of  statement,  an  habit 
ual  consideration  for  other  men's  self-love,  which 
made  him  the  pacificator  of  his  time.  The  great 
compromiser  was  himself  a  compromise.  The  ideal 
of  education  is  to  tame  men  without  lessening 
their  vivacity, — to  unite  in  them  the  freedom,  the 
dignity,  the  prowess  of  a  Tecumseh,  with  the  ser- 
vicable  qualities  of  the  civilized  man.  This  happy 
union  is  said  to  be  sometimes  produced  in  the 
pupils  of  the  great  public  schools  of  England,  who 
are  savages  on  the  play-ground  and  gentlemen  in 
the  school-room.  In  no  man  of  our  knowledge 
has  there  been  combined  so  much  of  the  best  of 
the  forest  chief  with  so  much  of  the  good  of  the 
trained  man  of  business  as  in  Henry  Clay.  This 
was  one  secret  of  his  power  over  classes  of  men  so 
diverse  as  the  hunters  of  Kentucky  and  the  manu 
facturers  of  New  England. 


HENRY  CLAY'S  LAST  YEARS. 

FROM   THE   SAME. 

IT  is  proof  positive  of  a  man's  essential  sound 
ness,  if  he  improves  as  he  grows  old.  Henry 
Clay's  last  years  were  his  best ;  he  ripened  to  the 
very  end.  His  friends  remarked  the  moderation 
of  his  later  opinions,  and  his  charity  for  those  who 
had  injured  him  most.  During  the  last  ten  years 
of  his  life  no  one  ever  heard  him  utter  a  harsh 


judgment  of  an  opponent.  Domestic  afflictions, 
frequent  and  severe,  had  chastened  his  heart ;  his 
six  affectionate  and  happy  daughters  were  dead  ; 
one  son  was  a  hopeless  lunatic  in  an  asylum  ;  an 
other  was  not  what  such  a  father  had  a  right  to 
expect ;  and,  at  length,  his  favorite  and  most 
promising  son,  Henry,  in  the  year  1847,  fell  at  the 
battle  of  Buena  Vista.  It  was  just  after  this  last 
crushing  loss,  and  probably  in  consequence  of  it, 
that  he  was  baptized  and  confirmed  a  member  of 
the  Episcopal  Church. 

When,  in  1849,  he  reappeared  in  the  Senate, 
to  assist,  if  possible,  in  removing  the  slavery  ques 
tion  from  politics,  he  was  an  infirm  and  serious, 
but  not  sad,  old  man  of  seventy-two.  He  never 
lost  his  cheerfulness  or  his  faith,  but  hie  felt  ieeply 
for  his  distracted  country.  During  that  memorable 
session  of  Congress  he  spoke  seventy  times.  Often 
extremely  sick  and  feeble,  scarcely  able,  with  the 
assistance  of  a  friend's  arm,  to  climb  the  steps  of 
the  Capitol,  he  was  never  absent  on  the  days 
when  the  Compromise  was  to  be  debated.  It  ap 
pears  to  be  well  attested,  that  his  last  great  speech 
on  the  Compromise  was  the  immediate  cause  of 
his  death.  On  the  morning  on  which  he  began 
his  speech,  he  was  accompanied  by  a  clerical  friend, 
to  whom  he  said,  on  reaching  the  long  flight  of 
steps  leading  to  the  Capitol,  "WTill  you  lend  me 
your  arm,  my  friend  ?  for  I  find  myself  quite  weak 
and  exhausted  this  morning."  Every  few  steps 
he  was  obliged  to  stop  and  take  breath.  "Had  you 
not  better  defer  your  speech  T'  asked  the  clergyman. 
"  My  dear  friend,"  said  the  dying  orator,  «  I  con 
sider  our  country  in  danger ;  and  if  I  can  be  the 
means,  in  any  measure,  of  averting  that  danger, 
my  health  or  life  is  of  little  consequence."  When 
he  rose  to  speak,  it  was  but  too  evident  that  he 
was  unfit  for  the  task  he  had  undertaken.  But, 
as  he  kindled  with  his  subject,  his  cough  left  him, 
and  his  bent  form  resumed  all  its  wonted  erectness 
and  majesty.  He  may,  in  the  prime  of  his  strength, 
have  spoken  with  more  energy,  but  never  with  so 
much  pathos  and  grandeur.  His  speech  lasted 
two  days,  and,  though  he  lived  two  years  longer,  he 
never  recovered  from  the  effects  of  the  effort.  To 
ward  the  close  of  the  second  day,  his  friends  re 
peatedly  proposed  an  adjournment ;  but  he  would 
not  desist  until  he  had  given  complete  utterance 
to  his  feelings.  He  said  afterwards  that  he  was 
not  sure,  if  he  gave  way  to  an  adjournment, 
that  he  should  ever  be  able  to  resume. 

Henry  Clay  was  a  man  of  honor  and  a  gentle 
man.  He  kept  his  word.  He  was  true  to  his 
friends,  his  party,  and  his  convictions.  He  paid 
his  debts  and  his  son's  debts.  The  instinct  of 
solvency  was  very  strong  in  him.  He  had  a  re 
ligion,  of  which  the  main  component  parts  were 
self-respect  and  love  of  country.  These  were  su 
premely  authoritative  with  him  ;  he  would  not  do 
anything  which  he  felt  to  be  beneath  Henry  Clay, 
or  which  he  thought  would  be  injurious  to  the 
United  States.  Five  times  a  candidate  for  the 
Presidency,  no  man  can  say  that  he  ever  purchased 
support  by  the  promise  of  an  office,  or  by  any  other 
engagement  savoring  of  dishonor. 


JAMES     PARTON. 


671 


THE    DUEL    BETWEEN    HAMILTON 
AND    BURR. 

FROM  LIFE  OF  AARON  BURR. 

FEW  of  the  present  generation  have  stood  upon 
the  spot,  which  was  formerly  one  of  the  places 
mat  strangers  were  sure  to  visit  on  coming  to 
the  city,  and  which  the  events  of  this  day  ren 
dered  for  ever  memorable.  Two  miles  and  a  half 
above  the  citv  of  Hohoken,  the  heights  of  Wee- 
hawkeu  rise,  in  the  picturesque  form  so  familiar 
to  New  Yorkers,  to  an  elevation  of  a  hundred 
and  fifty  feet  above  the  Hudson.  These  heights 
are  rocky,  very  steep,  and  covered  with  small 
trees  and  tangled  bushes.  Under  the  heights,  at 
a  point  half  a  mile  from  where  they  begin,  there 
is,  twenty  feet  above  the  water,  a  grassy  ledge  or 
shelf,  about  six  feet  wide,  and  eleven  paces  long. 
This  was  the  fatal  spot.  Except  that  it  is  slightly 
encumbered  with  underbrush,  it  is,  at  this  hour, 
precisely  what  it  was  on  the  llth  of  July,  1804. 
There  is  an  old  cedar-tree  at  the  side,  a  little  out 
of  range,  which  must  have  looked  then  very 
much  as  it  does  now.  The  large  rocks  which 
partly  hem  in  the  place  are,  of  course,  unchanged, 
except  that  they  are  decorated  with  the  initials  of 
former  visitors.  One  large  rock,  breast-high,  nar 
rows  the  hollow  in  which  Hamilton  stood  to  four 
feet  or  less. 

Inaccessible  to  foot-passengers  along  the  river, 
except  at  low  tide,  with  no  path  down  to  it  from 
the  rocky  heights  above,  no  residence  within  sight 
on  that  side  of  the  river,  unless  at  a  great  dis 
tance,  it  is  even  now  a  singularly  secluded  scene. 
But  fifty  years  ago,  when  no  prophet  had  yet 
predicted  Hoboken,  that  romantic  shore  was  a 
nearly  unbroken  solitude.  A  third  of  a  mile 
below  the  dueling-ground  there  stood  a  little 
tavern,  the  occasional  resort  of  excursionists; 
where,  too,  dueling  parties  not  (infrequently  break 
fasted  before  proceeding  to  the  ground,  and  where 
they  sometimes  returned  to  invigorate  their  re 
stored  friendship  with  the  landlord's  wine.  A 
short  distance  above  the  ground,  lived  a  fine- 
hearted  old  Captain,  who,  if  he  got  scent  of  a 
duel,  would  rush  to  the  place,  throw  himself  be 
tween  the  combatants,  and  never  give  over  per 
suading  and  threatening  till  he  had  established  a 
peace  or  a  truce  between  them.  He  was  the 
owner  of  the  ground,  and  spoke  with  authority. 
He  never  ceased  to  think  that,  if  on  this  fatal 
morning,  he  had  observed  the  approach  of  the 
boats,  he  could  have  prevented  the  subsequent 
catastrophe. 

But,  for  the  very  purpose  of  preventing  suspi 
cion,  it  had  been  arranged  that  Colonel  Burr's 
boat  should  arrive  some  time  before  the  other. 
About  halt-past  six,  Burr  and  Van  Ness  landed, 
and  leaving  their  boat  a  few  yards  down  the  river, 
ascended  over  the  rocks  to  the  appointed  place. 
It  was  a  warm,  bright,  July  morning.  The  sun 
looks  down,  directly  after  ri.sing,  upon  the  Wee- 
hawken  heights,  and  it  was  for  that  reason  that 
the  two  men  removed  their  coats  before  the  arrival 
of  the  other  party.  There  they  stood  carelessly 
breaking  away  the  branches  of  the  underwood, 


and  looking  out  upon  as  fair,  as  various,  as  ani 
mated,  as  beautiful  a  scene,  as  mortal  eyes  in  this 
beautiful  world  ever  behold.  The  haze-crowned 
city;  the  bright,  broad,  flashing,  tranquil  river; 
the  long  reach  of  waters,  twelve  miles  or  more, 
down  to  the  Narrows;  the  vessels  at  anchor  in 
the  harbor ;  misty,  blue  Staten  Island,  swelling 
up  in  superb  contour  from  the  lower  bay  ;  the 
verdant  flowery  heights  around ;  the  opposite  shore 
of  the  river,  then  dark  with  forest,  or  bright  with 
sloping  lawn;  and,  to  complete  the  picture,  that 
remarkably  picturesque  promontory  called  Castle 
Point,  that  bends  out  far  into  the  stream,  a  mile 
below  Wcehawken,  and  adds  a  peculiar  beauty  to 
the  foreground ; — all  these  combine  to  form  a 
view,  one  glance  at  which  ought  to  have  sent 
shame  and  horror  to  the  duelist's  heart,  that  so 
much  as  the  thought  of  closing  a  human  being's 
eyes  for  ever  on  so  much  loveliness,  had  ever  lived 
a  moment  in  his  bosom. 

Hamilton's  boat  was  seen  to  approach.  A  few 
minutes  before  seven  it  touched  the  rocks,  and 
Hamilton  and  his  second  ascended.  The  princi 
pals  and  seconds  exchanged  the  usual  salutations, 
and  the  seconds  proceeded  immediately  to  make 
the,  usual  preparations.  They  measured  ten  full 
paces ;  then  cast  lots  for  the  choice  of  position, 
and  to  decide  who  should  give  the  word.  The 
lot,  in  both  cases,  fell  to  General  Hamilton's 
second,  who  chose  the  upper  end  of  the  ledge  for 
his  principal,  which,  at  that  hour  of  the  day,  could 
not  have  been  the  best,  for  the  reason  that  the 
morning  sun,  and  the  flashing  of  the  river,  would 
both  interfere  with  the  sight.  The  pistols  were 
then  loaded,  and  the  principals  placed,  Hamilton 
looking  over  the  river  toward  the  city,  and  Bun- 
turned  toward  the  heights,  under  which  they 
stood.  As  Pendleton  gave  Hamilton  his  pistol, 
he  asked, 

"  Will  you  have  the  hair-spring  set  1" 

"Not  this  time,"  was  the  quiet  reply. 

Pendleton  then  explained  to  both  principals  the 
rules  which  had  been  agreed  upon  with  regard  to 
the  firing ;  after  the  word  present,  they  were  to 
fire  as  soon  as  they  pleased.  The  seconds  then 
withdrew  to  the  usual  distance. 

"Are  you  ready1?"  said  Pendleton. 

Both  answered  in  the  affirmative.  A  moment's 
pause  ensued.  The  word  was  given.  Burr  raised 
his  pistol,  took  aim,  and  fired.  Hamilton  sprang 
upon  his  toes  with  a  convulsive  movement,  reeled 
a  little  toward  the  heights,  at  which  moment  he 
involuntarily  discharged  his  pistol,  and  then  fell 
forward  headlong  upon  his  face,  and  remained 
motionless  on  the  ground.  His  ball  rustled  among 
the  branches,  seven  feet  above  the  head  of  his 
antagonist,  and  four  feet  wide  of  him.  Burr 
heard  it,  looked  up,  and  saw  where  it  had  severed 
a  twig.  Looking  at  Hamilton,  he  beheld  him 
falling,  and  sprang  toward  him  with  an  expression 
of  pain  upon  his  face.  But  at  the  report  of  the 
pistols,  Dr.  Hosack,  Mr.  Davis,  and  the  boatman, 
hurried  anxiously  up  the  rocks  to  the  scene  of  the 
duel;  and  Van  Ness,  with  presence  of  mind,  seized 
Burr,  shielded  him  from  observation  with  an  um 
brella,  and  urged  him  down  the  steep  to  the  boat 


DONALD    G.   MITCHELL, 


[Born  1822.] 


D  >j?ALD  G.  MITCHELL  was  born  in  Norwich, 
Conn.,  April,  1822.  His  father  was  pastor  of 
the  Congregational  Church,  and  his  grand 
father  was  a  member  of  the  first  Congress,  and 
Chief  Justice  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Conn., 
for  many  years. 

Mr.  Mitchell  graduated  at  Yale  in  1841. 
His  health  being  feeble,  he  passed  three  years 
in  the  country,  occasionally  exercising  his 
pen  on  agriculture,  and  writing  letters  to  the 
Albany  Cultivator.  He  next  spent  a  year  and 
a  half  abroad,  visiting  the  Isle  of  Jersey, 
rambling  through  England  on  foot,  visiting 
every  county,  and  travelling  over  the  Conti 
nent,  writing  letters  on  the  agriculture  of  the 
countries  he  visited,  to  the  Albany  Cultivator. 
On  his  return,  he  commenced  the  study  of  law 
in  New  York ;  and  soon  after  published  the 
results  of  his  tour  in  Fresh  Gleanings  ;  or  a 
new  sheaf  from  the  Old  Fields  of  Continental 
Europe,  by  Ik.  Marvel ;  a  pleasant  volume  of 
scholarly  and  leisurely  observation  of  the 
principal  places  and  sights  of  Europe ;  it 
attracted  about  the  usual  attention  of  volumes 
of  travel. 

His  health  again  becoming  feeble,  he  re 
turned  to  Europe,  and  spent  some  of  the  event 
ful  months  of  1848  in  Paris,  and  among  the 
vineyards  of  France.  He  published  on  his 
return,  in  1850,  the  Battle  Summer,  being 
Transcriptions  from  Personal  Observations  in 
Paris  during  the  year  1848,  by  Ik.  Marvel. 
This  was  not  very  successful,  the  style  being 
too  similar  to  that  of  Carlyle  in  his  descrip 
tions  of  the  French  Revolution. 

His  next  publication  was  The  Lorgnette,  or 
Studies  of  the  Town,  by  an  Opera-goer ;  a 
periodical  similar  to  Irving  and  Paulding's 
Salmagundi,  containing  essays  and  satires  of 
the  topics  and  fashions  of  the  day  by  a  Looker- 
on.  It  appeared  anonymously  and  attracted  for 
a  time  considerable  attention  among  fashion 
able  circles ;  it  was  written  in  a  quiet,  pure 
style,  and  contains  some  of  his  best  passages. 

During  the  progress  of  the  Lorgnette,  he 
published  The  Reveries  of  a  Bachelor,  a  Book 
of  the  Heart,  12mo.,  1850.  A  contemplative 
672 


view  of  life  from  the  slippered  ease  of  the 
chimney-corner.  A  slight  story  runs  through 
the  volume,  containing  some  pathetic  scenes 
tenderly  narrated.  It  was  at  once  a  decided 
and  brilliant  success,  many  thousand  copies 
have  been  sold,  and  it  is  still  in  active  demand  ; 
it  was  published  in  12mo.,  and  afterwards  in 
an  elegantly  illustrated  8vo.  edition  by  Darley, 
also  in  16mo.  It  is  one  of  the  choicest  speci 
mens  of  half  romance  and  half  essay  of  a  true 
man  and  a  scholar;  his  eloquence,  which 
gushes  forth  at  times  in  a  flood,  could  only 
issue  from  the  depth  of  a  large  heart ;  its 
illustrations  are  such  as  he  alone  who  has 
become  thoroughly  imbued  with  the  best  of 
the  world's  literature  could  supply.  True 
feeling,  refinement,  purity,  and  elegance  of 
style  are  the  prominent  characteristics  of  this 
delightful  and  admirably-executed  volume. 

This  same  vein  was  followed  up  the  next 
year  in,  Dream  Life,  a  Fable  of  the  Seasons. 
Whether  the  author  had  exhausted  his  fresh 
ness,  or  the  subject  had  lost  some  of  its  novelty, 
this  volume  was  not  as  successful  as  the  Rev 
eries,  though  it  had  abundant  success  for  an 
author  less  popular.  It  still  mantains  its 
popularity. 

In  1853,  Mr.  Mitchell  was  appointed  U.  S. 
Consul  at  Venice.  He  remained  there  but  a 
short  time  ;  while  abroad,  he  gathered  together 
materials  for  a  History  of  Venice,  which  he 
has  never  published,  if  written.  He  travelled 
in  Europe,  and  returned  in  1855. 

He  next  published,  Fudge  Doings ;  being 
Tony  Fudge's  Record  of  the  Same ;  a  connected 
series  of  sketches  of  city  fashionable  life,  in 
the  vein  of  the  Lorgnette,  originally  published 
in  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine.  A  rambling, 
though  entertaining  story,  which  will  hardly 
add  to  his  reputation  either  as  a  thinker  or 
writer. 

Mr.  Mitchell  purchased  a  farm  in  the 
vicinity  of  New  Haven  on  which  he  resides. 
He  has  since  devoted  his  time  to  the  improve 
ment  of  the  place,  writing  articles  for  Harper's 
Magazine  and  the  Atlantic,  practicing  his 
profession  of  Rural  Architect  and  laying  out 


DONALD     G.    MITCHELL 


673 


grounds,  and,  in  1869,  became  editor  of  The 
Hearth  and  the  Home,  a  weekly  periodical  of 
Agriculture  and  Domestic  matters. 

My  Farm  of  Edgewood,  appeared  in  1863, 
and  its  sequel,  Wet  Days  at  Edgewood  in  1864. 
The  first  a  very  pleasant  description  of  the 
adventures  of  a  gentleman  in  search  of  a  farm, 
its  acquisition,  and  subsequent  improvement ; 
the  latter  rather  uninteresting  sketches  of  the 


literature  and  past  history  of  amateur  farming 
and  agriculture. 

He  has  varied  his  agricultural  pursuits  by 
the  publication  of  Seven  Stories,  with  Base 
ment  and  Attic ;  and,  Doctor  Johns,  a  novel. 
2  vols.,  12mo.,  reprinted  from  the  Atlantic, 
where  as  a  serial  story,  it  excited  considerable 
attention. 


HAPPF  AT  LAST. 

FROM   REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

SHE  does  not  mistake  my  feelings,  surely : — ah, 
no, — trust  a  woman  for  that !  But  what  have  I, 
or  what  am  I,  to  ask  a  return  1  She  is  pure,  and 
gentle  as  an  angel ;  and  I — alas — only  a  poor  sol 
dier  in  our  world-fight  against  the  Devil !  Some 
times  in  moods  of  vanity,  I  call  up  what  I  fondly 
reckon  my  excellencies  or  deserts — a  sorry,  pitiful 
array,  that  makes  me  shamefaced  when  I  meet 
her.  And  in  an  instant,  I  banish  them  all.  And 
I  think,  that  if  I  were  called  upon  in  some  high 
court  of  justice,  to  say  why  I  should  claim  her  in 
dulgence,  or  her  love — I  would  say  nothing  of  my 
sturdy  effort  to  beat  down  the  roughnesses  of  toil 
— nothing  of  such  manliness  as  wears  a  calm  front 
amid  the  frowns  of  the  world, — nothing  of  little 
triumphs,  in  the  every-day  fight  of  life  ;  but  only, 
I  would  enter  the  simple  plea — this  heart  is  hers ! 

She  leaves ;  and  I  have  said  nothing  of  what 
was  seething  within  me  ; — how  I  curse  my  folly ! 
She  is  gone,  and  never  perhaps  will  return.  I  re- 
cal  in  despair  her  last  kind  glance.  The  world 
seems  blank  to  me.  She  does  not  know ;  perhaps 
she  does  not  care,  if  I  love  her. — Well,  I  will  bear 
it, — I  say.  But  I  cannot  bear  it.  Business  is 
broken;  books  are  blurred;  something  remains 
undone,  that  fate  declares  must  be  done.  Not  a 
place  can  I  find,  but  her  sweet  smile  gives  to 
it,  either  a  tinge  of  gladness,  or  a  black  shade  of 
desolation. 

I  sit  down  at  my  table  with  pleasant  books;  the 
fire  is  burning  cheerfully  ;  my  dog  looks  up  earn 
estly  when  I  speak  to  him  ;  but  it  will  never  do  ! 

Her  image  sweeps  away  all  these  comforts  in  a 
flood.  I  fling  down  my  book  ;  I  turn  my  back 
upon  my  dog  ;  the  fire  hisses  and  sparkles  in  mock 
ery  of  me. 

Suddenly  a  thought  flashes  on  my  brain  ; — I 
will  write  to  her — I  say.  And  a  smile  floats  over 
my  face, — a  smile  of  hope,  ending  in  doubt.  I 
catch  up  my  pen — my  trusty  pen  ;  and  the  clean 
sheet  lies  before  me.  The  paper  could  not  be 
better,  nor  the  pen.  I  have  written  hundreds  of 
letters ;  it  is  easy  to  write  letters.  But  now,  it  is 
not  easy. 

I  begin,  and  cross  it  out.     I  begin  again,  and 

get  on  a  little  farther  ; — then  cross  it  out.     I  try 

again,  but  can  write  nothing.     I  fling  down  my 

pen  in  despair,  and  burn  the  sheet,  and  go  to  my 

85 


library  for  some  old  sour  treatise  of  Shaftesbury, 
or  Lyttleton  ;  and  say — talking  to  myself  all  the 
while ;  let  her  go  ! — She  is  beautiful,  but  I  am 
strong  ;  the  world  is  short ;  we — I  and  my  dog, 
and  my  books,  and  my  pen,  will  battle  it  through 
bravely,  and  leave  enough  for  a  tomb-stone. 

But  even  as  I  say  it,  the  tears  start ; — it  is  all 
false  saying  !  And  I  throw  Shaftesbury  across 
the  room,  and  take  up  my  pen  again.  It  glides 
on  and  on,  as  my  hope  glows,  and  I  tell  her  of  our 
first  meeting,  and  of  our  hours  in  the  ocean  twi 
light,  and  of  our  unsteady  stepping  on  the  heaving 
deck,  and  of  that  parting  in  the  noise  of  London, 
and  of  my  joy*  at  seeing  her  in  the  pleasant  coun 
try,  and  of  my  grief  afterward.  And  then  I  men 
tion  Bella, — her  friend  and  mine — and  the  tears 
flow  ;  and  then  I  speak  of  our  last  meeting,  and 
of  my  doubts,  and  of  this  very  evening, — and  how 
I  could  not  write,  and  abandoned  it, — and  then 
felt  something  within  me  that  made  me  write,  and 

tell  her all ! "  That  my  heart  was 

not  my  own,  but  was  wholly  hers ;  and  that  if  she 

would  be  mine, 1  would  cherish  her,  and 

love  her  always !" 

Then,  I  feel  a  kind  of  happiness, — a  strange,  tu 
multuous  happiness,  into  which  doubt  is  creeping 
from  time  to  time,  bringing  with  it  a  cold  shudder. 
I  seal  the  letter,  and  carry  it — a  great  weight — for 
the  mail.  It  seems  as  if  there  could  be  no  other 
letter  that  day  ;  and  as  if  all  the  coaches  and  horses, 
and  cars,  and  boats  were  specially  detailed  to  bear 
that  single  sheet.  It  is  a  great  letter  for  me  ;  my 
destiny  lies  in  it. 

I  do  not  sleep  well  that  night ; — it  is  a  tossing 
sleep ;  one  time  joy — sweet  and  holy  joy  comes  to 
my  dreams,  and  an  angel  is  by  me  ; — another 
time,  the  angel  fades — the  brightness  fades,  and  I 
wake,  struggling  with  fear.  For  many  nights  it  is 
so,  until  the  day  comes,  on  which  I  am  looking  for 
a  reply. 

The  postman  has  little  suspicion  that  the  letter 
which  he  gives  me — although  it  contains  no 
promissory  notes,  nor  moneys,  nor  deeds,  nor  ar 
ticles  of  trade — is  yet  to  have  a  greater  influence 
upon  my  life  and  upon  my  future,  than  all  the  let 
ters  he  has  ever  brought  to  me  before.  But  I  do 
not  show  him  this  ;  njr  do  I  let  him  see  the  clutch 
with  which  I  grasp  it.  I  bear  it,  as  if  it  were  a 
great  and  fearful  burden,  to  my  room.  I  lock  the 
door,  and  having  broken  the  seal  with  a  quivering 
hand, — read : — 


674 


DONALD     G.    MITCHELL. 


«  Paul — for  I  think  I  may  call  you  so  now — I 
know  not  how  to  answer  you.  Your  letter  gave 
me  great  joy  ;  but  it  gave  me  pain  too.  I  cannot 
— will  not  doubt  what  you  say  :  I  believe  that  you 
love  me  better  than  I  deserve  to  be  loved  ;  and  I 
know  that  I  am  not  worthy  of  all  your  kind 
praises.  But  it  is  not  this  that  pains  me;  for  I 
know  that  you  have  a  generous  heart,  and  would 
forgive,  as  you  always  have  forgiven,  any  weak 
ness  of  mine.  I  am  proud  too,  very  proud,  to 
have  won  your  love;  but  it  pains  me — more  per 
haps  than  you  will  believe — to  think  that  I  cannot 
write  back  to  you,  as  I  would  wish  to  write  ; — alas, 
never !" 

Here  I  dash  the  letter  upon  the  floor,  and  with 
my  hand  upon  my  forehead,  sit  gazing  upon  the 
glowing  coals,  and  breathing  quick  and  loud. — 
The  dream  then  is  broken! 

Presently  I  read  again  : 

"You  know  that  my  father  died,  before 

we  had  ever  met.  He  had  an  old  friend,  who  had 
come  from  England  ;  and  who  in  early  life  had 
done  him  some  great  service,  which  made  him 
seem  like  a  brother.  This  old  gentleman  was  my 
god-father,  and  called  me  daughter.  When  my 
father  died,  he  drew  me  to  his  side,  and  said, — 
<  Carry,  I  shall  leave  you,  but  my  old  friend  will 
be  your  father;'  and  he  put  my  hand  in  his,  and 
said — *  I  give  you  my  daughter.' 

"  This  old  gentleman  had  a  son,  older  than  my 
self;  but  we  were  much  together,  and  grew  up  as 
brother  and  sister.  I  was  proud  of  him  ;  for  he 
was  tall  and  strong,  and  every  one  called  him 
handsome.  He  was  as  kind  too,  as  a  brother 
could  be ;  and  his  father  was  like  my  own  father. 
Every  one  said,  and  believed,  that  we  would  one 
day  be  married  ;  and  my  mother,  and  my  new 
father  spoke  of  it  openly.  So  did  Laurence,  for 
that  is  iny  friend's  name. 

"  I  do  not  need  to  tell  you  any  more,  Paul ;  for 
when  I  was  still  a  girl,  we  had  promised,  that  we 
would  one  day  be  man  and  wife.  Laurence  has 
been  much  in  England ;  and  I  believe  he  is  there 
now.  The  old  gentleman  treats  me  still  as  a 
daughter,  and  talks  of  the  time,  when  I  shall  come 
and  live  with  him.  The  letters  of  Laurence  are 
very  kind  ;  and  though  he  does  not  talk  so  much 
of  our  marriage  as  he  did,  it  is  only,  I  think,  be 
cause  he  regards  it  as  so  certain. 

"  I  have  wished  to  tell  you  all  this  before ;  but  I 
have  feared  to  tell  you  ;  I  am  afraid  I  have  been 
too  selfish  to  tell  you.  And  now  what  can  I  say  1 
Laurence  seems  most  to  me  like  a  brother ; — and 

you,  Paul but  I   must  not  go  on.     For  if 

I  marry  Laurence,  as  fate  seems  to  have  decided,! 
will  try  and  love  him,  better  than  all  the  world. 

"  But  will  you  not  be  a  brother,  and  love  me,  as 
you  once  loved  Bella ; — you  say  my  eyes  are  like 
hers,  and  that  my  forehead  is  like  hers; — will  you 
not  believe  that  my  heart  is  like  hers  too  1 

"Paul,  if  you  shed  tears  over  this  letter--! 
have  shed  them  as  well  as  you.  I  can  write  no 
more  now. 

"Adieu." 


I  sit  long  looking  upon  the  blaze;  and  when  I  rouse 
myself,  it  is  to  say  wicked  things  against  destiny. 
Again,  all  the  future  seems  very  blank.  I  cannot 
love  Carry,  as  I  loved  Bella  ;  she  cannot  be  a  sister 
to  me  ;  she  must  be  more,  or  nothing  !  Again,  I 
seem  to  float  singly  on  the  tide  of  life,  and  see  all 
around  me  in  cheerful  groups.  Everywhere  the 
sun  shines,  except  upon  my  own  cold  forehead. 
There  seems  no  mercy  in  Heaven,  and  no  goodness 
for  me  upon  Earth. 

I  write  after  some  days,  an  answer  to  the  letter. 
But  it  is  a  bitter  answer,  in  which  I  forget  myself, 
in  the  whirl  of  my  misfortunes — to  the  utterance 
of  reproaches. 

Her  reply,  which  comes  speedily,  is  sweet,  and 
gentle.  She  is  hurt  by  my  reproaches,  deeply 
hurt.  But  with  a  touching  kindness,  of  which  I 
am  not  worthy,  she  credits  all  my  petulance  to  my 
wounded  feeling;  she  soothes  me  ;  but  in  soothing, 
only  wounds  the  more.  I  try  to  believe  her, 
when  she  speaks  of  her  unworthiness  ; — but  I 
cannot. 

Business,  and  the  pursuits  of  ambition  or  of  in 
terest,  pass  on  like  dull,  grating  machinery.  Tasks 
are  met,  and  performed  with  strength  indeed,  but 
with  no  cheer.  Courage  is  high,  as  I  meet  the 
shocks,  and  trials  of  the  world  ;  but  it  is  a  brute, 
careless  courage,  that  glories  in  opposition.  I  laugh 
at  any  dangers,  or  any  insiduous  pitfalls ; — what 
are  they  to  me?  "What  do  I  possess,  which  it 
will  be  hard  to  lose  1  My  dog  keeps  by  me  ;  my 
toils  are  present ;  my  food  is  ready  ;  my  limbs  are 
strong ; what  need  for  more  1 

The  months  slip  by  ;  and  the  cloud  that  floated 
over  my  evening  sun,  passes. 

Laurence  wandering  abroad,  and  writing  to 
Caroline,  as  to  a  sister, — writes  more  than  his 
father  could  have  wished.  He  has  met  new  faces, 
very  sweet  faces  ;  and  one  which  shows  through 
the  ink  of  his  later  letters,  very  gorgeously.  The 
old  gentleman  does  not  like  to  lose  thus  his  little 
Carry  ;  and  he  writes  back  rebuke.  But  Laurence, 
with  the  letters  of  Caroline  before  him  for  data, 
throws  himself  upon  his  sister's  kindness,  and  char 
ity.  It  astonishes  not  a  little  the  old  gentleman, 
to  find  his  daughter  pleading  in  such  strange 
way,  for  the  son.  "And  what  will  you  do  then, 
my  Carry  1" — the  old  man  says. 

"Wear  weeds,  if  you  wish,  sir;  and  love 

you  and  Laurence  more  than  ever!" 

And  he  takes  her  to  his  bosom,  and  says — 
"  Carry — Carry,  you  are  too  good  for  that  wild 
fellow  Laurence !" 

Now,  the  letters  are  different !  Now  they  are 
full  of  hope — dawning  all  over  the  future  sky. 
Business,  and  care,  and  toil,  glide,  as  if  a  spirit 
animated  them  all;  it  is  no  longer  cold  machine 
work,  but  intelligent,  and  hopeful  activity.  The 
sky  hangs  upon  you  lovingly,  and  the  birds  make 
music,  that  startles  you  with  its  fineness.  Men 
wear  cheerful  faces ;  the  storms  have  a  kind  pity, 
gleaming  through  all  their  wrath. 

The  days  approach,  when  you  can  call  her 
yours.  For  she  has  said  it,  and  her  mother  has 
said  it ;  and  the  kind  old  gentleman,  who  says  he 


DONALD     G.    MITCHELL. 


675 


will  still  he  her  father,  has  said  it  too ;  and  they 
have  all  welcomed  you — won  by  her  story — with 
a  cordiality,  that  has  made  your  cup  full,  to  run 
ning  over.  Only  one  thought  comes  up  to  ob 
scure  your  joy; — is  it  real?  or  if  real,  are  you 
worthy  to  enjoy  ]  Will  you  cherish  and  love  al 
ways,  as  you  have  promised,  that  angel  who 
accepts  your  word,  and  rests  her  happiness  on  your 
faith  ?  Are  there  not  harsh  qualities  in  your  na 
ture,  which  you  fear  may  sometime  make  her 
regret  that  she  gave  herself  to  your  love  and 
charity  ]  And  those  friends  who  watch  over  her, 
as  the  apple  of  their  eye,  can  you  always  meet 
their  tenderness  and  approval,  for  your  guardian 
ship  of  their  treasure  ?  Is  it  not  a  treasure  that 
makes  you  fearful,  as  well  as  joyful  1 

But  you  forget  this  in  her  smile:  her  kindness, 
her  goodness,  her  modesty,  will  not  let  you  remem 
ber  it.  She  forbids  such  thoughts ;  and  you  yield 
such  obedience,  as  you  never  yielded  even  to  the 
commands  of  a  mother.  And  if  your  business, 
and  your  labor  slip  by,  partially  neglected — what 
matters  it  ]  What  is  interest,  or  what  is  reputa 
tion,  compared  with  that  fullness  of  your  heart, 
which  is  now  ripe  with  joy  1 

The  day  for  your  marriage  comes ;  and  you  live 
as  if  you  were  in  a  dream.  You  think  well,  and 
hope  well  for  all  the  world.  A  flood  of  charily 
seems  to  radiate  from  all  around  you.  And  as 
you  sit  beside  her  in  the  twilight,  on  the  evening 
before  the  day,  when  you  will  call  her  yours,  and 
talk  of  the  coming  hopes,  and  of  the  soft  shadows 
of  the  past;  and  whisper  of  Bella's  love,  and  of 
that  sweet  sister's  death,  and  of  Laurence,  a  new 
brother,  coming  home  joyful  with  his  bride, — and 
lay  your  cheek  to  hers — life  seems  as  if  it  were  all 
day,  and  as  if  there  could  be  no  night! 

The  marriage  passes ;  and  she  is  yours, — yours 
forever. 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  COAL. 

FROM   THE   SAME. 

THAT  first  taste  of  the  new  smoke,  and  of  the 
fragrant  leaf  is  very  grateful ;  it  has  a  bloom  about 
it,  that  you  wish  might  last.  It  is  like  your  first 
love, — fresh,  genial,  and  rapturous.  Like  that,  it 
fills  up  all  thf  craving  of  your  soul ;  and  the  light, 
blue  wreaths  of  smoke,  like  the  roseate  clouds  that 
hang  around  the  morning  of  your  heart  life,  cut 
you  off  from  the  chill  atmosphere  of  mere  worldly 
companionship,  and  make  a  gorgeous  firmament 
for  your  fancy  to  riot  in. 

I  do  not  speak  now  of  those  later,  and  manlier 
passions,  into  which  judgment  must  be  thrusting 
its  cold  tones,  and  when  all  the  sweet  tumult  of 
your  heart  has  mellowed  into  the  sober  ripeness 
of  affection.  But  I  mean  that  boyish  burning, 
which  belongs  to  every  poor  mortal's  lifetime,  and 
which  bewilders  him  with  the  thought  that  he  has 


reached  the  highest  point  of  human  joy,  before  he 
has  tasted  any  of  that  bitterness,  from  which  alone 
our  highest  human  joys  have  sprung.  I  mean  the 
time,  when  you  cut  initials  with  your  jack-knife 
on  the  smooth  bark  of  beech  trees  ;  and  went  mop 
ing  under  the  long  shadows  at  sunset ;  and  thought 
Louise  the  prettiest  name  in  the  wide  world  ;  and 
picked  flowers  to  leave  at  her  door ;  and  stole  out 
at  night  to  watch  the  light  in  her  window  ;  and 
read  such  novels  as  those  about  Helen  Mar,  or 
Charlotte,  to  give  some  adequate  expression  to  your 
agonized  feelings. 

At  such  a  stage,  you  are  quite  certain  that  you 
are  deeply,  and  madly  in  love;  you  persist  in  the 
face  of  heaven,  and  earth.  You  would  like  to 
meet  the  individual  who  dared  to  doubt  it. 

You  think  she  has  got  the  tidiest,  and  jauntiest 
little  figure  that  ever  was  seen.  You  think  back 
upon  some  time  when  in  your  games  of  forfeit,  you 
gained  a  kiss  from  those  lips ;  and  it  seems  as  if 
the  kiss  was  hanging  on  you  yet,  and  warming 
you  all  over.  And  then  again,  it  seems  so  strange 
that  your  lips  did  really  touch  hers !  You  half 
question  if  it  could  have  been  actually  so, — and 
how  you  could  have  dared  ; — and  you  wonder  if 
you  would  have  courage  to  do  the  same  thing 
again  1 — and  upon  second  thought,  are  quite  sure 
you  would, — and  snap  your  fingers  at  the  thought 
of  it. 

What  sweet  little  hats  she  does  wear ;  and  in  the 
school  room,  when  the  hat  is  hung  up — what  curls 
— golden  curls,  worth  a  hundred  Golcondas !  How 
bravely  you  study  the  top  lines  of  the  spelling  book 
. — that  your  eyes  may  run  over  the  edge  of  the 
cover,  without  the  schoolmaster's  notice,  and  feast 
upon  her ! 

You  half  wish  that  somebody  would  run  away 
with  her,  as  they  did  with  Amanda,  in  the  Children 
of  the  Abbey  ; — and  then  you  might  ride  up  on  a 
splendid  black  horse,  and  draw  a  pistol,  or  blunder 
buss,  and  shoot  the  villains,  and  carry  her  back,  all 
in  tears,  fainting,  and  languishing  upon  your  shoul 
der; — and  have  her  father  (who  is  Judge  of  the 
County  Court,)  take  your  hand  in  both  of  his,  and 
make  some  eloquent  remarks.  A  great  many 
such  re-captures  you  run  over  in  your  mind,  and 
think  how  delightful  it  would  be  to  peril  your 
life,  either  by  flood,  or  fire — to  cut  off  your  arm. 
or  your  head,  or  any  such  trifle, — for  your  dear 
Louise. 

You  can  hardly  think  of  anything  more  joyous 
in  life,  than  to  live  with  her  in  some  old  castle, 
very  far  away  from  steamboats,  and  post-offices,  and 
pick  wild  geraniums  for  her  hair,  and  read  poetry  with 
her,  under  the  shade  of  very  dark  ivy  vines.  And 
you  would  have  such  a  charming  boudoir  in  some 
corner  of  the  old  ruin,  with  a  harp  in  it,  and  books 
bound  in  gilt,  with  cupids  on  the  cover,  and  such 
a  fairy  couch,  with  the  curf  :"s  hung — as  you 
have  seen  them  hung  in  some  illustrated  Arabian 
stories — upon  a  pair  of  carved  doves'! 


SARA    JANE    LJPPINCOTT. 


MRS.  SARA  JANE  LIPPINCOTT,  formerly  Miss 
Clarke,  better  known  by  her  nora-de-plume 
of  Grace  Greenwood,  was  born  at  Porapey, 
Onondaga  Co.,  N.  Y.  While  a  school-girl  she 
moved  to  Rochester  and  acquired  most  of  her 
education  there.  Her  father  removed  to  New 
Brighton,  Pa.,  in  1843. 

Soon  after  her  removal  thither,  she  acquired 
a  reputation  as  the  author  of  some  sprightly 
letters  to  Morris  and  Willis  of  theN.  Y.  Mirror, 
over  the  signature  of  Grace  Greenwood.  Some 
poetical  effusions  published  under  her  real 
name,  met  with  a  favorable  reception,  and  the 
identity  of  the  authoress  with  the  brilliant 
letter-writer  could  not  long  remain  a  secret. 
These  were  succeeded  by  various  prose  com 
positions,  in  the  National  Era  at  Washington, 
and  in  Godey's  Lady's  Book,  which  she  edited 
for  a  year.  She  afterward,  in  October,  1853, 
at  the  time  of  her  marriage,  commenced  the 
editorship  of  The  Little  Pilgrim,  a  periodical 
for  youth,  in  which  she  first  published  most  of 
her  juvenile  books. 

Her  first  volume,  Greenwood  Leaves,  was 
published  in  1850,  at  Boston,  and  was  a  de 
cided  success.  In  1851,  she  published  her 
Poems,  which  attracted  considerable  attention, 
particularly  Ariadne,  The  Horseback  Ride,  and 
Pygmalion.  In  this  year,  also  appeared  her 
first  juvenile  book,  The  History  of  my  Pets,  an 
admirable  story-book,  the  precursor  of  many 
others.  A  second  series  of  Greenwood  Leaves 
was  issued  the  following  year;  and  also  an 
other  juvenile  work,  called  Recollections  of  my 
Childhood. 

In  the  spring  of  1852,  she  visited  Europe, 
and  spent  fifteen  months  in  England  and  on 


the  Continent.  Soon  after  her  return,  she 
published  a  record  of  her  travels,  entitled 
Haps  and  Mishaps  of  a  Tour  in  Europe,  includ 
ing  an  enthusiastic  account  of  numerous  Eu 
ropean  friends  of  the  author  ;  but  it  was 
severely  criticized  in  the  London  Athenaeum. 
It  reached  an  eighth  edition. 

Soon  after  her  return  from  Europe,  she  was 
married  to  Leander  K.  Lippincott,  who  was 
the  publisher  of  the  Little  Pilgrim,  and  for  the 
next  two  years  she  busily  assisted  in  the  edit 
ing  of  it.  In  the  fall  of  1855,  she  published 
Mftrrie  England,  the  first  of  a  series  of  books 
of  foreign  travel,  descriptions,  tales,  and  his 
toric  sketches  for  children.  In  the  spring 
of  1856,  a  volume  entitled  A  Forest  Tragedy, 
and  other  Tales,  appeared. ;  and  in  the  fall  of 
1857,  Stories  and  Legends  of  Travel  and  His 
tory,  the  second  of  the  above  series ;  followed 
by  Stories  from  Famous  Ballads  ;  Bonnie 
Scotland;  Records  of  Five  Years  ;  Stories  of 
Many  Lands  ;  and,  Stories  and  Sights  of  France 
and  Italy. 

Mrs.  Lippincott's  life  has  not  been  an  idle 
one ;  she  has  kept  her  talent  bright  by  use 
charming  all  her  readers,  both  old  and  young, 
by  her  fine  thoughts,  expressed  in  a  style  of 
great  ease,  simplicity,  and  beauty.  Her  writ 
ings  speak  for  themselves,  and  they  have 
spoken  widely :  they  are  eminently  character 
istic  ;  are  strictly  national ;  they  are  likewise 
decisively  individual.  Her  prose  writings  are 
animated  by  a  hearty  spirit  of  out-of-door  life 
and  enjoyment,  and  a  healthy,  sprightly  view 
of  society.  Her  poems  are  the  expressions  of 
a  prompt,  generous  nature  ;  her  Ariadne  is 
worthy  of  Mrs.  Norton. 


THE  BABY  IN  THE  BATH-TUB. 

FROM  RECORDS  OF  FIVE   YEARS. 

"ANNIE  !  Sophie  !  come  up  quick,  and  see  bahy 
in  her  bath-tub!"  cries  a  charming  little  maiden, 
running  down  the  wide  stairway  of  an  old  country 
house,  and  half-way  up  the  long  hall,  all  in  a  flut 
tering  cloud  of  pink  lawn,  her  soft  dimpled  cheeks 
tinged  with  the  same  lovely  morning  hue.  In  an 
676 


instant  there  is  a  stir  ana  gush  of  light  laughter  in 
the  drawing-room,  and  presently,  with  a  movement 
a  little  more  majestic  and  elder-sisterly,  Annie  arid 
Sophie  float  noiselessly  through  the  hall  and  up 
the  soft-carpeted  ascent,  as  though  borne  on  their 
respective  clouds  of  blue  and  white  drapery,  and 
take  their  way  to  the  nursery,  where  a  novel  en 
tertainment  awaits  them.  It  is  the  first  morning 
of  the  eldest  married  sister's  first  visit  home,  with 


SARA     J.    LIPPINCOTT. 


her  first  baby ;  and  the  first  baby,  having  slept  late 
after  its  journey,  is  about  to  take  its  first  bath  in 
the  old  house. 

"Well,  I  declare,  if  here  isn't  mother,  forgetting 
her  dairy,  and  Cousin  Nellie,  too,  who  must  have 
left  poor  Ned  all  to  himself  in  the  garden,  lonely 
and  disconsolate,  and  I  am  torn  from  my  books, 
and  Sophie  from  her  flowers,  and  all  for  the  sake 
of  seeing  a  nine-months-old  baby  kicking  about  in 
a  bath-tub  !  What  simpletons  we  are  !" 

Thus  Miss  Annie,  the  proude  ladye  of  the  fam 
ily  ;  handsome,  haughty,  with  perilous  proclivities 
toward  grand  socialistic  theories,  transcendental 
ism,  and  general  strong-mindedness ;  pledged  by 
many  a  saucy  vow  to  a  life  of  single  dignity  and 
freedom,  given  to  studies  artistic,  aesthetic,  philoso 
phic,  and  ethical ;  a  student  of  Plato,  an  absorber 
of  Emerson,  an  exalter  of  her  sex,  a  contemner  of 
its  natural  enemies. 

"Simpletons  are  we?"  cries  pretty  Elinor  Lee, 
aunt  of  the  baby  on  the  other  side,  and  "  Cousin 
Nellie  "  by  love's  courtesy,  now  kneeling  close  by 
the  bath-tub,  and  receiving  on  her  sunny  braids  a 
liberal  baptism  from  the  pure,  plashing  hands  of 
babyhood, — "  simpletons,  indeed  !  Did  I  not  once 
see  thee,  O  Pallas-Athene,  standing  rapt  before  a 
copy  of  the  '  Crouching  Venus'  ]  and  this  is  a  sight 
a  thousand  times  more  beautiful ;  for  here  we  have 
color,  action,  radiant  life,  and  such  grace  as  the 
divinest  sculptors  of  Greece  were  never  able  to  en 
trance  in  marble.  Just  look  at  these  white,  dimpled 
shoulders,  every  dimple  holding  a  tiny,  sparkling 
drop, — these  rosy,  plashing  feet  and  hands, — this 
laughing,  roguish  face, — these  eyes,  bright  and 
blue  and  deep  as  lakes  of  fairy-land, — these  ears, 
like  dainty  sea-shells, — these  locks  of  gold,  dripping 
diamonds, — and  tell  me  what  cherub  of  Titian, 
what  Cupid  of  Greuze,  was  ever  half  so  lovely.  I 
say,  too,  that  Raphael  himself  would  have  jumped 
at  tire  chance  of  painting  Louise,  as  she  sits  there, 
towel  in  hand,  in  all  the  serene  pride  and  chastened 
dignity  of  young  maternity, — of  painting  her  as 
Madonna." 

"Why,  Cousin  Nellie  is  getting  poetical  for  once, 
over  a  baby  in  a  bath-tub !" 

"Well,  Sophie,  isn't  it  a  subject  to  inspire  real 
poets,  to  call  out  and  yet  humble  the  genius  of 
painters  arid  sculptors]  Isn't  it  an  object  for  the 
reverence  of '  a  glorious  human  creature,' — such  a 
pure  and  perfect  form  of  physical  life,  such  a 
starry  little  soul,  fresh  from  the  hands  of  God  ? 
If  your  Plato  teaches  otherwise,  Cousin  Annie, 
I'm  glad  I've  no  acquaintance  with  that  distin 
guished  heathen  gentleman  ;  if  your  Carlyle,  with 
his  '  soul  above  buttons'  and  babies,  would  growl, 
and  your  Emerson  smile  icily  at  the  sight,  away 
with  them  !" 

"Why,  Nellie,  you  goose,  Carlyle  is  '  a  man 
and  a  brother,'  in  spite  of  his  '  Latter-Day  Pamph 
lets,'  and  no  ogre.  I  believe  he  is  very  well  dis 
posed  toward  babies  in  general  ;  while  Emerson 
is  as  tender  as  he  is  great.  Have  you  forgotten 
his  » Threnody,'  in  which  the  sob  of  a  mortal's 
sorrow  rises  and  swells  into  an  immortal's  pean  ] 
I  see  that  baby  is  very  lovely  ;  I  think  that  Louise 


may  well  be  proud  of  her.  It's  a  pity  that  she 
must  grow  up  into  conventionalities  and  all  that. 
— perhaps  become  some  man's  plaything,  or  slavr." 

"  O,  cfon'£,  sister  ! — '  sufficient  for  the  day  is  liip 
worriment  thereof.'  But  I  think  you  and  Neliie 
are  mistaken  about  the  pride.  I  am  conscious  of 
no  such  feeling  in  regard  to  my  little  Florence, 
but  only  of  joy,  gratitude,  infinite  tenderness,  and 
solicitude." 

Thus  the  young  mother, — for  the  first  time 
speaking,  but  not  turning  her  eyes  from  the  bath 
tub. 

"Ah,  coz,  it  won't  go !  Young  mothers  are  the 
proudest  of  living  creatures.  The  sweetest  and 
saintliest  among  you  have  a  sort  of  subdued 
exultation,  a  meek  assumption,  an  adorable  inso 
lence,  toward  the  whole  unmarried  and  childless 
world.  I  have  never  seen  anything  like  it  else 
where." 

"/  have,  in  a  bantam  Biddy,  parading  her  first 
brood  in  the  hen-yard,  or  a  youthful  duck,  leading 
her  first  little  downy  flock  to  the  water." 

"  Ha,  blasphemer  !  are  you  there  1"  cries  Miss 
Nellie,  with  a  bright  smile,  and  a  brighter  blush. 
Blasphemer's  other  name  is  a  tolerably  good  one, 
— Edward  Norton, — though  he  is  oftenest  called 
"  our  Ned."  He  is  the  sole  male  representative 
of  a  wealthy  old  New  England  family, — the  pride 
and  darling  of  four  pretty  sisters,  "  the  only  son  of 
his  mother,  and  she  a  widow,"  who  adores  him, — 
"a  likely  youth,  just  twenty-one,"  handsome,  bril 
liant  and  standing  six  feet  high  in  his  stockings.  Yet, 
in  spite  of  all  these  unfavorable  circumstances,  he 
is  a  very  good  sort  of  a  fellow.  He  is  just  home 
from  the  model  college  of  the  Commonwealth, 
where  he  learned  to  smoke,  and,  I  blush  to  say, 
has  a  cigar  in  hand  at  this  moment,  just  as  he  has 
been  summoned  from  the  garden  by  his  pet  sister, 
Kate,  half  wild  with  delight  and  excitement. 
With  him  comes  a  brother  according  to  the  law, 
and  after  the  spirit, — a  young,  slender,  fair-haired 
man,  but  with  an  indescribable  something  of  pa 
ternal  importance  about  him.  He  is  the  other 
proprietor  of  baby,  and  steps  forward  with  a  laugh 
and  a  "  Heh,  my  little  water-nymph,  my  Iris  !" 
and,  by  the  bath-tub  kneeling,  catches  a  moist  kiss 
from  smiling  baby  lips,  and  a  sudden  wilting  shower 
on  shirt-front  and  collar,  from  moister  baby  hands. 

Young  collegian  pauses  on  the  threshold,  essay 
ing  the  look  lofty  and  sarcastic,  for  a  moment. 
Then  his  eye  rests  on  Nellie  Lee's  blushing  face, 
on  the  red,  smiling  lips,  the  braids  of  gold,  sprinkled 
with  shining  drops, — meets  those  sweet,  shy  eyes, 
and  a  sudden,  mysterious  feeling,  soft  and  vague 
arid  tender,  floods  his  gay,  young  heart.  He  looks 
at  baby  again.  "  Tis  a  pretty  sight,  upon  my 
word  !  Let  me  throw  away  my  cigar  before  I 
come  nearer:  it  is  incense  too  profane  for  such 
pure  rites.  Now  give  me  a  peep  at  Dian-the-less! 
How  the  little  witch  revels  in  the  water  !  A  small 
Undine.  Jolly,  isn't  it,  baby  ]  Why,  Lou'se,  I 
did  not  know  that  Floy  was  so  lovely,  such  a  per 
fect  little  creature.  How  fair  she  is !  Why,  her 
flesh,  where  it  is  not  rosy,  is  of  the  pure,  translu 
cent  whiteness  of  a  water-lily." 


R78 


SARA    J.   LIPPINCOTT. 


No  response  to  this  tribute,  for  baby  has  been  in 
the  water  more  than  long  enough,  and  must  be 
taken  out.  willy,  nilly.  Decidedly  nilly  it  proves  ; 
baby  proceeds  to  demonstrate  that  she  is  not  alto 
gether  cherubic,  by  kicking  and  screaming  lustily, 
and  striking  out  frantically  with  her  little  dripping 
h;inds.  But  Madonna  wraps  her  in  soft  linen, 
rolls  her  and  pats  her,  till  she  grows  good  and 
merry  again,  and  laughs  through  her  pretty  tears. 

But  the  brief  storm  has  been  enough  to  clear  the 
nursery  of  all  save  grandmama  and  Auntie  Kate, 
who  draw  nearer  to  witness  the  process  of  drying 
and  dressing.  Tenderly  the  mother  rubs  the  dainty, 
soft  skin,  till  every  dimple  gives  up  its  last  hidden 
droplet ;  then,  with  many  a  kiss,  and  smile,  and  coo, 
she  robes  the  little  form  in  fairy-like  garments  of 
cambric,  lace,  flannel,  soft  as  a  moth's  wing,  and 
delicate  embroidery.  The  small,  restless  feet  are 
caught,  and  encased  in  comical  little  hose,  and 
shod  with  Titania's  own  slippers.  Then  the  light 
golden  locks  are  brushed  and  twined  into  tendril- 
like  curls,  and  lo  !  the  beautiful  labdr  of  love  is  fin 
ished.  Baby  is  bathed  and  dressed  for  the  day. 

"Well,  she  is  a  beauty  !  I  don't  wonder  you 
and  Charles  are  proud  of  her.  0,  Louise,  if  your 
father  could  have  seen  her !  She  is  very  like  our 
first  baby,  the  one  we  lost,  at  nearly — yes,  just 
about  her  age."  Here  grandmama  goes  out,  tear 
ful,  having  sped  unconscious  her  Parthian  shaft; 
while,  with  a  quick  sob,  which  is  neither  for  the 
father  long  dead,  nor  the  sister  never  known,  the 
young  mother  clasps  her  treasure  closer,  and  mur 
murs,  "  O,  my  darling,  my  love,  my  sweetest, 
sweetest  one  !  stay  with  me  always,  always  !  O,  I 
would  that  I  could  guard  and  shield  you  from  every 
pain,  every  grief, — make  your  sweet  life  all  beauty, 
love,  and  joy  !" 

Baby  hardly  understands  this  burst  of  sensibility, 
but  the  passionate  embrace  reminds  her  of  some 
thing.  She  asks  and  receives.  Like  a  bee  on  a 
lily-flower,  she  clings  to  the  fair,  sweet  breast,  mur 
muring  contentedly  now  and  then.  Presently,  the 
gurgling  draughts  grow  less  eager,  the  little  hands 
cease  to  wander  restlessly  over  the  smooth,  un- 
manlled  neck.  The  little  head  is  thrown  bark,  the 
blue  eyes  look  with  a  satisfied  smile  into  the  brood 
ing  mother-face. 

Next,  her  lips  all  moist  with  the  white  nectar, 
baby  is  given,  with  many  an  anxious  injunction, 
into  the  eager  arms  of  Auntie  Kate,  who,  followed 
by  a  supernumerary  nurse,  bears  her  in  triumph 
down  hall  and  stairway,  and  out  into  a  garden,  all 
glorious  and  odorous  with  a  thousand  roses. 

Here,  on  a  shawl,  gay-colored  and  soft,  spread 
on  the  grass,  under  an  acacia-tree,  tlie  little  Queen 
of  Hearts  is  deposited  at  last.  Here  she  rolls  and 
lumbles,  and  sends  out  shrill,  sweet  peals  of  laugh 


ter,  as  auntie  and  nurse  pelt  her  with  rose-buds  and 
clover-tufts.  Sometimes  an  adventurous  spirit  seizes 
her;  she  creeps  energetically  beyond  shawl-bounds, 
her  little  province  of  Cashmere,  makes  a  raid  into 
the  tall,  inviting  grass,  clutches  ruthlessly  at  butter 
cups,  breaks  into  nunneries  of  pale  pansies,  and  de 
capitates  whole  families  of  daisies  at  a  grasp.  Some 
times,  tired  of  predatory  incursions,  she  lies  on  her 
back,  and  listens  in  a  luxurious,  lazy  ecstasy  to  the 
gush  of  the  fountain  and  the  song  of  the  robin,  or 
watches  the  golden  butterflies,  coming  from  and 
going  to  nobody  knows  where,  as  though  they  had 
suddenly  bloomed  out  of  the  sunshine,  and  died 
away  into  it  again. 

Away  down  the  garden,  in  the  woodbine  arbor, 
by  the  little  brook,  sit  the  young  collegian  and  fair 
Nellie  Lee,  talking  very  low,  but  very  earnestly,  on 
a  subject  vastly  interesting  to  them,  doubtless,  for 
they  seem  to  have  quite  forgotten  baby.  Yet  her 
presence  in  the  garden  hallows  the  very  air  for 
them,  gives  a  new  joy  and  beauty  to  life,  new 
sweetness  to  love. 

The  golden  summer  morning  wears  on.  Papa 
is  away  with  his  fishing-rod;  mamma  sits  at  a  win 
dow  overlooking  the  garden,  embroidering  a  dainty 
little  robe,  and  under  her  cunning  fingers  the  love 
of  her  heart  and  a  thousand  tender  tboughts  grow 
slowly  into  delicate  white  shapes  of  leaf  and  flower ; 
grandmama  is  about  her  household  duties,  the  tears 
of  sad  memory  wiped  from  her  eyes,  and  the  light 
of  the  Christian's  calm  hope  relit  therein  ;  Annie1  is 
in  the  library  with  Plato,  but  unusual  softness  lurks 
about  her  mouth,  and  she  looks  off  her  book  now 
and  then,  and  throws  about  her  a  strange,  wander 
ing  glance,  dreamy  and  tender  to  sadness  ;  her  sis 
ters  are  in  the  drawing-room  at  their  music,  gay  as 
birds;  the  lovers  are  we  know  where;  and  baby  is 
still  under  the  acacia-tree.  But  the  white  lids  are 
beginning  to  droop  a  little  heavily  over  the  sweet 
blue  eyes,  and  she  will  soon  drop  away  into  baby 
dream-land. 

All  nature  blooms,  and  shines,  and  sounds  gentty 
and  lovingly,  to  humor  her  delicate  senses;  human 
love  the  richest  and  tenderest  is  round  about  her, 
within  reach  of  her  imperious  little  voice.  God 
breathes  himself  into  her  little  heart  through  all 
things, — love,  light,  food,  sunsbine,  fragrance,  and 
soft  airs.  All  is  well  within  and  without  the  child, 
as  all  should  be  for  all  children  under  the  sun,  for 
every  sinless,  helpless  little  immortal,  the  like  of 
whom  Christ  the  Lord  took  into  his  tender  arms 
and  blessed.  But  how  is  it,  dainty  baby  Floy,  with 
thousands  of  thy  brothers  and  sisters,  as  lovely  and 
innocent  as  thou  ?  Are  there  not  such,  to  whom 
human  love  and  care  is  denied,  to  whom  nature 
seems  unkind,  of  whom  God  seems  forgetful,  for 
whom  even  Christ's  blessing  is  made  of  no  avail  I 


FRANCIS    PACKMAN, 


[Born  1823.] 


FRANCIS  PARKMAN,  the  son  of  an  esteemed 
clergyman  of  the  same  name,  was  born  in 
Boston,  Sept.  16,  1823.  He  graduated  at  Har 
vard,  in  1844,  and  two  years  later  travelled 
upon  the  western  prairies,  with  a  view  of 
studying  the  manners  and  characters  of  the 
Indians.  The  results  of  his  trip  he  published 
in  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine,  under  the 
title  of  The  Oregon  Trail,  and  afterwards  in  a 
volume,  The  California  and  Oregon  Trail, 
being  Sketches  of  Prairie  and  Rocky  Mountain 
Life.  A  volume  instinct  with  the  spirit  of  the 
wild  life  which  it  described,  written  with 
much  vivacity  arid  good  taste,  conveying  much 
accurate  information  of  the  character  of  the 
country  between  the  Mississippi  and  the  Pacific, 
and  investing  truth  with  all  the  attractiveness 
of  fiction. 

Familiar  with  Indian  life  and  its  scenes, 
when  he  turned  his  attention  to  historical 
composition,  he  naturally  chose  a  subject  in 
keeping.  He  published,  in  1851,  the  History 
of  the  Conspiracy  of  Pontiac  and  the  War  of 
the  North  American  Tribes  against  the  English 
Colonies  after  the  Conquest  of  Canada,  one 
volume,  8vo.,  London  edition,  2  vols.,  8vo.  This 
has  passed  through  several  editions  here  and  in 
England.  Prepared  under  great  difficulties, 
as  the  author  had  to  read  and  write  by  the 
eyes  and  the  hands  of  another,  it  is  an  uncom 
monly  meritorious  work,  and  one  of  the  best 
written  histories  that  has  been  produced  in  this 
country.  In  the  form  of  authentic  and  de 
tailed  record,  it  gives  a  most  complete  and 
accurate  picture  of  Indian  character  and  life, 


and  of  Indian  warfare  such  as  it  was  a  century 
ago,  written  with  much  spirit  and  picturesque 
effect. 

His  next  publication  was  of  a  different  char 
acter,  a  story  of  the  present  day,  presenting 
pictures  of  life  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic, 
entitled  Vassall  Morton,  published  in  1856. 
The  hero  is  arrested  by  the  Austrian  police, 
on  suspicion  of  being  concerned  in  revolution 
ary  plots ;  and  his  escape  from  prison  and 
perilous  journey  on  foot  to  an  Italian  seaport, 
form  one  of  the  most  thrilling  passages  in  the 
book. 

He  resumed  the  historical  pen  in  1865,  by 
the  publication  of  the  first  of  a  series  of  His 
torical  Narratives,  on  France  and  England  in 
North  America ;  I.  The  Huguenots  in  Florida, 
II.  Samuel  de  Champlain.  The  second  volume 
of  the  series,  The  Jesuits  in  North  America  in 
the  Seventeenth  Century,  was  issued  in  186T. 
Both  of  these  volumes,  candid  and  impartial, 
with  an  insight  into  character  unclouded  by 
any  mists  of  prejudice,  were  received  with 
great  favor  and  increasing  popularity,  and  have 
passed  through  several  editions. 

He  also  prefixed  an  Introduction  to  Bouquet's 
Expedition  against  the  Ohio  Indians  in  1*764, 
published  in  the  Ohio  Valley  Historical  Series 
of  Reprints,  Cincinnati,  1868. 

In  1869,  he  published  the  third  volume  of 
his  Historical  Narratives,  The  Discovery  of  the 
Great  West,  1  vol.,  8vo.  The  discovery  of  the 
valleys  of  the  Mississippi  and  the  Lakes  is  a 
portion  of  our  history  hitherto  very  obscure. 


LA    ROCHE'S    COLONY. 

PROM   PIONEERS  OF   FRANCE   IN   THE   NEW   WORLD. 

YEARS  rolled  on.  France,  long  tossed  among 
the  surges  of  civil  commotion,  plunged  at  last 
into  a  gulf  of  fratricidal  war.  Blazing  hamlets, 
sacked  cities,  fields  steaming  with  slaughter,  pro 
faned  altars,  ravished  maidens,  a  carnival  of  steel 
and  fire,  marked  the  track  of  the  tornado.  There 
was  little  room  for  schemes  of  foreign  enterprise. 
Yet,  far  aloof  from  siege  and  battle,  the  fishermen 


of  the  western  ports  still  plied  their  craft  on  the 
Banks  of  Newfoundland.  Humanity,  morality, 
decency,  might  be  forgotten,  but  rod-fish  must 
still  be  had  for  the  use  of  the  faithful  on  Lent 
and  fast  dyys.  Still  the  wandering  Esquimaux 
saw  the  Norman  and  Breton  sails  hovering  around 
some  lonely  headland,  or  anchored  in  fiYrts  in  the 
harbor  of  St.  John  ;  and  still,  through  salt  spray 
and  driving  mist,  the  fisherman  dragged  up  the 
riches  of  the  sea. 

In  1578,  there  were  a  hundred  and  fifty  French 

679 


680 


FRANCIS     PARKMAN. 


fishing-vessels  at  Newfoundland,  besides  two 
hundred  of  other  nations,  Spanish,  Portuguese, 
and  English.  Added  to  these  were  twenty  or 
thirty  Biscayan  whalers.  In  1607,  there  was  an 
old  French  fisherman  at  Canseau  who  had  voy 
aged  to  these  seas  for  forty-two  successive  years. 

But  if  the  wilderness  of  ocean  had  its  treasures, 
so,  too,  had  the  wilderness  of  woods.  It  needed 
hut  a  few  knives,  heads,  and  trinkets,  and  the 
Indians  would  throng  to  the  shore  burdened  with 
the  spoils  of  their  winter  hunting.  Fishermen 
threw  up  their  old  vocation  for  the  more  lucrative 
trade  in  bear-skins  and  beaver-skins.  They  built 
rude  huts  along  the  shores  of  Anticosti,  where,  at 
that  day,  the  bison,  it  is  said,  could  be  seen 
wallowing  in  the  sands.  They  outraged  the  In 
dians  ;  they  quarrelled  with  each  other ;  and  this 
infancy  of  the  Canadian  fur-trade  showed  rich 
promise  of  the  disorders  which  marked  its  riper 
growth.  Others,  meanwhile,  were  ranging  the 
gulf  in  search  of  walrus-tusks;  arid,  the  year 
after  the  battle  of  Ivry,  St.  Malo  sent  out  a  fleet 
of  small  craft  in  quest  of  this  new  prize. 

In  all  the  western  seaports,  merchants  and  ad 
venturers  turned  their  eyes  towards  America ; 
not,  like  the  Spaniards,  seeking  treasures  of  silver 
and  gold,  but  the  more  modest  gains  of  codfish 
and  train-oil,  beaver-skins  and  marine  ivory.  St. 
Malo  was  conspicuous  above  them  all.  The 
rugged  Bretons  loved  the  perils  of  the  sea,  and 
saw  with  a  jealous  eye  every  attempt  to  shackle 
their  activity  on  this  its  favorite  field.  When  two 
nephews  of  Cartier,  urging  the  great  services  of 
their  uncle,  gained  a  monopoly  of  the  American 
fur-trade  for  twelve  years,  such  a  clamor  arose 
within  the  walls  of  St.  Malo,  that  the  obnoxious 
grant  was  promptly  revoked. 

But  soon  a  power  was  in  the  field  against 
which  all  St.  Malo  might  clamor  in  vain.  A 
Catholic  nobleman  of  Brittany,  the  Marquis  de  la 
Roche,  bargained  with  the  King  to  colonize  New 
France.  On  his  part,  he  was  to  receive  a  mono 
poly  of  the  trade,  and  a  profusion  of  worthless 
titles  and  empty  privileges.  He  was  declared 
Lieutenant-General  of  Canada,  Hochelaga,  New 
foundland,  Labrador,  and  the  countries  adjacent, 
with  sovereign  power  within  his  vast  and  ill-defined 
domain.  He  could  levy  troops,  declare  war  and 
peace,  make  laws,  punish  or  pardon  at  will,  build 
cities,  forts,  and  castles,  and  grant  out  lands  in 
fiefs,  seigniories,  counties,  viscounties,  and  baronies. 
Thus  was  effete  and  cumbrous  feudalism  to  make 
a  lodgment  in  the  New  World.  It  was  a  scheme 
of  high-sounding  promise,  but,  in  performance, 
less  than  contemptible.  La  Roche  ransacked  the 
prisons,  and,  gathering  thence  a  gang  of  thieves 
and  desperadoes,  embarked  them  in  a  small  vessel, 
and  set  sail  to  plant  Christianity  and  civilization 
in  the  West.  Suns  rose  and  set,  and  the  wretched 
bark,  deep  freighted  with  brutality  and  vice,  held 
on  her  course.  She  was  so  small,  that  the  con 
victs,  leaning  over  her  side,  could  wash  their 
hands  in  the  water.  At  length,  on  the  gray  hori 
zon  they  described  a  long,  gray  line  of  ridgy  sand. 
It  was  S.i!)!o  Island,  off  the  coast  of  Nova  Scotia. 
A  wreck  lay  stranded  on  the  beach,  and  the  surges 


broke  ominously  over  the  long,  submerged  arms 
of  sand,  stretched  far  out  into  the  sea  on  the  right 
hand  and  on  the  left. 

Here  La  Roche  landed  the  convicts,  forty  in 
number,  while,  with  his  more  trusty  followers,  he 
sailed  to  explore  the  neighboring  coasts  and 
choose  a  site  for  the  capital  of  his  new  dominion. 
Thither,  in  due  time,  he  proposed  to  remove  the 
prisoners.  But  suddenly  a  tempest  from  the  west 
assailed  him.  The  frail  vessel  was  at  its  mercy. 
She  must  run  before  the  gale,  which,  howling  on 
her  track,  drove  her  off  the  coast,  and  chased  her 
back  towards  France. 

Meanwhile  the  convicts  watched  in  suspense  for 
the  returning  sail.  Days  passed,  weeks  passed, 
and  still  they  strained  their  eyes  in  vain  across 
the  waste  of  ocean.  La  Roche  had  left  them  to 
their  fate.  Rueful  and  desperate,  they  wandered 
among  the  sand-hills,  through  the  stunted  whortle 
berry-bushes,  the  rank  sand-grass,  and  the  tsuigled 
cranberry-vines  which  filled  the  hollows.  Not  a 
tree  was  to  be  seen;  but  they  built  huts  of  the 
fragments  of  the  wreck.  For  food,  they  caught 
fish  in  the  surrounding  sea,  and  hunted  the  cattle 
which  ran  wild  about  the  island,  sprung,  perhaps, 
from  those  left  here  eighty  years  before  by  the 
Baron  de  Lery.  They  killed  seals,  trapped  black 
foxes,  and  clothed  themselves  in  their  skins.  Their 
native  instincts  clung  to  them  in  their  exile.  As 
if  not  content  with  their  inevitable  miseries,  they 
quarrelled  and  murdered  each  other.  Season  alter 
season  dragged  on.  Five  years  elapsed,  and,  of 
the  forty,  only  twelve  were  left  alive.  Sand,  sea, 
and  sky, — there  was  little  else  around  them ; 
though,  to  break  the  dead  monotony,  the  walrus 
would  sometimes  rear  his  half  human  face  and 
glistening  sides  on  the  reefs  and  sand-bars.  At 
length,  on  the  far  verge  of  the  watery  desert,  they 
descried  a  rising  sail.  She  stood  on  towards  the 
island;  a  boat's  crew  landed  on  the  beach,  and 
the  excited  exiles  were  once  more  among  their 
countrymen. 

When  La  Roche  returned  to  France,  the  fate 
of  his  followers  sat  heavy  on  his  mind.  But  the 
dayof  his  prosperity  was  gone  forever.  A  host  of 
enemies  rose  against  him  and  his  privileges.  The 
Duke  de  Mercoeur,  who  still  made  head  against 
the  crown,  and  claimed  sovereign  power  in  Brit 
tany,  seized  him  and  threw  him  into  prison.  In 
time,  however,  he  gained  a  hearing  of  the  King, 
and  the  Norman  pilot  Chedotel  was  despatched  to 
bring  the  outcasts  home.  When  they  arrived  in 
France,  Henry  the  Fourth  summoned  them  into 
his  presence.  They  stood  before  him,  says  an  old 
writer,  like  river-gods  of  yore;  for,  from  head  to 
foot  they  were  clothed  in  shaggy  skins,  and  beards 
of  prodigious  length  hung  from  their  swarthy 
faces.  They  had  accumulated,  on  their  island,  a 
quantity  of  valuable  furs.  Of  these  Chedotel  had 
robbed  them;  but  the  pilot  was  forced  to  disgorge 
his  prey,  and,  with  the  aid  of  a  bounty  from  the 
King,  they  were  enabled  to  embark  on  their 
own  account  in  the  Canadian  trade.  To  their 
leader,  fortune  was  less  kind.  Broken  by  dis 
aster  and  imprisonmt'iit,  L.i  Roche  died  miser 
ably. 


GEORGE    WILLIAM    CURTIS. 

[Born  1824.] 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS,  the  brilliant  and 
fascinating  writer,  and  graceful  and  eloquent 
orator,  was  born  in  Providence,  R.  I.,  in  1824. 
He  went  to  school  at  six  years  of  age,  in 
Boston,  and  remained  until  he  was  eleven. 
He  returned  to  Providence,  and  at  the  age  of 
fifteen  went  to  New  York,  his  father  at  that 
time,  removing  his  family  thither.  Here  he 
spent  a  year  in  a  mercantile  house,  then  studied 
for  two  years,  and  at  eighteen,  joined  the 
Brook  Farm  Association  at  West  Roxbury, 
Mass.,  a  pleasant  pastoral  episode  in  his  life  of 
a  year  and  a  half.  In  reference  to  which 
experience,  Hawthorne  in  the  preface  to  Blithe- 
dale  Romance,  calls  upon  him  to  become  the 
historian  of  the  settlement — "Even  the  bril 
liant  Howadji  might  find  as  rich  a  theme  in 
his  youthful  reminiscences  of  Brook  Farm, 
and  a  more  novel  one, — close  at  hand  as  it 
lies, — than  those  which  he  has  since  made  so 
distant  a  pilgrimage  to  seek,  in  Syria  and 
along  the  current  of  the  Nile." 

He  spent  the  next  winter  in  New  York,  but 
being  still  enamored  of  the  country,  he  went 
to  Concord,  Mass.,  and  lived  in  a  farmer's 
family,  roughing  it  as  a  farmer's  boy,  but 
enjoying  the  intellectual  society  of  Emerson, 
Hawthorne,  Thoreau,  Channing,  and  other 
kindred  spirits,  of  whom  Emerson  endeavored 
to  form  a  club,  but  which  the  individual  pe 
culiarities  of  its  philosophic  members  pre 
vented  from  being  continued.  For  an  account 
of  this,  see  Curtis'  article  in"  Homes  of  Ameri 
can  Authors."  In  this  volume,  published  in 
1853,  Mr.  Curtis  wrote  the  articles  on  Emerson, 
Hawthorne,  Longfellow,  and  Bancroft.  Here 
he  remained,  strengthening  his  body,  and  per 
fecting  his  mind  in  various  literary  accomplish 
ments  for  two  years. 

In  August,  1846,  Mr.  Curtis  sailed  for  Europe, 
landing  at  Marseilles,  visiting  the  southern 
coast  of  Europe,  Genoa,  Leghorn,  and  Florence, 
passing  the  winter  in  Rome,  with  Crawford, 
Hicks,  Kensett,  Cranch,  Terry,  Freeman,  and 
other  artists  resident  there.  In  the  spring,  he 
travelled  through  southern  Italy,  and  Venice. 
At  Milan,  he  met  Mr.  Geo.  S.  Hillard,  and  the 
86 


Rev.  Frederick  H.  Hedge,  author  of  The  Prose 
Writers  of  Germany,  and  travelled  with  them 
into  Germany.  He  studied  at  Berlin,  and 
matriculated  at  the  University  in  1848,  travel 
ling  through  Germany,  making  the  tour  of  the 
Danube  into  Hungary,  passed  the  winter  in 
Paris,  the  summer  in  Switzerland,  then  crossed 
into  Italy,  and  returned  home  by  way  of 
Naples,  Sicily,  Malta,  and  the  east,  arriving  in 
America  in  the  summer  of  1850. 

In  the  autumn  of  that  year,  he  prepared 
Nile  Notes  of  a  Howadji,  much  of  which  was 
written  as  it  stands,  on  the  Nile.  It  was  pub 
lished  the  following  spring  in  New  York  and 
London,  and  at  once  met  with  success,  and  is 
still  in  popular  demand.  In  this  brilliant 
volume  of  Eastern  travels,  the  genius  of  the 
youthful  author,  was  first  revealed  to  the  pub 
lic.  Written  in  a  style  which  combines  the 
voluptuous  softness  of  an  Oriental  atmosphere 
with  the  sunny  splendors  of  the  tropics,  he 
takes  the  reader  with  him  into  rare  and  beau 
tiful  scenes  of  nature,  unfolds  the  mysteries 
of  Arabian  life,  and  reproduces  the  strange 
incidents  of  a  unique  tour  in  language  of  won 
derful  vividness  and  force. 

Connecting  himself  with  the  Tribune  during 
the  winter,  he  spent  the  summer  in  a  fashion 
able  tour  of  the  watering  places,  writing  letters 
to  the  Tribune,  which  were  afterward  pub 
lished  in  1852,  with  a  few  illustrations  under 
the  title  of  Lotus-Eating,  a  summer  book. 
Humor,  pathos,  and  sentiment  are  generally 
blended  in  its  pages,  its  reflections  are  always 
suggestive,  its  brilliant  word-painting  is  re 
lieved  by  an  under-current  of  genuine  feeling, 
and  its  fresh  and  glowing  descriptions  give  a 
new  charm  to  familiar  objects. 

In  the  same  year,  he  issued  The  Howadji  in 
Syria,  which  he  had  written  the  previous 
autumn  and  winter  at  Providence.  It  abounds 
in  picturesque  descriptions  of  the  marvels  of 
the  Holy  Land,  throwing  fresh  light  on  ancient 
localities,  and  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  sym 
pathy  and  reverence  for  the  sacred  scenes 
which  it  calls  forth  from  the  dim  oblivion  of 
the  past. 


682 


GEORGE     WILLIAM     CURTIS. 


Returning  to  New  York  in  the  autumn  of 
1852,  he  became  one  of  the  original  editors  of 
Putnam's  Magazine,  contributing  much  to  its 
success  by  the  publication  of  a  series  of  bril 
liant  sketches  of  fashionable  society,  which 
were  afterwards  published  in  a  volume,  in  1853, 
The  Potiphar  Papers,  admirably  illustrated 
by  Hoppin.  As  graphic  and  telling  descrip 
tions  of  a  peculiar  phase  of  American  society 
they  are  unexcelled  ;  they  dissected  the  best 
society  with  fresh  and  sparkling  wit,  genial 
humor,  and  keen  and  truthful  satire. 

This  was  followed  by  Prue  and  I,  sketches 
from  Putnam,  in  which  the  characters,  an  old, 
simple-minded  book-keeper  and  his  amiable, 
common-sense  wife,  afford  an  opportunity  for 
the  author  displaying  the  most  genial  humor 
that  has  graced  similar  essays  since  those  of 
Elia.  Dinner  Time,  My  Chateaux  en  Espagne, 
and  Sea  from  Shore,  are  delightful. 

His  next  and  last  work  was  Trumps,  a  regu 
lar  novel  of  fashionable  society,  which  was 
well  illustrated  by  Hoppin.  The  materials 
were  drawn  from  the  many  colored  exhibitions 
of  fashionable  and  commercial  life  in  New 
York,  and  they  are  wrought  up  into  a  cabinet 
of  portraitures,  which  vividly  reflect  the  fa 
miliar  traits  of  the  original ;  the  character- 
drawing  is  in  admirable  tone,  salient  and 
effective,  without  exaggeration,  with  scarcely  a 
trace  of  the  effort  of  composition,  but  completed 
with  the  most  delicate  effect  of  light  and  shade. 


He  has  also  contributed  a  number  of  papers 
to  Putnam,  a  picturesque  historical  paper  on 
Newport  and  some  other  papers,  in  Harper's 
Magazine,  including  tales  of  fashionable  society 
by  Smythe,  Jr. 

In  1853,  Mr.  Curtis  entered  the  field  as  a 
lecturer,  in  which  his  graceful  and  finished 
style,  pure  taste,  and  fine  fancy  added  to  his 
graceful  delivery,  won  him  great  success.  In 
1854,  he  delivered  a  poem  before  a  literary 
society  at  Brown  University,  Providence.  In 
1856,  he  took  an  active  part  in  the  Fremont 
campaign,  delivering  many  speeches  with 
telling  effect,  from  their  argument  and  brilliant 
oratory.  In  August,  he  delivered  an  oration 
before  the  literary  societies  of  Wesleyan  Uni 
versity,  on  The  Duty  of  the  American  Scholar 
to  Politics  and  the  Times.  In  1856,  Mr.  Curtis 
ventured  into  business,  joining  a  publishing 
house  in  New  York,  which  failed  in  August, 
185*7,  losing  all  he  had  invested.  In  Novem 
ber,  1856,  Mr.  Curtis  married  the  daughter  of 
Francis  G.  Shaw,  of  Boston.  He  has  for  years 
past  edited  Harper's  periodicals  with  consum 
mate  ability.  Mr.  Curtis  also  wrote  a  memoir 
of,  and  edited  Rural  Essays  by,  A.  J.  Down 
ing. 

Mr.  Curtis  is  a  gentleman  of  exquisite  poetic 
taste,  refined  but  glowing  in  feeling  and  fancy, 
polished  in  his  style,  and  altogether  a  most 
captivating  writer.  He  is  as  thoroughly  inde 
pendent  as  he  is  able,  in  politics. 


MY  CHATEAUX. 

FUOM  PRUE  AND  I. 

I  AM  the  owner  of  great  estates.  Many  of  them 
lie  in  the  West ;  but  the  greater  part  are  in  Spain. 
You  may  see  my  western  possessions  any  evening 
at  sunset  when  their  spires  and  battlements  flash 
against  the  horizon. 

It  gives  me  a  feeling  of  pardonable  importance, 
as  a  proprietor,  that  they  are  visible,  to  my  eyes  at 
least,  from  any  part  of  the  world  in  which  I  chance 
to  be.  In  my  long  voyage  around  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope  to  India  (the  only  voyage  I  ever  made,  when 
I  was  a  boy  and  a  supercargo),  if  I  fell  home-sick, 
or  sank  into  a  reverie  of  all  the  pleasant  homes  I 
had  left  behind,  I  had  but  to  wait  until  suns?t,  and 
then  looking  toward  the  west,  I  beheld  my  cluster 
ing  pinnacles  and  towers  brightly  burnished  as  if 
to  salute  and  welcome  me. 

So,  in  the  city,  if  I  get  vexed  and  wearied,  and 
cannot  find  my  wonted  solace  in  sallying  forth  at 
dinner-time  to  contemplate  the  gay  world  of  youth 
and  beauty  hurrying  to  the  congress  of  fashion, — 


or  if  I  observe  that  years  are  deepening  their  tracks 
around  the  eyes  of  my  wife,  Prue,  I  go  quietly  up 
to  the  housetop,  toward  evening,  and  refresh  my 
self  with  a  distant  prospect  of  my  estates.  It  is 
as  dear  to  me  as  that  of  Eton  to  the  poet  Gray  ; 
and,  if  I  sometimes  wonder  at  such  moments 
whether  I  shall  find  those  realms  as  fair  as  they 
appear,  I  am  suddenly  reminded  that  the  night  air 
may  be  noxious,  and  descending,  I  enter  the  little 
parlor  where  Prue  sits  stitching,  and  surprise  that 
precious  woman  by  exclaiming  with  the  poet's 
pensive  enthusiasm ; 

"Thought  would  destroy  their  Paradise, 
No  more; — where  ignorance  is  bliss, 
'Tis  folly  to  be  wise." 

Columbus,  also,  had  possessions  in  the  West , 
and  as  I  read  aloud  the  romantic  story  of  his  life, 
my  voice  quivers  when  I  come  to  the  point  in 
which  it  is  related  that  sweet  odors  of  the  land 
mingled  with  the  sea-air,  as  the  admiral's  fleet  ap 
proached  the  shores ;  that  tropical  birds  flew  out 
and  fluttered  around  the  ships,  glittering  in  the 


GEORGE    WILLIAM    CURTIS. 


683 


sun,  the  gorgeous  promises  of  the  new  country  ; 
that  boughs,  perhaps  with  blossoms  not  all  decayed, 
floated  out  to  welcome  the  strange  wood  from  which 
the  craft  were  hollowed.  Then  I  cannot  restrain 
myself.  I  think  of  the  gorgeous  visions  I  have  seen 
before  I  have  even  undertaken  the  journey  to  the 
West,  and  I  cry  aloud  to  Prue  : 

"What  sun-bright  birds,  and  gorgeous  blossoms, 
and  celestial  odors  will  float  out  to  us,  my  Prue,  as 
we  approach  our  western  possessions  !" 

The  placid  Prue  raises  her  eyes  to  mine  with  a 
reproof  so  delicate  that  it  could  not  be  trusted  to 
words ;  and,  after  a  moment,  she  resumes  her  knit 
ting  and  I  proceed. 

These  are  my  western  estates,  but  my  finest 
castles  are  in  Spain.  It  is  a  country  famously  ro 
mantic,  and  my  castles  are  all  of  perfect  proportions, 
and  appropriately  set  in  the  most  picturesque  situa 
tions.  I  have  never  been  to  Spain  myself,  but  I 
have  naturally  conversed  much  with  travellers  to 
that  country;  although,  I  must  allow,  without  de 
riving  from  them  much  substantial  information 
about  my  property  there.  The  wisest  of  them  told 
me  that  there  were  more  holders  of  real  estate  in 
Spain  than  in  any  other  region  he  had  ever  heard 
of,  and  they  are  all  great  proprietors.  Every  one 
of  them  possesses  a  multitude  of  the  stateliest  cas 
tles.  From  conversation  with  them  you  easily 
gather  that  each  one  considers  his  own  castles  much 
the  largest  and  in  the  loveliest  positions.  And, 
after  I  had  heard  this  said,  I  verified  it,  by  discover 
ing  that  all  my  immediate  neighbors  in  the  city  were 
great  Spanish  proprietors. 

It  is  not  easy  for  me  to  say  how  I  know  so  much, 
as  I  certainly  do,  about  my  castles  in  Spain.  The 
sun  always  shines  upon  them.  They  stand  lofty 
and  fair  in  a  luminous,  golden  atmosphere,  a  little 
hazy  and  dreamy,  perhaps,  like  the  Indian  sum 
mer,  but  in  which  no  gales  blow  and  there  are  no 
tempests.  All  the  sublime  mountains,  and  beau 
tiful  valleys,  and  soft  landscape,  that  I  have  not  yet 
seen,  are  to  be  found  in  the  grounds.  They  com 
mand  a  noble  view  of  the  Alps;  so  fine,  indeed,  that 
I  should  be  quite  content  with  the  prospect  of 
them  from  the  highest  tower  of  my  castle,  and  not 
care  to  go  to  Switzerland. 

The  neighboring  ruins,  too,  are  as  picturesque  as 
those  of  Italy,  and  my  desire  of  standing  in  the 
Coliseum,  and  of  seeing  the  shattered  arches  of  the 
Aqueducts  stretching  along  the  Carnpagna  and 
melting  into  the  Alban  Mount,  is  entirely  quenched. 
The  rich  gloom  of  my  orange  groves  is  gilded  by 
fruit  as  brilliant  of  complexion  and  exquisite  of 
flavor  as  any  that  ever  dark-eyed  Sorrento  girls, 
looking  over  the  high  plastered  walls  of  southern 
Italy,  hand  to  the  youthful  travellers,  climbing  on 
donkeys  up  the  narrow  lane  beneath. 

The  Nile  flows  through  my  grounds.  The 
Desert  lies  upon  their  edge,  and  Damascus  stands 
in  my  garden.  I  am  given  to  understand,  also, 
that  the  Parthenon  has  been  removed  to  my 
Spanish  possessions.  The  Golden-Horn  is  my 
fish-preserve ;  my  flocks  of  golden  fleece  are  pas 
tured  on  the  plain  of  Marathon,  and  the  honey 
of  Hvmettus  is  distilled  from  the  flowers  that 


grow   in   the   vale  of  Enna — all  in  my  Spanish 
domains. 

From  the  windows  of  those  castles  look  the 
beautiful  women  whom  I  have  never  seen,  whose 
portraits  the  poets  have  painted.  They  wait  for 
me  there,  and  chiefly  the  fair-haired  child,  lost  to 
my  eyes  so  long  ago,  now  bloomed  into  an  im 
possible  beauty.  The  lights  that  never  shone, 
glance  at  evening  in  the  vaulted  halls,  upon  ban 
quets  that  were  never  spread.  The  bands  I  have 
never  collected,  play  all  night  long,  and  enchant 
the  brilliant  company,  that  was  never  assembled, 
into  silence. 

*****         -x-         * 

Wrhat  then  1  Shall  I  betray  a  secret  !  I  have 
already  entertained  this  party  in  my  humble  little 
parlor  at  home ;  and  Prue  presided  as  serem-ly  as 
Semiramis  over  her  court.  Have  I  not  said  that  I 
defy  time,  and  shall  space  hope  to  daunt  me!  I 
keep  books  by  day,  but  by  night  books  keep  me. 
They  leave  me  to  dreams  and  reveries.  Shall  I 
confess,  that  sometimes  when  I  have  been  sitting, 
reading  to  my  Prue,  Cymbeline,  perhaps,  or  a 
Canterbury  tale,  I  have  seemed  to  see  clearly  be 
fore  me  the  broad  highway  to  my  castles  in  Spain ; 
and  as  she  looked  up  from  her  work,  and  smiled 
in  sympathy,  I  have  even  fancied  that  I  was  already 
there. 


OUR    BEST    SOCIETY 

FROM  THE   POTIPHAR   PAPERS. 

YET,  after  all,  and  despite  the  youths  who  are 
led  out,  and  carried  home,  or  who  stumble  through 
the  "  German,"  this  is  a  sober  matter.  My  friend 
told  us  we  should  see  the  "  best  society."  But  he 
is  a  prodigious  wag.  Who  make  this  country  ! 
From  whom  is  its  character  of  unparalleled  enter 
prise,  heroism,  and  success  derived!  Who  have 
given  it  its  place  in  the  respect  and  the  fear  of  the 
world!  Who,  annually,  recruit  its  energies,  con 
firm  its  progress,  and  secure  its  triumph!  Who 
are  its  characteristic  children,  the  pith,  the  sinew, 
the  bone,  of  its  prosperity  !  Who  found,  and  direct, 
and  continue  its  manifold  institutions  of  mercy  and 
education!  Who  are,  essentially,  Americans! 
Indignant  friend,  these  classes,  whoever  they  may 
be,  are  the  "  best  society,''  because  they  alone  are 
the  representatives  of  its  character  and  cultivation. 
They  are  the  "  best  society"  of  New  York,  of 
Boston,  of  Baltimore,  of  St.  Louis,  of  New  Orleans, 
whether  they  live  upon  six  hundred  or  sixty  thou 
sand  dollars  a  year — whether  they  inhabit  princely 
houses  in  fashionable  streets  (which  they  often  do), 
or  not — whether  their  sons  have  graduated  at  Ce- 
larius's  and  the  Jurdin  Mabille,  or  have  never 
been  out  of  their  fathers'  shops — whether  they  have 
"air"  and  "style,"  and  are  "so  gentlemanly"  and 
"  so  aristocratic,"  or  not.  Your  shoemaker,  your 
lawyer,  your  butcher,  your  clergymen — if  they  are 
simple  and  steady,  and,  whether  rich  or  poor,  are 
unseduced  by  the  sirens  of  extravagance  and  ruin 
ous  display,  help  make  up  the  "  best  society." 
For  that  mystic  communion  is  not  composed  of 


684 


GEORGE    WILLIAM    CURTIS. 


the  rich,  but  of  the  worthy  ;  and  is  "  best "  by  its 
virtues,  and  not  by  its  vices.  When  Johnson, 
Burke,  Goldsmith,  Garrick,  Reynolds,  and  their 
friends,  met  at  supper  in  Goldsmith's  rooms,  where 
was  the  "  best  society"  in  England  1  When  George 
the  Fourth  outraged  humanity  and  decency  in  his 
treatment  of  Queen  Caroline,  who  was  the  first 
scoundrel  in  Europe  1 

Pause  yet  a  moment,  indignant  friend.  Whose 
habits  and  principles  would  ruin  this  country  as 
rapidly  as  it  has  been  made  ]  Who  are  enamored 
of  a  puerile  imitation  of  foreign  splendors  ]  Who 
strenuously  endeavor  to  graft  the  questionable 
points  of  Parisian  society  upon  our  own  1  Who 
pass  a  few  years  in  Europe  and  return  sceptical  of 
republicanism  and  human  improvement,  longing 
and  sighing  for  more  sharply  emphasized  social  dis 
tinctions  ]  Who  squander,  with  profuse  reckless 
ness,  the  hard-earned  fortunes  of  their  sires  1  Who 
diligently  devote  their  time  to  nothing,  foolishly  and 
wrongly  supposing  that  a  young  English  nobleman 
has  nothing  to  do  1  Who,  in  fine,  evince  by  their 
collective  conduct,  that  they  regard  their  American 
ism  as  a  misfortune,  and  are  so  the  most  deadly 
enemies  of  their  country?  None  but  what  our 
wag  facetiously  termed  "  the  best  society." 

If  the  reader  doubts,  let  him  consider  its  practi 
cal  results  in  any  great  emporiums  of  "  best  soci 
ety."  Marriage  is  there  regarded  as  a  luxury,  too 
expensive  for  any  but  the  sons  of  rich  men,  or  for 
tunate  young  men.  We  once  heard  an  eminent 
divine  assert,  and  only  half  in  sport,  that  the  rate 
of  living  was  advancing  so  incredibly,  that  wed 
dings  in  his  experience  were  perceptibly  diminish 
ing.  The  reasons  might  have  been  many  and 
various.  But  we  all  acknowledge  the  fact.  On 
the  other  hand,  and  about  the  same  time,  a  lovely 
damsel  (ah!  Clorinda !)  whose  father  was  not 
wealthy,  who  had  no  prospective  means  of  support, 
who  could  do  nothing  but  polka  to  perfection,  who 
literally  knew  almost  nothing,  and  who  constantly 
shocked  every  fairly  intelligent  person  by  the  glar 
ing  ignorance  betrayed  in  her  remarks,  informed  a 
friend  at  one  of  the  Saratoga  balls,  whither  he  had 
made  haste  to  meet  "  the  best  society,"  that  there 
were  "  not  more  than  three  good  matches  in  soci 
ety."  La  Dame  aux  Camillas,  Marie  Duplessis, 
was  to  our  fancy  a  much  more  feminine,  and  ad 
mirable,  and  moral,  and  human  person,  than  the 
adored  Clorinda.  And  yet  what  she  said  was 
the  legitimate  result  of  the  state  of  our  fashion 
able  society.  It  worships  wealth,  and  the  pomp 
which  wealth  can  purchase,  more  than  virtue, 
genius,  or  beauty.  We  may  be  told  that  it  has 
always  been  so  in  every  country,  and  that  the  fine 
society  of  all  lands  is  as  profuse  and  flashy  as  our 
own.  We  deny  it,  flatly.  Neither  English,  nor 
French,  nor  Italian,  nor  German  society,  is  so  un 
speakably  barren  as  that  which  is  technically  called 
"  society"  here.  In  London,  and  Paris,  and  Vi 
enna,  and  Rome,  all  the  really  eminent  men  and 
women  help  make  up  the  mass  of  society.  A  party 
is  not  a  mere  ball,  but  it  is  a  congress  of  the  wit, 
beauty,  and  fame  of  the  capital.  It  is  worth  while 
to  dress,  if  you  shall  meet  Macaulay,  or  Hallam,  or 


Guizot,   or  Thiers,  or  Landseer,  or  Delaroche 

Mrs.  Norton,  the  Misses  Berry,  Madame  Reca- 
mier,  and  all  the  brilliant  women  and  famous  for 
eigners.  But  why  should  we  desert  the  pleasant 
pages  of  those  men,  and  the  recorded  gossip  of 
those  women,  to  be  squeezed  flat  against  a  wall, 
while  young  Doughface  pours  oyster-gravy  down 
our  shirt-front,  and  Caroline  Pettitoes  wonders  at 
<•  Mr.  Dusseldorf  V  industry  1 

If  intelligent  people  decline  to  go,  you  justly  re 
mark,  it  is  their  own  fault.  Yes,  but  if  they  stay 
away,  it  is  very  certainly  their  great  gain.  The 
elderly  people  are  always  neglected  with  us,  and 
nothing  surprises  intelligent  strangers  more  than 
the  tyrannical  supremacy  of  Young  America. 
But  we  are  not  surprised  at  this  neglect.  How  can 


eyes  open 


When  Caro- 


we  be,  if  we  have  our 

line  Pettitoes  retreats  from  the  floor  to  the  sofa, 
and  instead  of  a  "  polker"  figures  at  parties  as  a 
matron,  do  you  suppose  that  « tough  old  Joes " 
like  ourselves  are  going  to  desert  the  young  Caro 
line  upon  the  floor,  for  Madame  Pettitoes  upon  the 
sofa  ]  If  the  pretty  young  Caroline,  with  youth, 
health,  freshness,  a  fine,  budding  form,  and 
wreathed  in  a  semi-transparent  haze  of  flounced 
and  flowered  gauze,  is  so  vapid  that  we  prefer  to 
accost  her  with  our  eyes  alone,  and  not  with  our 
tongues,  is  the  same  Caroline  married  into  a  Mad 
ame  Pettitoes,  and  fanning  herself  upon  a  sofa — 
no  longer  particularly  fresh,  nor  young,  nor  pretty, 
and  no  longer  budding,  but  very  fully  blown — 
likely  to  be  fascinating  in  conversation  1  We  can 
not  wonder  that  the  whole  connection  of  Pettitoes, 
when  advanced  to  the  matron  state,  is  entirely 
neglected.  Proper  homage  to  age  we  can  all  pay 
at  home,  to  our  parents  and  grandparents.  Proper 
respect  for  some  persons  is  best  preserved  by  avoid 
ing  their  neighborhood. 


ROMANCE  OF  THE  DESERT. 

FROM    HOWADJI   IN   SYRIA. 

THE  simple  landscape  of  the  desert  is  the  sym 
bol  of  the  Bedoueen's  character ;  and  he  has  little 
knowledge  of  more  than  his  eye  beholds.  In  some 
of  the  interior  provinces  of  China,  there  is  no  name 
for  the  ocean,  and  when,  in  the  time  of  shekh  Da- 
heir,  a  partv  of  Bedoueen  came  to  Acre  upon  the 
sea,  they  asked  what  was  that  desert  of  water. 

A  Bedoueen,  after  a  foray  upon  a  caravan,  dis 
covered  among  his  booty  several  bags  of  fine 
pearls.  He  thought  them  dourra,  a  kind  of  grain. 
But  as  they  did  not  soften  in  boiling,  he  was  about 
throwing  them  disdainfully  away,  when  a  Gaza 
trader  offered  him  a  red  Tarboosh  in  exchange, 
which  he  delightedly  accepted. 

Without  love  of  natural  scenery,  he  listens  for 
ever  to  the  fascinating  romances  of  the  poets ;  for 
beautiful  expressions  naturally  clothe  the  simple 
and  beautiful  images  he  everywhere  beholds.  The 
palms,  the  fountains,  the  gazelles,  the  stars,  and 
sun,  and  moon,  the  horse,  and  camel,  these  are  the 
large  illustration  and  suggestion  of  his  poetry. 


GEORGE    WILLIAM    CURTIS. 


685 


Sitting  around  the  evening  fire,  and  watching 
its  flickering  with  moveless  melancholy,  his  heart 
thrills  at  the  prowess  of  El-Gundubah,  although 
he  shall  never  be  a  hero,  and  he  rejoices  when 
Kattalet-esh-Shugan  says  to  Gundubah,  "  Come 
let  us  marry  forthwith,"  although  he  shall  never 
behold  her  beauty,  nor  tread  the  stately  palaces. 

He  loves  the  moon  which  shows  him  the  way 
over  the  desert  that  the  sun  would  not  let  him 
take  by  day,  and  the  moon  looking  into  his  eyes, 
sees  her  own  melancholy  there.  In  the  pauses  of 
the  story  by  the  fire,  while  the  sympathetic  spirits 
of  the  desert  sigh  in  the  rustling  wind,  he  says  to 
his  fellow, "Also  in  all  true  poems  there  should  be 
palrn-trees  and  running  water." 

For  him,  in  the  lonely  desert,  the  best  genius  of 
Arabia  has  carefully  recorded  upon  parchment  its 
romantic  visions ;  for  him  Haroun  El  Rashid  lived 
his  romantic  life  ;  for  him  the  angel  spoke  to  Mo 
hammed  in  the  cave,  and  God  received  the  Prophet 
into  the  seventh  heaven. 

Some  early  morning,  a  cry  rings  through  the 
group  of  black  square  tents.  He  springs  from  his 
dreams  of  green  gardens  and  flowing  waters,  and 
stands  sternly  against  the  hostile  tribe  which  has 
surprised  his  own.  The  remorseless  morning  se 
cretes  in  desert  silence  the  clash  of  swords,  the  ring 
of  musketry,  the  battle-cry.  At  sunset  the  black 
square  tents  are  gone,  the  desolation  of  silence  fills 
the  air  that  was  musical  with  the  recited  loves  of 
ZuI-Himmeh,  and  the  light  sand  drifts  in  the  even 
ing  wind  over  the. corpse  of  a  Bedoueen. 

— So  the  grim  genius  of  the  desert  touches 
every  spot  of  romance  and  of  life  in  you,  as  you 
traverse  his  realm  and  meditate  his  children.  Yet 
warm  and  fascinating  as  is  his  breath,  it  does  not 
warp  your  loyalty  to  your  native  West,  and  to 
the  time  in  which  you  were  born.  Springing 
from  your  bard  bed  upon  the  desert,  and  with 
wild  morning  enthusiasm,  pushing  aside  the  door 
of  your  tent,  arid  stepping  out  to  stand  among 
the  stars,  you  hail  the  desert  and  hate  the  city, 
and,  glancing  toward  the  tent  of  the  Armenian 
Khadra,  you  shout  aloud  to  astonish  Mac- 
Whirter, 

"  I  will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall  rear  my  dusky 
race." 

But  as  the  day  draws  forward,  and  you  see  the 
same  forms  and  the  same  life  that  Abraham  saw, 
and  know  that  Joseph  leading  Mary  into  Egypt 
might  pass  you  to-day,  nor  be  aware  of  more  than 
a  single  sunset  since  he  passed  before,  then  you 
feel  that  this  germ,  changeless  at  home,  is  only  de 
veloped  elsewhere,  that  the  boundless  desert  free 
dom  is  only  a  resultless  romance. 

The  sun  sets  and  the  camp  is  pitched.  The 
shadows  are  grateful  to  your  eye,  as  the  dry  air  to 
your  lungs. 

But  as  you  sit  quietly  in  the  tent-door,  watching 
the  Armenian  camp  and  the  camels,  your  cheek 
pales  suddenly  as  you  remember  Abraham,  and 
that "  he  sat  in  the  tent-door  in  the  heat  of  the  day." 
Saving  yourself,  what  of  the  scene  is  changed  since 
then  ]  _  The  desert,  the  camels,  the  tents,  the  tur- 


banned  Arabs,  they  were  what  Abraham  saw  when 
"  he  lifted  up  his  eyes,  and  looked,  and  lo  !  three 
men  stood  by  him." 

You  are  contemporary  with  the  eldest  history. 
Your  companions  are  the  dusky  figures  of  vaguest 
tradition.  The  "  long  result  of  time"  is  not  for 
you. 

In  that  moment  you  have  lost  your  birthright. 
You  are  Ishmael's  brother.  You  have  your  morn 
ing's  wish.  A  child  of  the  desert,  not  for  you  are 
art,  and  poetry,  and  science,  and  the  glowing  rol] 
of  history  shrivels  away. 

The  dream  passes  as  the  day  dies,  and  to  the 
same  stars  which  heard  your  morning  shout  of  de 
sert  praise,  you  whisper  as  you  close  the  tent-door 
at  evening, 

"Better  fifty  years  of  Europe,  than  a  cycle  of  Cathay." 


GONE  TO  PROTEST. 

FROM  TRUMPS. 

THERE  was  an  unnatural  silence  and  order  in 
the  store  of  Boniface  Newt,  Son,  &  Co.  The 
long  linen  covers  were  left  upon  the  goods.  The 
cases  were  closed.  The  boys  sat  listlessly  and 
wonderingly  about.  The  porter  lay  upon  a  bale 
reading  a  newspaper.  There  was  a  sombre  regu 
larity  and  repose,  like  that  of  a  house  in  which  a 
corpse  lies,  upon  the  morning  of  the  funeral. 

Boniface  Newt  sat  in  his  office  haggard  and 
gray.  His  face,  like  his  daughter  Fanny's,  had 
grown  sharp,  and  almost  fierce.  The  blinds  were 
closed,  and  the  room  was  darkened.  His  port-folio 
lay  before  him  upon  the  desk,  open.  The  paper 
was  smooth  and  white,  and  the  newly-mended 
pens  lay  carefully  by  the  inkstand.  But  the  mer 
chant  did  not  write.  He  had  not  written  that 
day.  His  white,  bony  hand  rested  upon  the  port 
folio,  and  the  long  fingers  drummed  upon  it  at  in 
tervals,  while  his  eyes  half-vacantly  wandered  out 
into  the  store  and  saw  the  long  shrouds  drawn 
over  the  goods.  Occasionally  a  slight  sigh  of 
weariness  escaped  him.  But  he  did  not  seem  to 
care  to  distract  his  mind  from  its  gloomy  intent- 
ness  ;  for  the  morning  paper  lay  beside-  him  un 
opened,  although  it  was  afternoon. 

In  the  outer  office  the  book-keeper  was  still  at 
work.  He  looked  from  book  to  book,  holding  the 
leaves  and  letting  them  fall  carefully — comparing, 
computing,  writing  in  the  huge  volumes,  and  filing 
various  papers  away.  Sometimes,  while  he  yet 
held  the  leaves  in  his  hands  and  the  pen  in  his 
mouth,  with  the  appearance  of  the  utmost  ab 
straction  in  his  task,  his  eyes  wandered  in  to  the 
inner  office,  and  dimly  saw  his  employer  sitting 
silent  and  listless  at  his  desk.  For  many  years  he 
had  been  Boniface  Newt's  clerk;  for  many  years 
he  had  been  a  still,  faithful,  hard-worked  servant. 
He  had  two  holidays,  besides  the  Sundays — New 
Year's  Day  and  the  Fourth  of  July.  The  rest  of 
the  year  he  was  in  the  office  by  nine  in  the  morn 
ing,  and  did  not  leave  before  six  at  night.  During 
the  time  he  had  been  quietly  writing  in  those  great 


686 


GEORGE     WILLIAM     CURTIS. 


red  books  he  had  married  a  wife  and  seen  the  roses 
fade  in  her  cheeks — he  had  had  children  grow  up 
around  him — fill  his  evening  home  and  his  Sun 
day  hours  with  light — marry,  one  after  another, 
until  his  home  had  become  as  it  was  before  a 
child  was  born  to  him,  and  then  gradually  grow 
bright  and  musical  again  with  the  eyes  and  voices 
of  another  generation.  Glad  to  earn  his  little  sal 
ary,  which  was  only  enough  for  decency  of  living, 
free  from  envy  and  ambition,  he  was  bound  by  a 
kind  of  feudal  tenure  to  his  employer. 

As  he  looked  at  the  merchant  and  observed  his 
hopeless  listlessness,  he  thought  of  his  age,  his 
family,  and  of  the  frightful  secrets  hidden  in  the 
huge  books  that  were  every  night  locked  carefully 
into  the  iron  safe,  as  if  they  were  written  all  over 
with  beautiful  romances  instead  of  terrible  truths — 
and  the  eyes  of  the  patient  plodder  were  so  blurred 
that  he  could  not  see,  and  turning  his  head  that 
no  one  might  observe  him,  he  winked  until  he 
could  see  again. 

A  young  man  entered  the  store  hastily.  The 
porter  dropped  the  paper  and  sprang  up ;  the  boys 
came  expectantly  forward.  Even  the  book-keeper 
stopped  to  watch  the  new-comer  as  he  came  rap 
idly  toward  the  office.  Only  the  head  of  the  house 
sat  unconcernedly  at  his  desk — his  long,  pale,  bony 
fingers  drumming  on  the  port-folio — his  hard  eyes 
looking  out  at  the  messenger. 

"  This  way,"  said  the  book-keeper,  suddenly, 
as  he  saw  that  he  was  going  toward  Mr.  Newt's 
room. 

"  I  want  Mr.  Newt." 

"Which  one  1" 

«  The  young  one,  Mr.  Abel  Newt." 

"  He  is  not  here." 

"Where  is  he!" 

"I  don't  know." 

Before  the  book-keeper  was  aware  the  young 
man  had  opened  the  door  that  communicated 
with  Mr.  Newt's  room.  The  haggard  face  under 
the  gray  hair  turned  slowly  toward  the  messenger. 
There  was  something  in  the  sitting  figure  that 
made  the  youth  lift  his  hand  and  remove  his  cap, 
and  say,  in  a  low,  respectful  voice, 

"  Can  you  tell  me,  Sir,  where  to  find  Mr.  Abel 
Newt!"  ' 

The  long,  pale,  bony  fingers  still  listlessly 
drummed.  The  hard  eyes  rested  upon  the  ques 
tioner  for  a  few  moments ;  then,  without  any  evi 
dence  of  interest,  the  old  man  answered  simply, 
"No,"  and  looked  away  as  if  he  had  forgotten  the 
stranger's  presence. 

"  Here's  a  note  for  him  from  General  Belch." 

The  gray  head  beckoned  machanically  toward 
the  other  room,  as  if  all  business  were  to  be  trans 
acted  there  ;  and  the  young  man  bowing  again, 
with  a  vague  sense  of  awe,  went  in  to  the  outer 
office  and  handed  the  note  to  the  book-keeper. 

SARATOGA. 

FROM    LOTUS-EATING. 

THE  romance  of  a  watering-place,  like  other  ro 
mance,  always  seems  past  when  you  ire  there. 


Here  at  Saratoga,  when  the  last  polka  is  polked, 
and  the  last  light  in  the  ball-room  is  extinguished, 
you  saunter  along  the  great  piazza,  with  the  «  good 
night  "of  Beauty  yet  trembling  upon  your  lips, 
and  meet  some  old  Habitue,  or  even  a  group  of 
them,  smoking  in  lonoly  arm-chairs,  and  medita 
ting  the  days  departed. 

The  great  court  is  dark  and  still.  The  waning 
moon  is  rising  beyond  the  trees,  but.  does  not  yet 
draw  their  shadows,  moonlight-mosaics,  upon  the 
lawn.  There  are  no  mysterious  couples  moving 
in  the  garden,  not  a  solitary  foot-fall  upon  the 
piazza.  A  few  lanterns  burn  dimly  about  the 
doors,  and  the  light  yet  lingering  in  a  lofty  cham 
ber  reminds  you  that  some  form,  whose  grace  this 
evening  has  made  memory  a  festival,  is  robing 
itself  for  dreams. 


And  while  the  moon  rides  higher,  and  pales 
from  the  yellow  of  her  rising  into  a  watery  lustre, 
you  hear  stories  of  blooming  belles,  who  are 
grandmothers  now,  and  of  brilliant  beaux,  bald 
now  and  gouty.  These  midnight  gossips  are 
very  mournful.  They  will  not  suffer  you  to  leave 
those,  whose  farewells  yet  thrill  your  heart,  in  the 
eternal  morning  of  youth,  but  compel  you  to  fore 
cast  their  doom,  to  draw  sad  and  strange  outlines 
upon  the  future — to  paint  pictures  of  age,  wrink 
les,  ochre-veined  hands  and  mobcaps —  until 
your  Saratoga  episode  of  pleasure  has  sombreed 
into  an  Egyptian  banquet*,  with  your  old,  silently- 
smoking,  and  meditative  Habitue  for  the  death's 
head. 

In  fact,  after  a  few  such  midnights,  even  the 
morning  sunshine  cannot  melt  away  this  Egyptian 
character  from  the  old  Habitues.  As  you  cross 
the  court,  after  breakfast,  to  the  bowling  alley, 
with  a  bevy  so  young  and  lovely,  Jhat  age  and 
mobcaps  seem  only  fantastic  visions  of  dyspepsia, 
and,  of  hearts  that  were  never  young,  you  will  see 
them  sitting,  a  solemn  reality  of  "black  manhood," 
along  the  western  piazza,  leaning  back  in  arm 
chairs,  smoking  perhaps,  chatting  of  stocks  pos 
sibly, — a  little  rounded  in  the  shoulders,  holding 
canes  which  are  no  longer  foppish  switches,  but 
substantial  and  serious  supports.  They  are  the 
sub-bass  in  the  various-voiced  song,  the  prosaic 
notes  to  the  pleasant  lyric  of  Saratoga  life. 

They  are  not  really  thinking  of  stocks,  nor  are 
they  very  conscious  of  the  flavor  of  their  cigars, 
but  they  watch  the  scene  as  they  would  dream  a 
dream.  As  the  sound  of  young  voices  pulses  to 
ward  them  on  the  morning  air,  as  they  watch  the 
flitting  forms,  the  cool  morning-dresses,  the  gush 
of  youth  overflowing  the  sunny  and  shady  paths 
of  the  garden,  they  are  old  Habitues  no  longer; 
they  are  those  gentlemen,  gallant  and  gay,  dancing 
in  the  warm  light  of  bright  eyes  toward  a  future 
gorgeous  as  a  sunset,  gossipping  humorously  or 
seriously,  according  as  the  light  of  eyes  is  sunshine 
or  moonlight,  and  it  is  themselves  as  they  were, 
with  their  own  parties,  their  own  loves,  jealousies 
and  scandals,  moving  briskly  across  the  garden  to 
the  bowling  alley. 


BAYARD    TAYLOR, 


[Born  1825.] 


BAYARD  TAYLOR,  the  eminent  traveller, 
novelist,  and  poet,  was  born  January  llth, 
1825,  in  the  village  of  Kennett  Square.  Chester 
County,  Penna.,  of  ancestors  who  formed  part 
of  the  original  emigration  with  Penn.  Edu 
cated  at  the  usual  country  schools,  he  be 
came,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  an  apprentice 
in  a  printing  office  at  the  county  borough  of 
West  Chester.  His  leisure  time  was  spent  in 
the  acquisition  of  Latin  and  French,  and 
writing  occasional  verses,  which  met  with  a 
favorable  reception,  as  published  in  the 
New  York  Mirror,  and  Graham's  Magazine, 
edited  the  one  by  Willis,  and  the  other  by 
Griswold.  His  success  led  him  to  collect  his 
effusions,  which  were  published  in  a  volume 
entitled,  Ximena  and  other  Poems,  in  1844. 
This  gave  him  reputation  sufficient  to  secure 
employment  as  a  contributor  to  several  lead 
ing  newspapers,  while  on  a  tour  of  Europe  he 
Ixvd  projected.  With  the  proceeds  of  his 
volume,  one  hundred  dollars  advanced  by 
Chandler,  of  the  U.  S.  Gazette,  and  Patterson, 
of  the  Saturday  Evening  Post,  and  forty  dol 
lars  for  some  additional  poems,  he  started  on 
his  first  tratels,  continued  at  intervals,  until 
he  has  visited  every  quarter  of  the  globe,  and 
become  the  greatest  traveller,  for  his  years, 
that  has  ever  lived. 

He  spent  two  years  in  visiting  England, 
Scotland,  Germany,  Switzerland,  Italy,  and 
France,  at  an  expense  of  only  five  hundred 
dollars,  travelling  with  a  relative,  and  mostly 
on  foot.  On  his  return,  in  1846,  he  reprinted 
his  letters  to  the  papers  in  "  Views-a-foot,  or 
Europe  seen  with  Knapsack  and  Staff."  The 
novelty  of  his  mode  of  travelling,  the  youth 
of  the  narrator,  and  the  unusual  vigor  and 
freshness  of  the  style,  with  the  quick  percep 
tions  of  an  intelligent  American  mind,  com 
bined  to  create  an  extraordinary  demand  for 
the  volume,  and  established  his  reputation  as 
a  writer  and  a  traveller. 

He  next  edited  a  paper  in  Phoenixville,  Pa., 
which  proving  unprofitable,  he  settled  in  New 
York  in  the  latter  part  of  184*7,  as  author,  and 
wrote  for  the  Literary  World.  In  February, 


1848,  he  became  a  permanent  contributor  to 
the  Tribune,  and  shortly  after  published  his 
Rhymes  of  Travel.  In  1849,  he  became  part 
proprietor,  and  one  of  the  editors  of  the  Tri 
bune,  and  has  been  ever  since  connected  with 
it.  The  same  year  he  visited  California,  and 
returned  by  way  of  Mexico,  reprinting  his 
letters  to  the  Tribune  in  Eldorado,  a  Path  in 
the  Track  of  Empire. 

In  the  summer  of  1851,  he  published  his 
fifth  volume,  and  third  of  poems,  Book  Ro 
mances,  Lyrics  and  Songs,  and  commenced  a 
protracted  Eastern  tour.  He  arrived  at  Cairo 
in  November  by  way  of  England,  the  Rhine, 
Vienna,  and  Trieste*  Thence  he  went  to  Cen 
tral  Africa,  passing  through  Egypt,  Nubia, 
Ethiopia,  and  Soud&n,  to  the  White  Nile,  a 
journey  of  4000  miles  in  the  interior  of 
Africa,  and  returned  to  Cairo  in  April,  1852. 
Thence  he  went  north  through  Palestine  and 
Asia  Minor  to  Constantinople,  where  he  arrived 
in  July.  After  a  month's  stay,  and  visiting 
Malta,  Sicily,  and  the  Isles  of  the  Mediterra 
nean,  he  returned  to  England  through  Italy, 
Tyrol,  and  Germany.  In  October,  1852,  he 
started  from  England,  by  the  overland  route, 
for  Bombay,  touching  at  Gibraltar,  and  spend 
ing  a  month  in  South  Spain.  He  set  out  from 
Bombay  January  4th,  1853,  for  a  tour  of  2200 
miles  in  the  interior  of  India,  arriving  at 
Calcutta  February  22d.  Thence  he  embarked 
for  Hong-Kong,  by  way  of  Penang  and  Singa 
pore,  and  arrived  in  China.  He  was  attached 
to  the  American  Legation  at  Shanghai  for 
two  months ;  upon  the  arrival  of  Com. 
Perry's  squadron,  he  entered  the  naval  ser 
vice,  to  accompany  it  to  the  Loo-Choo  Islands 
and  Japan,  which  he  explored ;  then  returned 
to  Canton,  and  thence  took  passage  for  New 
York,  arriving  December,  1853,  after  an  ab 
sence  of  two  years  and  four  months,  and 
50,000  miles  of  travel.  His  graphic  and  en 
tertaining  history  of  this  great  journey,  pub 
lished  in  letters  to  the  Tribune,  was  enlarged 
and  published  in  three  works  :  A  Journey  to 
Central  Africa ;  The  Lands  of  the  Saracen  ; 
and,  India,  China  and  Japan. 

687 


688 


BAYARD     TAYLOR. 


In  1854,  he  published  his  Poems  of  the 
Orient,  and  in  1855  his  Poems  of  Home  and 
Travel. 

In  July,  1856,  he  started  on  a  fourth  journey, 
during  which  he  visited  Sweden,  Lapland, 
Norway,  Dalmatia,  Greece,  Crete,  and  Russia. 
In  November,  1857,  he  published,  in  London 
and  New  York,  Northern  Travel,  the  journal 
of  the  above  trip,  and  returned  home  in  Octo 
ber,  1858.  He  next  published  Greece  and 
Russia,  in  1859,  and  in  the  same  year  a  vol 
ume  of  accumulated  material  and  sketches, 
entitled  Home  and  Abroad,  of  which  a  second 
series  was  issued  in  1862;  and  a  similar 
volume,  entitled  Byeways  of  Europe,  in  1868, 
which,  with  a  volume  of  sketches  of  travel  in 
the  Gold  Regions  west  of  the  Mississippi,  com 
pletes  his  record  of  travel.  His  earlier  vol 
umes  of  travel,  though  published  twenty-five 
years  ago,  are  still  called  for,  as  indispensables 
in  public  and  private  libraries.  Very  few 
books,  either  of  Travel  or  Fiction,  thus  retain 
their  place  so  long,  and  continue  in  active 
demand,  amidst  all  the  competition  of  modern 
book-making,  and  the  inference  is  not  unrea 
sonable  that  these  volumes  of  adventure,  in 
almost  every  corner  of  the  earth,  possess  some 
lasting  interest  and  vitality  which  makes 
them  worthy  of  a  permanent  place  in  our 
literature.  Two  defects  in  most  of  Mr.  Tay 
lor's  books  of  travel  are  :  want  of  sufficient 
dates,  that  we  may  know  when  he  was  at  the 
places  mentioned  ;  and  of  careful  topography, 
that  we  may  know  exactly  where  to  locate  him. 

In  1863,  Mr.  Taylor  commenced  a  new  vein, 
that  of  Fiction ;  his  Novels  were  welcomed 
even  more  largely  than  the  Travels.  The  first 
was  Hannah  Thurston,  and,  by  many,  thought 
to  be  his  best :  its  quiet,  but  truthful  pictures 
of  real  life  seemed  painted  from  the  life  with 
great  vigor  and  freshness.  This  was  followed, 
in  1865,  by  John  Godfrey's  Fortunes  ;  some 
of  the  scenes  of  which  were  supposed  to  have 
had  some  foundation  in  the  author's  early 
fortunes.  In  1866,  appeared  the  Story  of 
Kennett :  a  stirring  tale  of  the  early  settlement 
of  Chester  County  in  Pennsylvania.  Its  ex 


quisite  pictures  of  the  rural  landscape  from 
the  hand  of  an  observant  master,  the  stirring 
scenes  of  adventure  in  strong  contrast  with 
the  lovely  quiet  of  the  rural  life  of  the  inhabi 
tants  of  Kennett,  and  the  knowledge  of  human 
nature  displayed,  all  tend  to  stamp  this  novel 
one  of  rare  power  and  skill.  The  latest  of 
his  Works  of  Fiction  is  Joseph  and  his  Friend, 
published  in  November,  1870,  reprinted  from 
the  Atlantic  Monthly.  His  Tales  will  rank 
with  those  of  Hawthorne,  Longfellow,  and 
Mrs.  Stowe ;  they  are  delightful  and  refresh 
ing  reading,  crowded  with  life-like  characters, 
full  of  delicate  and  subtle  sympathies,  with 
ideas  the  most  opposite  to  his  own,  arid  lighted 
up  throughout  with  that  playful  humor  which 
suggests  always  wisdom  rather  than  mere 
fun;  they  are  a  great  rest  after  the  crowded 
artistic  effects  and  the  conventional  interests 
of  even  the  better  kinds  of  English  novels. 

He  has  also  published  the  Poet's  Journal, 
and  Picture  of  St.  John,  two  volumes  which 
met  with  a  fair  success.  His  poetical  works 
have  been  collected  in  one  volume,  32mo., 
and  16mo. 

Successful  as  a  traveller,  an  author,  a  poet 
and  novelist,  he  has  also  been  successful  as  a 
lecturer,  having  delivered  popular  lectures  in 
every  part  of  the  Union. 

The  characteristics  of  Mr.  Taylor's  writings 
are,  in  his  poems,  ease  of  expression,  with  a 
careful  selection  of  poetical  capabilities,  a  full, 
animated  style,  with  a  growing  attention  to 
art  and  condensation.  His  prose  is  equable 
and  clear,  in  the  flowing  style,  the  narrative 
of  a  genial,  healthy  observer  of  the  many  man 
ners  of  the  world  which  he  has  seen  in  the 
most  remarkable  portions  of  the  four  quarters. 

In  person  he  is  above  the  ordinary  height, 
manly  and  robust,  with  a  quick  resolute  way 
of  carrying  out  his  plans  of  courage  and  in 
dependence  ;  and  with  great  energy  and  per 
severance,  he  combines  a  happy  natural  tem 
perament  and  benevolence.  He  has  been 
twice  married,  the  second  time  in  Germany, 
and  resides  on  a  comfortable  estate  near 
Kennett,  in  Chester  County,  Pennsylvania 


BAYARD    TAYLOR. 


689 


CHRISTMAS  AND  NEW  YEAR  IN  GER 
MANY. 

FROM   VIEWS   A-FOOT. 

WE  have  lately  witnessed  the  most  beautiful 
and  interesting  of  all  German  festivals — Christmas. 
This  is  here  peculiarly  celebrated.  About  the 
commencement  of  December,  the  Christmarkt  or 
fair,  was  opened  in  the  Rcemerberg,  and  has  con 
tinued  to  the  present  time.  The  booths,  decorated 
with  green  boughs,  were  filled  with  toys  of  various 
kinds,  among  which  during  the  first  days  the  fig 
ure  of  St.  Nicholas  was  conspicuous.  There  were 
bunches  of  wax  candles  to  illuminate  the  Christ 
mas  tree,  gingerbread  with  printed  mottos  in  poetry, 
beautiful  little  earthenware,  basket-work,  and  a 
wilderness  of  playthings.  The  5th  of  December, 
being  Nicholas  evening,  the  booths  were  lighted 
up,  and  the  square  was  filled  with  boys,  running 
from  one  stand  to  another,  all  shouting  and 
talking  together  in  the  most  joyous  confusion. 
Nurses  were  going  around,  carrying  the  smaller 
children  in  their  arms,  and  parents  bought  presents 
decorated  with  sprigs  of  pine  and  carried  them 
away.  Some  of  the  shops  had  beautiful  toys,  as 
for  instance,  a  whole  grocery  store  in  miniature, 
with  barrels,  boxes  and  drawers,  all  filled  with 
sweetmeats,  a  kitchen  with  a  stove  and  all  suitable 
utensils,  which  could  really  be  used,  and  sets  of 
dishes  of  the  most  diminutive  patterns.  All  was  a 
scene  of  activity  and  joyous  feeling. 

Many  of  the  tables  had  bundles  of  rods  with 
gilded  bands,  which  were  to  be  used  that  evening 
by  the  persons  who  represented  St.  Nicholas.  In 
the  family  with  whom  we  reside,  one  of  our  Ger 
man  friends  dressed  himself  very  comically,  with  a 
mask,  fur  robe  and  long  tapering  cap.  He  came 
in  with  a  bunch  of  rods  and  a  sack,  and  a  broom 
for  a  sceptre.  After  we  all  had  received  our  share 
of  the  beating,  he  threw  the  contents  of  his  bag  on 
the  table,  and  while  we  were  scrambling  for  the 
nuts  and  apples,  gave  us  many  smart  raps  over 
the  finger.  In  many  families  the  children  are 
made  to  say,  "  I  thank  you,  Herr  Nicolaus,"  and 
the  rods  are  hung  up  in  the  room  till  Christmas  to 
keep  them  in  good  behaviour.  This  was  only  a 
forerunner  of  the  Christ-kindchen's  coming.  The 
Nicolaus  is  the  punishing  spirit,  the  Christ-kind- 
chen  the  rewarding  one. 

When  this  time  was  over,  we  all  began  prepar 
ing  secretly  our  presents  for  Christmas.  Every 
day  there  were  consultations  about  the  things 
which  should  be  obtained.  It  was  so  arranged 
that  all  shouU  interchange  presents,  but  nobody 
must  know  beforehand  what  he  would  receive. 
What  pleasure  there  was  in  all  these  secret  pur 
chases  and  preparations  !  Scarcely  anything  was 
thought  or  spoken  of  but  Christmas,  and  every 
day  the  consultations  became  more  numerous  and 
secret.  The  trees  were  bought  some  time  before 
hand,  but  as  we  were  to  witness  the  festival  for  the 
first  time,  we  were  not  allowed  to  see  them  prepared, 
in  order  that  the  effect  might  be  as  great  as  pos- 
•ible.  The  market  in  the  Rcemerberg  Square  grew 
constantly  larger  and  more  brilliant.  Every  night 

87 


it  was  lit  up  with  lamps  and  thronged  with  people. 
Quite  a  forest  sprang  up  in  the  street  before  our 
door.  The  old  stone  house  opposite,  with  the 
traces  of  so  many  centuries  on  its  dark  face,  seemed 
to  stand  in  the  midst  of  a  garden.  It  was  a  plea 
sure  to  go  out  every  evening  and  see  the  children 
rushing  to  and  fro,  shouting  and  seeking  out  toys 
from  the  booths,  and  talking  all  the  time  of  the 
Christmas  that  was  so  near.  The  poor  people 
went  by  with  their  little  presents  hid  under  their 
cloaks,  lest  their  children  might  see  them  ;  every 
heart  was  glad  and  every  countenance  wore  a 
smile  of  secret  pleasure. 

Finally  the  day  before  Christmas  arrived.  The 
streets  were  so  full  I  could  scarce  make  my  way 
through,  and  the  sale  of  trees  wen  ton  more  rapidly 
than  ever.  These  were  commonly  branches  of  pine 
or  fir,  set  upright  in  a  little  miniature  garden  of  moss. 
When  the  lamps  were  lighted  at  night,  our  street 
had  the  appearance  of  an  illuminated  garden. 
We  were  prohibited  from  entering  the  rooms  up 
stairs  in  which  the  grand  ceremony  was  to  take 
place,  being  obliged  to  take  our  seats  in  those  ar 
ranged  for  the  guests,  and  wait  with  impatience 
the  hour  when  Christ-kindchen  should  call. 
Several  relations  of  the  family  came,  and  what 
was  more  agreeable,  they  brought  with  them  five  or 
six  children.  I  was  anxious  to  see  how  they  would 
view  the  ceremony.  Finally,  in  the  middle  of  an 
interesting  conversation,  we  heard  the  bell  ringing 
up  stairs.  We  all  started  up,  and  made  for  the 
door.  I  ran  up  the  steps  with  the  children  at  my 
heels,  and  at  tire  top  met  a  blaze  of  light  coming 
from  the  open  door,  that  dazzled  me.  In  each 
room  stood  a  great  table,  on  which  the  presents 
were  arranged,  amid  flowers  and  wreaths.  From 
the  centre,  rose  the  beautiful  Christmas  tree  cov 
ered  with  wax  tapers  to  the  very  top,  which  made 
it  nearly  as  light  as  day,  while  every  bough  was 
hung  with  sweetmeats  and  gilded  nuts.  The  chil 
dren  ran  shouting  around  the  table,  hunting  their 
presents,  while  the  older  persons  had  theirs  pointed 
out  to  them.  I  had  quite  a  little  library  of  German 
authors  as  my  share  ;  and  many  of  the  others  re 
ceived  quite  valuable  gifts. 

But  how  beautiful  was  the  heart-felt  joy  that 
shone  on  every  countenance !  As  each  one  dis 
covered  he  embraced  the  givers,  and  all  was  a 
scene  of  the  purest  feelings.  It  is  a  glorious  feast, 
this  Christmas  time !  WThat  a  chorus  from  happy 
hearts  went  up  on  that  evening  to  Heaven  !  Full 
of  poetry  and  feeling  and  glad  associations,  it  is 
here  anticipated  with  joy,  and  leaves  a  pleasant 
memory  behind  it.  We  may  laugh  at  such  sim 
ple  festivals  at  home,  and  prefer  to  shake  ourselves 
loose  from  every  shackle  that  bears  the  rust  of  the 
Past,  but  we  would  certainly  be  happier  if  some 
of  these  beautiful  old  customs  were  better  hon 
ored.  They  renew  the  bond  of  feeling  between 
families  and  friends,  and  strengthen  their  kindly 
sympathy  ;  even  life-long  friends  require  occasions 
of  this  kind  to  freshen  the  wreath  that  binds  them 
together. 

New  Year's  Eve  is  also  favored  with  a  peculiar 
celebration  in  Germany.  Every  body  remains  up 


690 


BAYARD     TAYLOR. 


and  makes  himself  merry  till  midnight.  The 
Christinas  trees  are  again  lighted,  and  while  the 
tapers  are  burning  down, the  family  play  for  articles 
which  they  have  purchased  and  hung  on  the 
boughs.  It  is  so  arranged  that  each  one  shall 
win  as  much  as  he  gives,  which  change  of  articles 
in  ikes  much  amusement.  One  of  the  ladies  re 
joiced  in  the  possession  of  a  red  silk  handkerchief 
and  a  cako  of  soap,  while  a  cup  and  saucer  and  a 
pair  of  scissors  fell  to  my  lot !  As  midnight  drew 
near,  it  was  louder  in  the  streets,  and  companies 
of  people,  some  of  them  singing  in  chorus,  passed 
by  on  their  way  to  the  Zeil.  Finally  three-quarters 
struck,  the  windows  were  opened  and  every  one 
waited  anxiously  for  the  clock  to  strike.  At  the 
first  sound,  such  a  cry  arose  as  one  may  imagine, 
when  thirty  or  forty  thousand  persons  all  set  their 
lungs  going  at  once.  Every  body  in  the  house, 
in  the  street,  over  the  whole  city,  shouted,  "Prossl 
Neu  Jahr  1  "  In  families,  all  the  members  em 
brace  enHi  other,  with  wishes  of  happiness  for  the 
new  year.  Then  the  windows  are  thrown  open, 
and  they  cry  to  their  neighbors  or  those  passing 
by. 

After  we  had  exchanged  congratulations,  Den- 
net,  B and    I  set  out  for  the  Zeil.     The 

street-:  were  full  of  people,  shouting  to  one  another 
and  to  those  standing  at  the  open  windows.  We 
failed  not  to  cry,  " Prosst  Neu  Jahr!"  wherever 
we  saw  a  damsel  at  the  window,  and  the  words 
came  back  to  us  more  musically  than  we  sent 
them.  Along  the  Zeil  the  spectacle  was  most  sin 
gular.  The  great  wide  street  was  filled  with  com 
panies  of  men,  inarching  up  and  down,  while 
from  the  mass  rang  up  one  deafening,  unending 
shout,  that  seemed  to  pierce  the  black  sky  above. 
The  whole  scene  looked  stranger  and  wilder  from 
the  flickering  light  of  the  swinging  I.-imps,  and  I 
could  not  help  thinking  it  must  resemble  a  night 
in  Paris  during  the  French  Revolution.  We  joined 
the  crowd  and  used  our  lungs  as  well  as  any  of 
them.  For  some  time  after  we  returned  home, 
companies  passed  by,  singing  "  with  us  'tis  ever 
so  !"  but  at  three  o'clock  all  was  again  silent. 


SAVED  BY  ROGER. 

FROM    THE    STORY   OF   KENNETT. 

THE  black,  dreary  night  seemed  interminable. 
Gilbert  could  only  guess,  here  and  there,  at  a  land 
mark,  and  was  forced  to  rely  more  upon  Roger's 
instinct  of  the  road  than  upon  the  guidance  of  his 
senses.  Towards  midnight,  as  he  judged,  by  the 
solitary  crow  of  a  cock,  the  rain  almost  entirely 
ceased.  The  wind  began  to  blow,  sharp  and  keen, 
and  the  hard  vault  of  the  sky  to  lift  a  little.  He 
fancied  that  the  hills  on  his  right  had  fallen  away, 
and  that  the  horizon  was  suddenly  depressed 
towards  the  north.  Roger's  feet  began  to  splash 
in  constantly  deepening  water,  and  presently  a 
roar,  distinct  from  that  of  the  wind,  filled  the  air. 

It  was  the  Brandywine.  The  stream  had  over 
flowed  its  broad  meadow-bottoms,  and  was  running 


high  and  fierce  beyond  its  main  channel.  The 
turbid  waters  made  a  dim,  dusky  gleam  around 
him  ;  soon  the  fences  disappeared,  and  the  flood 
reached  to  his  horse's  belly.  But  he  knew  that 
the  ford  could  be  distinguished  by  the  break  in  the 
fringe  of  timber ;  moreover,  that  the  creek-bank 
was  a  little  higher  than  the  meadows  behind  it, 
and  so  far,  at  least,  he  might  venture.  The  ford 
was  not  more  than  twenty  yards  across,  and  he 
could  trust  Roger  to  swim  that  distance. 

The  faithful  animal  pressed  bravely  on,  but 
Gilbert  soon  noticed  that  he  seemed  at  fault.  The 
swift  water  had  forced  him  out  of  the  road,  and  he 
stopped,  from  time  to  time,  as  if  anxious  and  un 
easy.  The  timber  could  now  be  discerned,  only  a 
short  distance  in  advance,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
they  would  gain  the  bank. 

What  was  that  ]  A  strange  rustling,  hissing 
sound,  as  of  cattle  trampling  through  dry  reeds, — 
a  sound  which  quivered  and  shook,  even  in  the 
breath  of  the  hurrying  wind  !  Roger  snorted, 
stood  still,  and  trembled  in  every  limb ;  and  a  sen 
sation  of  awe  and  terror  struck  a  chill  through 
Gilbert's  heart.  The  sound  drew  swiftly  nearer, 
and  became  a  wild,  seething  roar,  filling  the  whole 
breadth  of  the  valley. 

"  Great  God  !"  cried  Gilbert,  "  the  dam  ! — the 
dam  has  given  way  !"  Ke  turned  Roger's  head, 
gave  him  the  rein,  struck,  spurred,  cheered,  and 
shouted.  The  brave  beast  struggled  through  the 
impending  flood,  but  the  advance  wave  of  the 
coming  inundation  already  touched  his  side. 
He  staggered ;  a  line  of  churning  foam  bore 
down  upon  them,  the  terrible  roar  was  all  around 
and  over  them,  and  horse  and  rider  were  whirled 
away. 

What  happened  during  the  first  few  seconds, 
Gilbert  could  never  distinctly  recall.  Now  they 
were  whelmed  in  the  water,  now  riding  its  career 
ing  tide,  torn  through  the  tops  of  brushwood, 
jostled  by  floating  logs  and  timbers  of  the  dam- 
breast,  but  always,  as  it  seemed,  remorselessly 
held  in  the  heart  of  the  tumult  and  the  ruin. 

He  saw,  at  last,  that  they  had  fallen  behind  the 
furious  onset  of  the  flood,  but  Roger  was  still 
swimming  with  it,  desperately  throwing  up  his 
head  from  time  to  time,  and  snorting  the  water 
from  his  nostrils.  All  his  efforts  to  gain  a  foothold 
failed  ;  his  strength  was  nearly  spent,  and  unless 
some  help  should  come  in  a  few  minutes,  it  would 
come  in  vain.  And  in  the  darkness,  and  the  ra 
pidity  with  which  they  were  borne  along,  how 
should  help  come  1 

All  at  once,  Roger's  course  stopped.  He  be 
came  an  obstacle  to  the  flood,  which  pressed  him 
against  some  other  obstacle  below,  and  rushed  over 
horse  and  rider.  Thrusting  out  his  hand,  Gilbert 
felt  the  rough  bark  of  a  tree.  Leaning  towards  it 
and  clasping  the  log  in  his  arms,  he  drew  himself 
from  the  saddle,  while  Roger,  freed  from  his  bur 
den,  struggled  into  the  current  and  instantly  dis 
appeared. 

As  nearly  as  Gilbert  could  ascertain,  several 
timbers,  thrown  over  each  other,  had  lodged,  prob 
ably  upon  a  rocky  islet  in  the  stream,  the  upper 


BAYARD     TAYLOR. 


691 


most  one  projecting  slantingly  out  of  the  flood.  It 
required  all  his  strength  to  resist  the  current  which 
sucked,  and  whirleJ,  arid  lugged  at  his  body,  and 
to  climb  high  enough  to  escape  its  force,  without 
over-balancing  his  support.  At  last,  though  still 
half  immerged,  he  found  himself  comparatively 
safe  for  a  time,  yet  as  far  as  ever  from  a  final 
rescue. 

He  must  await  the  dawn,  and  an  eternity  of 
endurance  lay  in  those  few  hours.  Meantime, 
perhaps,  the  creek  would  fall,  for  the  rain  had 
ceased,  and  there  were  outlines  of  moving  cloud 
in  the  sky.  It  was  the  night  which  made  his  sit 
uation  so  terrible,  by  concealing  the  chances  of 
escape.  At  first,  he  thought  most  of  Roger.  Was 
his  brave  horse  drowned,  or  had  he  safely  gained 
the  bank  below  1  Then,  as  the  desperate  moments 
went  by,  and  the  chill  of  exposure  and  the  fatigue 
of  exertion  began  to  creep  over  him,  his  mind  re 
verted,  with  a  bitter  sweetness,  a  mixture  of  bliss 
and  agonv,  to  the  two  beloved  women  to  whom  his 
life  belonged, — the  life  which,  alas !  he  could  not 
now  call  his  own,  to  give. 

He  tried  to  fix  his  thoughts  on  Death,  to  com 
mend  his  soul  to  Divine  Mercy  ;  but  every  prayer 
shaped  itself  into  an  appeal  that  he  might  once 
more  see  the  dear  faces  and  hear  the  dear  voices. 
In  the  great  shadow  of  the  fate  which  hung  over 
him,  the  loss  of  his  property  became  as  dust  in  the 
balance,  and  his  recent  despair  smote  him  with 
shame.  He  no  longer  fiercely  protested  against  the 
injuries  of  fortune,  but  entreated  pardon  and  pity 
for  the  sake  of  his  love. 

The  clouds  rolled  into  distincter  masses,  and  the 
north-west  wind  still  hunted  them  across  the  sky, 
until  there  came,  first  a  tiny  rift  for  a  star,  then  a 
gap  for  a  whole  constellation,  and  finally  a  broad 
burst  of  moonlight.  Gilbert  now  saw  that  the 
timber  to  which  he  clung  was  lodged  nearly  in  the 
centre  of  the  channel,  as  the  water  swept  with 
equal  force  on  either  side  of  him.  Beyond  the 
banks  there  was  a  wooded  hill  on  the  left ;  on  the 
right  an  overflowed  meadow.  He  was  too  weak 
and  benumbed  to  trust  himself  to  the  flood,  but  he 
imagined  that  it  was  beginning  to  subside,  and 
therein  lay  his  only  hope. 

Yet  a  new  danger  now  assailed  him,  from  the 
increasing  cold.  There  was  already  a  sting  of 
frost,  a  breath  of  ice,  in  the  wind.  In  another 
hour  the  sky  was  nearly  swept  bare  of  clouds,  and 
he  could  note  the  lapse  of  the  night  by  the  sinking 
of  the  moon.  But  he  was  by  this  time  hardly  in 
a  condition  to  note  anything  more.  He  had 
thrown  himself,  face  downwards,  on  the  top  of  the 
log,  his  arms  mechanically  clasping  it,  while  his 
mind  sank  into  a  slate  of  torpid,  passive  suffering, 
growing  nearer  to  the  dreamy  indifference  which 
precedes  death.  His  cloak  had  been  torn  away  in 
the  first  rush  of  the  inundation,  and  the  wet  coat 
began  to  stiffen  in  the  wind,  from  the  ice  gathering 
over  it. 

The  moon  was  low  in  the  west,  and  there  was 
a  pale  glimmer  of  the  coming  dawn  in  the  sky, 
when  Gilbert  Potter  suddenly  raised  his  head. 
Above  the  noise  of  the  water  and  the  whistle  of 


the  wind,  he  heard  a  familiar  sound, — the  shrill, 
sharp  neigh  of  a  horse.  Lifting  himself,  with 
great  exertion,  to  a  sitting  posture,  he  saw  two 
men,  on  horseback,  in  the  flooded  meadow,  a  little 
below  him.  They  stopped,  seemed  to  consult,  and 
presently  drew  nearer. 

Gilbert  tried  to  shout,  but  the  muscles  of  his 
throat  were  stiff,  and  his  lungs  refused  to  act. 
The  horse  neighed  again.  This  time  there  was 
no  mistake ;  it  was  Roger  that  he  heard  !  Voice 
came  to  him,  and  he  cried  aloud, — a  hoarse,  strange, 
unnatural  cry. 

I  The  horsemen  heard  it,  and  rapidly  pushed  up 
the  bank,  until  they  reached  a  point  directly  oppo 
site  to  him.  The  prospect  of  escape  brought  a 
thrill  of  life  to  his  frame ;  he  looked  around  and 
saw  that  the  flood  had  indeed  fallen. 

"  We  have  no  rope,"  he  heard  one  of  the  men 
say.  "  How  shall  we  reach  him  ?" 

"  There  is  no  time  to  get  one,  now,"  the  other 
answered.  "  My  horse  is  stronger  than  yours. 
I'll  go  into  the  creek  just  below,  where  it's  broader 
and  not  so  deep,  and  work  my  way  up  to  him." 

"  But  one  horse  can't  carry  both." 

«  His  will  follow,  be  sure,  when  it  sees  me." 

As  the  last  speaker  moved  away,  Gilbert  saw  a 
led  horse  plunging  through  the  water,  beside  the 
other.  It  was  a  difficult  and  dangerous  under 
taking.  The  horseman  and  the  loose  horse  en 
tered  the  main  stream  below,  where  its  divided 
channel  met  and  broadened,  but  it  was  still  above 
the  saddle-girths,  ami  very  swift.  Sometimes  the 
animals  plunged,  losing  their  foothold  ;  neverthe 
less,  they  gallantly  breasted  the  current,  and  inch 
by  inch  worked  their  way  to  a  point  about  six  feet 
below  Gilbert.  It  seemed  impossible  to  approach 
nearer. 

"  Can  you  swim1?"  asked  the  man. 

Gilbert  shook  his  head.  «  Throw  me  the  end 
of  Roger's  bridle  !"  he  then  cried. 

The  man  unbuckled  the  bridle  and  threw  it, 
keeping  the  end  of  the  rein  in  his  hand.  Gilbert 
tried  to  grasp  it,  but  his  hands  were  too  numb. 
He  managed,  however,  to  get  one  arm  and  his  head 
through  the  opening,  and  relaxed  his  hold  on  the 
log. 

A  plunge,  and  the  man  had  him  by  the  collar. 
He  felt  himself  lifted  by  a  strong  arm  and  laid 
across  Roger's  saddle.  With  his  failing  strength 
and  stiff  limbs,  it  was  no  slight  task  to  get  into 
place,  and  the  return,  though  less  laborious  to  the 
horses,  was  equally  dangerous,  because  Gilbert 
was  scarcely  able  to  support  himself  without  help. 

"  You're  safe  now,"  said  the  man,  when  they 
reached  the  bank,  "but  it's  a  downright  mercy  of 
God  that  you're  alive  !" 

The  other  horseman  joined  them,  and  they 
rode  slowly  across  the  flooded  meadow.  They 
had  both  thrown  their  cloaks  around  Gilbert,  and 
carefully  steadied  him  in  the  saddle,  one  on  each 
side.  He  was  too  much  exhausted  to  ask  how 
they  had  found  him,  or  whither  they  were  taking 
him, — too  numb  for  curiosity,  almost  for  gratitude. 

"  Here's  your  saviour !"  said  one  of  the  men, 
patting  Roger's  shoulder. 


THEODORE    WINTHROR 


[Born  1828.    Died  1861.] 


THEODORE  WINTHROP  was  descended  on  both 
sides  from  the  most  distinguished  New  Eng- 
iand  families  ;  by  his  father  a  direct  descendant 
of  John  Winthrop,  the  first  Governor  of  Con 
necticut,  and  by  his  mother,  a  descendant  of 
Jonathan  Edwards.  He  was  born  in  New 
Haven,  Sept.  22d,  1828.  He  entered  Yale  Col 
lege,  in  his  sixteenth  year,  and  was  a  thorough 
student,  carrying  off  the  highest  honors. 

He  went  abroad  for  his  health,  storing  his 
mind  with  the  rich  treasures  of  art  and  nature 
he  saw.  At  Rome,  he  met  Mr.  W.  H.  Aspin- 
wall,  the  founder  of  the  Panama  Railroad, 
became  tutor  to  his  children,  and  on  the 
return  of  the  party,  accepted  a  desk  in  his 
office,  which  before  long,  he  left  for  duties  at 
Panama,  thus  becoming  familiar  with  the 
Pacific  coast  in  the  early  days  of  its  settlement. 
Here  he  was  prostrated  by  local  fevers  and  the 
small-pox.  As  soon  as  able  to  leave  for  home, 
he  was  in  the  saddle  for  the  long  overland 
journey. 

He  returned  to  New  York,  was  admitted  to 
the  bar,  but  his  roving  spirit  induced  him  to 
join  Lieut.  Strain's  famous  expedition  to  the 
tropics.  On  his  return,  he  settled  on  Staten 
Island,  near  his  friend  Geo.  W.  Curtis.  In 
1856,  he  made  a  vigorous  electioneering  tour 
in  Pennsylvania,  in  the  interest  of  the  Fremont 
cause  ;  but  ill  health  prevented  him  from  the 
like  exertion  in  the  campaign  of  1860.  Spend 
ing  the  life  of  a  dilettante  his  ardent  spirit 
chafed  under  inaction.  His  time  was  mostly 
spent  in  visiting  studios,  studying  law,  taking 
country  rambles,  riding  fiery  steeds,  and  such 
manly  sports  as  his  health  would  allow.  His 
pen,  however,  was  constantly  busy  writing 
sketches  or  novels. 

His  first  published  article  was  a  sketch  of 
Church's  painting  of  "  The  Heart  of  the  Andes," 
the  progress  of  which  he  had  watched  to  its 
completion.  It  was  as  brilliant  and  powerful  as 
the  painting  it  described.  In  1 860,  he  offered  two 
of  his  novels  for  publication.  They  were  ac 
cepted,  with  the  warmest  appreciation  of  their 
merits;  but  were  laid  aside  for  issue  until  after 
the  election  which  was  absorbing  public  atten 


tion.  His  next  sketch,  Love  and  Skates,  was  sent 
to  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  and,  though  accepted, 
was  laid  aside  for  the  same  reason ;  it  had, 
however,  created  so  favorable  an  impression 
upon  the  editor,  that  he  was  engaged,  on  his 
departure  for  the  seat  of  war,  to  write  a  series 
of  sketches ;  the  first  of  these,  The  March  of  the 
Seventh,  one  of  the  most  stirring  magazine 
articles  ever  written,  was  no  sooner  in  print 
than  the  author's  reputation  was  made. 

Mr.  Curtis  has  furnished  an  interesting 
record  how  the  news  of  the  fall  of  Sumter  was 
received  and  talked  over  in  bis  study.  At  the 
call  of  the  proclamation,  on  the  morrow,  Win 
throp  obeyed  the  summons  at  once.  His  subse 
quent  career  is  vividly  before  us  in  his  sketches, 
animated  as  the  music  to  which  he  marched, 
and  a  few  fragments  of  private  letters  published 
by  Mr.  Curtis.  He  left  the  Seventh  at  Wash 
ington,  to  accompany  Gen.  Butler  to  Fortress 
Monroe  as  Secretary,  with  the  rank  of  Major. 
He  planned  with  his  commanding  officer,  the 
attack  on  Bethel,  and  took  part  in  the  action. 
At  a  critical  time  on  that  disastrous  morning 
of  the  10th  of  June,  1861,  he  sprang  upon  a 
log  to  rally  his  men,  in  full  sight  of  the  enemy. 
A  rebel  shot  pierced  his  heart,  and  he  fell  dead 
on  his  face.  His  remains  were  brought  to 
New  York,  and  the  funeral  service  was  read  at 
the  armory  of  the  Seventh.  The  body  was 
carried  in  funeral  procession  on  the  howitzer 
which  he  had  helped  to  drag,  only  two  months 
before,  through  the  same  Broadway.  One  of 
the  earliest  and  most  talented  of  those  who 
fell  in  the  war,  his  books  excited  immediate 
attention  on  their  publication. 

Cecil  Dreerne  was  published  soon  after  his 
death.  It  is  a  romance  of  life  in  the  studios 
of  the  New  York  University,  and  a  novel  of 
its  best  society.  Cecil  is  a  woman  disguised 
as  a  man,  but  perfectly  pure,  modest,  and 
spirited.  There  is  a  shade  of  gravity,  almost 
of  sadness,  a  warning  of  impending  evil,  a 
submission  of  fate,  which,  in  its  subtle  influence 
reminds  us  of  Chas.  Brockden  Brown  and  of 
Hawthorne.  The  satirical  points,  though  keen, 
are  a  little  exaggerated. 


THEODORE  WINTHROP. 


693 


John  Brent  soon  followed;  it  is  a  narrative 
founded  upon  his  saddle"  journey  across  the 
plains  from  California.  The  descriptions  of 
prairie-life,  of  the  mountain-passes,  the  wavy 
landscape,  and  of  his  matchless  steed,  are  in 
imitable. 

His  other  writings  followed  in  rapid  suc 
cession  ;  Edwin  Brothertoft,  a  novel ;  The 
Canoe  and  the  Saddle,  Adventures  among  the 


Northwestern  Rivers  and  Forests,  and  the 
Isthmus  of  Panama;  and  Life  in  the  Open  Air, 
and  other  papers,  including  his  sketch  of  the 
Heart  of  the  Andes.  These  were  all  published 
without  that  revision,  which,  if  the  author  had 
lived,  he  would  have  given.  His  writings 
have  a  charming  freshness  and  vigor,  with  a 
background  of  dreamy  sadness  which  is  very 
attractive. 


TO  SAVE  AND  TO  SLAY. 

FROM  JOHN   BRENT, 


fllCGH  CUTHEROE,  who  has  joined  the  Mormons,  and  his 
daughter  Ellen,  are  journeying  towards  Salt  Lake  City. 
During  the  night  their  tent  was  entered  by  Murker  and 
Larrap,  two  villians,  the  father  gagged,  and  the  daughter 
forcibly  carried  off.  The  Mormon  elder,  having  tried  in 
vain  to  gain  the  love  of  Ellen,  who  hates  Mormonism  for 
the  baneful  influence  it  has  exerted  over  her  poor,  weak 
old  father,  refuses  to  assist  in  her  rescue.  John  Brent,  a 
lover  of  Ellen,  with  his  friend  Richard  Wade,  followed  the 
caravan,  trusting  to  dispel  the  illusion.  The  former,  unable 
to  give  up  all  hopes  of  Ellen,  hearing  of  the  occurrence, 
immediately  started  with  Wade,  in  pursuit.  Just  at  that 
moment  Armstrong,  whose  mother  was  murdered  by  Mur 
ker  and  Larrap,  and  who  has  followed  them  all  th*  way 
from  Bear  River  Crossing,  rides  up,  and  the  three  ride  off 
"  to  save  and  to  slay."] 

WE  galloped  abreast, — Armstrong  at  the  right. 
His  weird,  gaunt  white  held  his  own  with  the 
best  of  us.  No  whip,  no  spur,  for  that  deathly 
creature.  He  went  as  if  his  master's  purpose  were 
stirring  him  through  and  through.  That  stern  in 
tent  made  his  sinews  steel,  and  put  an  agony  of 
power  into  every  stride.  The  man  never  stirred, 
save  sometimes  to  put  a  hand  to  that  bloody  blanket 
bandage  across  his  head  and  temple.  He  had  told 
his  story,  he  had  spoken  his  errand,  he  breathed 
not  a  word ;  but  with  his  lean,  pallid  face  set 
hard,  his  gentle  blue  eyes  scourged  of  their  kind 
liness,  and  fixed  upon  those  distant  mountains 
where  his  vengeance  lay,  he  rode  on  like  a  relent 
less  fate. 

Next  in  the  line  I  galloped.  0  my  glorious 
black !  The  great,  killing  pace  seemed  mere 
playful  canter  to  him, — such  as  one  might  ride 
beside  a  timid  girl,  thrilling  with  her  first  free  dash 
over  a  flowery  common,  or  a  golden  beach  between 
sea  and  shore.  But  from  time  to  time  he  surged 
a  little  forward  with  his  great  shoulders,  and  gave 
a  mighty  writhe  of  his  body,  while  his  hind  legs 
came  lifting  his  flanks  under  me,  and  telling  of 
the  giant  reserve  of  speed  and  power  he  kept  easily 
controlled.  Then  his  ear  would  go  back,  and  his 
large  brown  eye,  with  its  purple-black  pupil,  would 
look  round  at  my  bridle  hand  and  then  into  my 
eye,  saying  as  well  as  words  could  have  said  it, 
"  This  is  mere  sport,  my  friend  and  master.  You 
do  not  know  me.  I  have  stuff  in  me  that  you  do 
not  dream.  Say  the  word,  and  I  can  double  this, 
treble  it.  Say  the  word  !  let  me  show  you  how  I 
can  spurn  the  earth."  Then,  with  the  lightest 
love  pressure  on  the  snaffle,  I  would  say, «  Not  yet ! 


not  yet !     Patience,  my  noble  friend  !     Your  time 
will  come." 

At  the  left  rode  Brent,  our  leader.  He  knew 
the  region  ;  he  made  the  plan  ;  he  had  the  hope  ; 
his  was  the  ruling  passion, — stronger  than  broth 
erhood,  than  revenge.  Love  made  him  leader  of 
that  galloping  three.  His  iron-gray  went  grandly, 
with  white  mane  flapping  the  air  like  a  signal-flag 
of  reprieve.  Eager  hope  and  kindling  purpose 
made  the  rider's  face  more  beautiful  than  ever. 
He  seemed  to  behold  Sidney's  motto  written  on 
the  golden  haze  before  him,  "  Viamaut  inveniam 
autfaciam."  I  felt  my  heart  grow  great,  when  I 
looked  at  his  calm  features,  and  caught  his  assur 
ing  smile, — a  gay  smile  but  for  the  dark,  fateful 
resolve  beneath  it.  And  when  he  launched  some 
stirring  word  of  cheer,  and  shook  another  ten  of 
seconds  out  of  the  gray's  mile,  even  Armstrong's 
countenance  grew  less  deathly,  as  he  turned  to  our 
leader  in  silent  response.  Brent  looked  a  fit  chief 
tain  for  such  a  wild  charge  over  the  desert  waste, 
with  his  buckskin  hunting-shirt  and  leggins  with 
flaring  fringes,  his  otter  cap  and  eagle's  plume,  his 
bronzed  face,  with  its  close,  brown  beard,  his  elate 
head,  and  his  seat  like  a  centaur. 

So  we  galloped  three  abreast,  neck  and  neck, 
hoof  with  hoof,  steadily  quickening  our  pace  over 
the  sere  width  of  desert.  We  must  make  the 
most  of  the  levels.  Rougher  work,  cruel  obsta 
cles  were  before.  All  the  wild,  triumphant  music 
I  had  ever  heard  came  and  sang  in  my  ears  to  the 
flinging  cadence  of  the  resonant  feet,  tramping  on 
hollow  arches  of  the  volcanic  rock,  over  great,  va 
cant  chasms  underneath.  Sweet  and  soft  around 
us  melted  the  hazy  air  of  October,  and  its  warm, 
flickering  currents  shook  like  a  veil  of  gauzy  gold, 
between  us  and  the  blue  bloom  of  the  mountains 
far  away,  but  nearing  now  and  lifting  step  by 
step. 

On  we  galloped,  the  avenger,  the  friend,  the 
lover,  on  our  errand,  to  save  and  to  slay. 

#         *         *         *         *         #         * 

We  were  ascending  now  all  the  time  into 
subalpine  regions.  We  crossed  great  sloping 
savannas,  deep  in  dry,  rustling  grass,  where  a 
nation  of  cattle  might  pasture.  We  plunged 
through  broad  wastes  of  hot  sand.  We  flung 
ourselves  down  and  up  the  red  sides  of  water- 
worn  gullies.  We  took  breakneck  leaps  across 
dry  quebradas  in  the  clay.  We  clattered  across 
stony  arroyos,  longing  thirstily  for  the  gush  of 


694 


THEODORE     WINTHROP. 


water  mat  had  floweu  there  not  many  months 
before. 

The  trail  was  everywhere  plain.  No  prairie 
craft,  was  needed  to  trace  it.  Here  the  chase  had 
gone,  hut  a  few  hours  ago ;  here,  across  grassy 
slopes,  trampling  the  grass  as  if  a  mower  had 
passed  that  way  ;  here,  ploughing  wearily  through 
the  sand  ;  here,  treading  the  red,  crumbling  clay  ; 
here,  breaking  down  the  side  of  a  bank ;  here, 
leaving  a  sharp  hoof-track  in  the  dry  mud  of  a 
fled  torrent.  Everywhere  a  straight  path,  point 
ing  for  that  deepening  gap  in  the  Sierra,  Lugger- 
nel  Alley,  the  only  gate  of  escape. 

Brent's  unerring  judgment  had  divined  the 
course  aright.  On  he  led,  charging  along  the 
trail,  as  if  he  were  trampling  already  on  the  car 
casses  of  the  pursued.  On  he  led  and  we  followed, 
drawing  nearer,  nearer  to  our  goal. 

Our  horses  suffered  bitterly  for  water.  Some 
five  hours  we  had  ridden  without  a  pause.  Not 
one  drop  or  sign  of  water  in  all  that  arid  waste. 
The  torrents  had  poured  along  the  dry  water 
courses  too  hastily  to  let  the  scanty  alders  and 
willows  along  their  line  treasure  up  any  sap 
of  growth.  The  wild-sage  hushes  had  plainly 
never  tasted  fluid  more  plenteous  than  seldom 
dewdrops  doled  out  on  certain  rare  festal  days, 
enough  to  keep  their  meagre  foliage  a  dusty 
gray.  No  pleasant  streamlet  lurked  anywhere 
under  the  long  dry  grass  of  the  savannas. 
The  arroyos  were  parched  and  hot  as  rifts  in 
lava. 

It  became  agonizing  to  listen  to  the  panting  and 
gasping  of  our  horses.  Their  eyes  grew  staring 
and  bloodshot.  We  suffered,  ourselves,  hardly 
less  than  they.  It  was  cruel  to  press  on.  But  we 
must  hinder  a  crueller  cruelty.  Love  against 
Time, — Vengeance  against  Time !  We  must 
not  flinch  for  any  weak  humanity  to  the  noble 
allies  that  struggled  on  with  us,  without  one  token 
of  resistance. 

Fulano  suffered  least.  He  turned  his  brave  eye 
back,  and  beckoned  me  with  his  ear  to  listen,  while 
he  seemed  to  say  :  "  See,  this  is  my  Endurance  ! 
I  hold  my  Power  ready  still  to  show." 

And  he  curved  his  proud  neck,  shook  his  mane 
like  a  banner,  and  galloped  the  grandest  of  all. 

We  came  to  a  broad  strip  of  sand,  the  dry  bed 
of  a  mountain-torrent.  The  trail  followed  up  this 
disappointing  path.  Heavy  ploughing  for  the  tired 
horses!  How  would  they  bear  the  rough  work 
down  the  ravine  yet  to  come  1 

Suddenly  our  leader  pulled  up  and  sprang  from 
the  saddle. 

"  Look  !"  he  cried,  "how  those  fellows  spent  their 
time,  and  saved  ours.  Thank  Heaven  for  this  ! 
We  shall  save  her,  surely,  now." 

It  was  WATER  !  No  need  to  go  back  to  Pindar 
to  know  that  it  was  "  the  Best." 

They  had  dug  a  pit  deep  in  the  thirsty  sand, 
and  found  a  lurking  river  buried  there.  Nature 
never  questioned  what  manner  of  men  they  were 
that  sought.  Murderers  flying  from  vengeance 
and  planning  now  another  villain  outrage, — still 
impartial  nature  did  not  change  her  laws  for  them. 


Sunshine,  air,  water,  life, — these  boons  of  hers 

she  gave  them  freely.  That  higher  boon  of  death, 
if  they  were  to  receive,  it  must  be  from  some  other 
power,  greater  than  the  undiscriminating  force  of 
Nature. 

We  drank  thankfully  of  this  well  by  the  wayside. 
No  gentle  beauty  hereabouts  to  enchant  us  to  de 
lay.  No  grand  old  tree,  the  shelter  and  the  land 
mark  of  the  fountain,  proclaiming  an  oasis  near. 
Nothing  but  bare,  hot  sand.  But  the  water  was 
pure,  cool,  and  bright.  It  had  come  underground 
from  the  Sierra,  and  still  remembered  its  parent 
snows.  We  drank  and  were  grateful,  almost  to  the 
point  of  pity.  Had  we  been  but  avengers,  like  Arm 
strong,  my  friend  and  I  could  wellnigh  have  felt 
mercy  here,  and  turned  back  pardoning.  But  res 
cue  was  more  imperative  than  vengeance.  Our 
business  tortured  us,  as  with  the  fanged  scourge 
of  Tisiphone,  while  we  dallied.  We  grudged  these 
moments  of  refreshment.  Before  night  fell  down 
the  west,  and  night  was  soon  to  be  climbing  up  the 
east,  we  must  overtake, — and  then  1 

I  wiped  the  dust  and  spume  away  from  Fula- 
no's  nostrils  and  breathed  him  a  moment.  Then 
I  let  him  drain  deep,  delicious  draughts  from  the 
stirrup-cup.  He  whinnied  thanks  and  undying 
fealty, — my  noble  comrade !  He  drank  like  a 
reveller.  When  I  mounted  again,  he  gave  a  jubi 
lant  curvet  and  bound.  My  weight  was  a  feather 
to  him.  All  those  leagues  of  our  hard,  hot  gallop 
were  nothing. 

The  brown  Sierra  here  was  close  al  hand.  Its 
glittering,  icy  summits,  above  the  dark  and  sheeny 
walls,  far  above  the  black  phalanxes  of  clambering 
pines,  stooped  forward  and  hung  over  us  as  we 
rode.  We  were  now  at  the  foot  of  the  range, 
where  it  dipped  suddenly  down  upon  the  plain. 
The  gap,  our  goal  all  day,  opened  before  us,  grand 
and  terrible.  Some  giant  fi)rce  had  clutched  the 
mountains,  and  riven  them  narrowly  apart.  The 
wild  defile  gaped,  and  then  wound  away  and 
closed,  lost  between  its  mighty  walls,  a  thousand 
feet  high,  and  bearing  two  brother  pyramids  of 
purple  cliffs  aloft  far  above  the  snow  line.  A 
fearful  portal  into  a  scene  of  the  throes  and 
agonies  of  earth  !  and  my  excited  eyes  seemed  to 
read,  gilded  over  its  entrance,  in  the  dead  gold  of 
that  hazy  October  sunshine,  words  from  Dante's 
inscription, — 

"Per  me  si  va  tra  la  penluta  geute  ; 
Lasciate  ogni  speranza  voi,  cb'  entrate!" 

"  Here  we  are,"  said  Brent,  speaking  hardly 
above  his  breath.  "  This  is  Luggernel  Alley  at 
last,  thank  God  !  In  an  hour,  if  the  horses  hold 
out,  we  shall  be  at  the  Springs  ;  that  is,  if  we  can 
go  through  this  breakneck  gorge  at  the  same  pace. 
My  horse  began  to  flinch  a  little  before  the 
water.  Perhaps  that  will  set  him  up.  How  are 
yours  1" 

"  Fulano  asserts  that  he  has  not  begun  to  show 
himself  yet.  I  may  have  to  carry  you  en  croupe, 
before  we  are  done." 

Armstrong  said  nothing,  but  pointed  impatiently 
down  the  defile.  The  gaunt  white  horse  moved 
on  quicker  at  this  gesture.  He  sdemed  a  tireless 


THEODORE     WINTHROP. 


695 


machine,  not  flesh  and  blood, — a  being  like  bis 
master,  living  and  acting  by  the  force  of  a  purpose 
alone. 

Our  chief  led  the  way  into  the  canon. 
Fes,  John    Brent,  you  were   right  when   you 
called    Luggernel   Alley  a  wonder  of  our  conti 
nent. 

I  remember  it  now, — I  only  saw  it  then  ; — for 
those  strong  scenes  of  nature  assault  the  soul 
whether  it  will  or  no,  fight  in  against  affirmative 
or  negative  resistance,  and  bide  their  time  to  be 
admitted  as  dominant  over  the  imagination.  It 
seemed  to  me  then  that  I  was  not  noticing  how 
grand  the  precipices,  how  stupendous  the  cleav 
ages,  how  rich  and  gleaming  the  rock  faces  in 
Luggernel  Alley.  My  business  was  not  to  stare 
about,  but  to  look  sharp  and  ride  hard  ;  and  I  did 
it. 

Yet  now  I  can  remember,  distinct  as  if  I  beheld 
it,  every  stride  of  that  pass  ;  and  everywhere,  as  I 
recall  foot  after  foot  of  that  fierce  chasm,  I  see 
three  men  with  set  faces, — one  deathly  pale  and 
wearing  a  bloody  turban, — all  galloping  steadily 
on,  on  an  errand  to  save  and  to  slay. 

Terrible  riding  it  was  !  A  pavement  of  slippery, 
sheeny  rock  ;  great  beds  of  loose  stones  ;  barricades 
of  mighty  boulders,  where  a  cliff  had  fallen  an  aeon 
ago,  before  the  days  of  the  road-maker  race  ;  crev 
ices  where  an  unwary  foot  might  catch ;  wide  rifts 
where  a  shaky  horse  might  fall,  or  a  timid  horse 
man  drag  him  down.  Terrible  riding!  A  pass 
where  a  calm  traveller  would  go  quietly  picking 
his  steps,  thankful  if  each  hour  counted  him  a  safe 
mile. 

Terrible  riding !  Madness  to  go  as  we  went ! 
Horse  and  man,  any  moment  either  might  shat 
ter  every  limb.  But  man  and  horse  neither  can 
know  what  he  can  do,  until  he  has  dared  and  done. 
On  we  went,  with  the  old  frenzy  growing  tenser. 
Heart  almost  broken  with  eagerness. 

No  whipping  or  spurring.  Our  horses  were  a 
part  of  ourselves.  While  we  could  go,  they  would 
go.  Since  the  water,  they  were  full  of  leap  again. 
Down  in  the  shady  Alley,  too,  evening  had  come 
before  its  time.  Noon's  packing  of  hot  air  had 
been  dislodged  by  a  mountain  breeze  drawing 
through.  Horses  and  men  were  braced  and 
cheered  to  their  work  ;  and  in  such  riding  as  that, 
the  man  and  the  horse  must  think  together  and 
move  together, — eye  and  hand  of  the  rider  must 
choose  and  command,  as  bravely  as  the  horse  ex 
ecutes.  The  blue  sky  was  overhead,  the  red  sun 
upon  the  castellated  walls  a  thousand  feet  above 
us,  the  purpling  chasm  opened  before.  It  was 
late,  these  were  the  last  moments.  But  we  should 
save  the  lady  yet. 

"Yes,"  our  hearts  shouted  to  us,  "  we  shall  save 
her  yet." 

An  arroyo,  the  channel  of  a  dried  torrent,  fol 
lowed  the  pass.  It  had  made  its  way  as  v/ater 
does,  not  straightway,  but  by  that  potent  feminine 
method  of  passing  under  the  frowning  front  of  an 
obstacle,  and  leaving  the  dull  rock  staring  there, 
while  the  wild  creature  it  would  have  held  is 
gliding  away  down  the  valley.  This  zigzag  chan 


nel  baffled  us ;  we  must  leap  it  without  check 
wherever  it  crossed  our  path.  Every  second  now 
was  worth  a  century.  Here  was  the  sign  of  hon=es, 
passed  but  now.  We  could  not  choose  ground. 
We  must  take  our  leaps  on  that  cruel  rock  where- 
ever  they  offered. 
Poor  Pumps  ! 

He  had  carried  his  master  so  nobly  !  There 
were  so  few  miles  to  do  !  He  had  chased  so  well ; 
he  merited  to  be  in  at  the  death. 

Brent  lifted  him  at  a  leap  across  the  arroyo. 
Poor  Pumps ! 

His  hind  feet  slipped  on  the  time-smoothed 
rock.  He  fell  short.  He  plunged  down  a  dozen 
feet  among  the  rough  boulders  of  the  torrent-bed. 
Brent  was  out  of  the  saddle  almost  before  he  struck, 
raising  him. 

No,  he  would  never  rise  again.  Both  his  fore 
legs  were  broken  at  the  knee.  He  rested  there, 
kneeling  on  the  rocks  where  he  fell. 

Brent  groaned.  The  horse  screamed  horribly, 
horribly, — there  is  no  more  agonized  sound, — and 
the  scream  went  echoing  high  up  the  cliffs  where 
the  red  sunlight  rested. 

It  costs  a  loving  master  much  to  butcher  his 
brave  and  trusty  horse,  the  half  of  his  knightly 
self;  but  it  costs  him  more  to  hear  him  shriek  in 
such  misery.  Brent  drew  his  pistol  to  put  poor 
Pumps  out  of  pain. 

Armstrong  sprang  down  and  caught  his  hand. 
"  Stop  !"  he  said  in  his  hoarse  whisper. 
He   had   hardly  spoken,  since  we  started.     My 
nerves  were   so  straitened,  that  this  mere  ghost  of 
a  sound  rang  through  me  like  a  death  yell,  a  grisly 
cry  of  merciless  and  exultant  vengeance.    I  seemed 
to  hear  its  echoes,  rising  up  and  swelling  in  a  flood 
of  thick  uproar,  until  they  burst  over  the  summit 
of  the  pass  and  were  wasted  in  the  crannies  of  the 
towering  mountain-flanks  above. 

"  Stop  !"  whispered  Armstrong.  "  No  shooting ! 
They'll  hear.  The  knife  !" 

He  held  out  his  knife  to  my  friend. 
Brent  hesitated  one  heart-beat      Could  he  stain 
his  hand  with  his  faithful  servant's  blood  1 
Pumps  screamed  again. 

Armstrong  snatched  the  knife  and  drew  it 
across  the  throat  of  the  crippled  horse. 

Poor  Pumps  !  He  sank  and  died  without  a 
moan.  Noble  martyr  in  the  old,  heroic  cause  ! 

I  caught  the  knife  from  Armstrong.  I  cut  the 
thong  of  my  girth.  The  heavy  California  saddle, 
with  its  macheers  and  roll  of  blankets,  fell  to  the 
ground.  I  cut  off  my  spurs.  They  had  never  yet 
touched  Fulano's  flanks.  He  stood  beside  me 
quiet,  but  trembling  to  be  off. 

"  Now  Brent !  up  behind  me  !"  I  whispered, — 
for  the  awe  of  death  was  upon  us. 

I  mounted.  Brent  sprang  up  behind.  I  ride 
light  for  a  tall  man.  Brent  is  the  slightest  body 
of  an  athlete  I  ever  saw. 

Fulano  stood  steady  till  we  were  firm  in  our 
seats. 

Then  he  tore  down  the  defile. 
Here  was  that  vast  reserve  of  power ;  he.re  the 
tireless   spirit;    here    the  hoof  striking  tri'.e  as  a 


THEODORE    WINTHROP. 


thunderbolt,  where  the  brave  eye  saw  footing;  here 
that  writhing  agony  of  speed ;  here  the  great  prom 
ise  fulfilled,  the  great  heart  thrilling  to  mine,  the 
grand  body  living  to  the  beating  heart.  Noble 
Fulano  ! 

I  rode  with  a  snaffle.  I  left  it  hanging  loose.  I 
did  not  check  or  guide  him.  He  saw  all.  He 
knew  all.  All  was  his  doing. 

We  sat  firm,  clinging  as  we  could,  as  we  must. 
Fulano  dashed  along  the  resounding  pass. 

Armstrong  pressed  after, — the  gaunt  white 
horse  struggled  to  emulate  his  leader.  Presently 
we  lost  them  behind  the  curves  of  the  Alley.  No 
other  horse  that  ever  lived  could  have  held  with 
the  black  in  that  headlong  gallop  to  save. 

Over  the  slippery  rocks,  over  the  sheeny  pave 
ment,  plunging  through  the  loose  stones,  stagger 
ing  over  the  barricades,  leaping  the  arroyo,  down, 
up,  on,  always  on, — on  went  the  horse,  we  cling 
ing  as  we  might. 

It  seemed  one  beat  of  time,  it  seemed  an  eter 
nity,  when  between  the  ring  of  the  hoofs  I  heard 
Brent  whisper  in  my  ear. 

«  We  are  there." 

The  crags  flung  apart,  right  and  left.  I  saw  a 
sylvan  glade.  I  saw  the  gleam  of  gushing 
water. 

Fulano  dashed  on,  uncontrollable ! 

There  they  were, — the  Murderers. 

Arrived  but  one  moment ! 

The  lady  still  bound  to  that  pack-mule  branded 
A.  &  A. 

Murker  just  beginning  to  unsaddle. 


Larrap  not  dismounted,  in  chase  of  the  other 
animals  as  they  strayed  to  graze. 

The  men  heard  the  tramp  and  saw  us,  as  we 
sprang  into  the  glade. 

Both  my  hands  were  at  the  bridle. 

Brent,  grasping  my  waist  with  one  arm,  was 
awkward  with  his  pistol. 

Murker  saw  us  first.  He  snatched  his  six-shooter 
and  fired. 

Brent  shook  with  a  spasm.  His  pistol  arm  dropped. 

Before  the  murderer  could  cock  again,  Fulano 
was  upon  him ! 

He  was  ridden  down.  He  was  beaten,  tram 
pled  down  upon  the  grass, — crushed,  abolished. 

We  disentangled  ourselves  from  the  mtUe. 

Where  was  the  other  1 

The  coward,  without  firing  a  shot,  was  spurring 
Armstrong's  Flathead  horse  blindly  up  the  canon, 
whence  we  had  issued. 

We  turned  to  Murker. 

Fulano  was  up  again,  and  stood  there  shudder 
ing.  But  the  man  1 

A  hoof  had  battered  in  the  top  of  his  skull; 
blood  was  gushing  from  his  mouth  ;  his  ribs  were 
broken ;  all  his  body  was  a  trodden,  massacred 


He  breathed  once,  as  we  lifted  him. 

Then  a  tranquil,  childlike  look  stole  over  his 
face, — that  well-known  look  of  the  weary  body, 
thankful  that  the  turbulent  soul  has  gone.  Mur 
ker  was  dead. 

Fulano,  and  not  we,  had  been  executioner.    Hi 
was  the  stain  of  blood. 


T.    DE  WITT    TALMAGE 


[Born  1832.] 


THIS  eloquent  and  popular  Divine  was  born 
at  Boundbrook,  N.  J.,  January  7th,  1832.  He 
graduated  at  the  New  York  University,  and 
also  at  the  New  Brunswick  Theological  Semi 
nary.  His  first  charge  was  at  Belleville,  N.  J., 
from  which  place  he  was  called  to  Syracuse, 
N.  Y.  He  remained  there  three  years,  meeting 
with  remarkable  success.  At  the  end  of  that 
time  he  had  attracted  the  attention  of  the  con 
gregation  in  Philadelphia  formerly  presided 
over  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Berg,  and  one  of  the 
strongest  in  that  city,  the  Second  Eeformed 
Church.  He  accepted  the  flattering  call  made 
him,  and  here,  in  a  wider  field  for  the  exercise 
of  his  peculiar  talents,  for  seven  years 
preached  to  a  thronged  church.  During  this 
time  he  delivered  many  popular  lectures,  al 
ways  to  crowded  audiences,  and  never  failed 
to  claim  their  undivided  and  closest  attention. 
He  has  stood  before  the  principal  Lyceums 
throughout  the  country,  and  commanded  the 
highest  compensation  paid  for  such  services. 

From  Philadelphia,  after  many  and  repeated 
calls,  he  removed  to  Brooklyn,  L.  I.,  and  took 
charge  of  a  church,  which  through  many  trou 
bles  had  been  reduced  to  an  audience  of  fifty — 


though  the  building  had  capacity  to  hold  thir 
teen  hundred  people.  It  soon  became  too 
small  to  hold  the  numerous  applicants  for 
seats ;  a  vast  Tabernacle  was  projected,  and 
immediately  built,  capable  of  seating  3500 
people;  and  even  this  is  found  incapable  of 
holding  the  throngs  applying  for  admission. 
It  is  intended  to  increase  the  capacity  of  the 
building  to  5000,  by  the  erection  of  galleries. 
The  seats  are  free,  the  church  being  entirely 
supported  by  voluntary  contributions  of  the 
members  of  the  congregation. 

Mr.  Talmage's  success  as  a  preacher,  as  a 
popular  lecturer,  and  as  a  writer,  is  owing  to 
his  peculiar  style,  and  plain  manner  of  speak 
ing  or  writing.  He  expresses  exactly  what  he 
means,  and  never  fails  to  make  his  readers 
fully  comprehend  him.  His  illustrations  are 
from  incidents  occuring  in  every-day  life,  some 
thing  every  one  sees  and  understands.  He 
has  contributed  to  the  popular  journals  of  the 
country,  and  bids  fair  to  become  as  well 
known  in  literature  as  in  the  pulpit. 

From  his  book  entitled,  "  Crumbs  Swept 
Up,"  we  extract  the  following,  to  show  the 
general  style  of  the  author 


CHAMPS    ELYSEES. 

FROM  CRUMBS  SWEPT  UP. 

THE  scarlet  rose  of  battle  is  in  full  bloom.  The 
white  water-lily  of  fear  trembles  on  the  river  of 
tears.  The  cannon  hath  retched  fire  and  its  lips 
have  foamed  blood.  The  pale  horse  of  death  stands 
drinking  out  of  the  Rhine,  its  four  hoofs  on  the 
breast-bone  of  men  who  sleep  their  last  sleep.  The 
red  clusters  of  human  hearts  are  crushed  in  the 
wine-press  just  as  the  vineyards  of  Moselle  and 
Hockheimer  are  ripening.  Chassepot  and  mitrail 
leuse  have  answered  the  needle-gun  ;  and  there  is 
all  along  the  lines  the  silence  of  those  who  will 
never  speak  again. 

But  Paris  has  for  an  interval,  at  least,  recovered 
from  her  recent  depression.  Yesterday  I  stood  at 
the  foot  of  the  Egyptian  red-granite  obelisk,  dug 
out  three  thousand  four  hundred  years  ago,  and 
from  the  top  of  which,  at  an  elevation  of  seventy- 
two  feet,  the  ages  of  the  past  look  down  upon  the 
splendors  of  the  present.  On  either  side  the  obe- 
88 


lisk  is  a  fountain  with  six  jets,  each  tossing  into 
the  bronze  basin  above  ;  a  seventh  fountain,  at  still 
greater  elevation,  overflowing  and  coming  down  to 
meet  them.  Ribbons  of  rainbow  flung  on  the  air : 
golden  rays  of  sunlight  interwoven  with  silver 
skeins  of  water,  while  the  wind  drives  the  loom. 
Tritons,  nereids,  genii,  dolphins,  and  winged  chil 
dren  disporting  themselves,  and  floods  clapping 
their  hands. 

From  the  foot  of  the  obelisk,  looking  off  to  the 
south,  is  the  Palace  of  the  Legislature — its  last 
touch  of  repairs  having  cost  four  million  dollars — 
its  gilded  gates,  and  Corinthian  columns,  and 
statues  of  Justice,  and  Commerce,  and  Art,  and 
Navigation — a  building  grand  with  Vernet's  fresco, 
and  Cortot's  sculpture,  and  Delacroix's  allegories 
of  art,  and  the  memory  of  Lamartine's  eloquence ; 
within  it  the  hard  face  of  stone  soft  with  gobelin 
tapestry,  and  arabesque,  and  the  walls  curtained 
with  velvet  of  crimson  and  gleaming  gold. 

From  the  foot  of  the  obelisk,  glancing  to  the 
north,  the  church  of  the  Madeleine  comes  into 
sight,  its  glories  lifted  up  on  the  shoulders  of  fifty- 

697 


698 


T.    DE     WITT     TALMAGE. 


two  Corinthian  columns,  swinging  against  the  dazed 
vision,  its  huge  brazen  doors,  its  walls  breaking 
into  innumerable  fragments  of  beauty,  each  piece 
a  sculptured  wonder:  a  king,  an  apostle,  an  arch 
angel,  or  a  Christ.  The  three  cupolas  against  the 
sky,  great  doxologies  in  stone.  The  whole  build 
ing  white,  beautiful,  stupendous — the  frozen  prayer 
of  a  nation. 

From  the  foot  of  the  obelisk,  looking  east  through 
a  long  aisle  of  elms,  chestnuts,  and  palms,  is  the 
palace  of  the  Tuileries,  confronting  you  with  one 
thousand  feet  of  fa9»de,  and  tossed  up  at  either 
side  into  imposing  pavilions,  and  sweeping  back 
into  the  most  brilliant  picture-galleries  of  all  the 
world,  where  the  French  masters  look  upon  the 
Flemish,  and  the  black  marble  of  the  Pyrenees 
frowns  upon  the  drifted  snow  of  Italian  statuary  : 
a  palace  poising  its  pinnacles  in  the  sun,  and 
spreading  out  balustrades  of  braided  granite.  Its 
inside  walls  adorned  with  bfoze  of  red  velvet  cool 
ing  down  into  damask  overshot  with  green  silk. 
Palace  of  wild  and  terrific  memories,  orgies  of 
drunken  kings,  and  display  of  coronation  festivity. 
Frightful  Catherine  de  Medicis  looked  out  of  those 
windows.  There,  Maria  Antoinette  gazed  up  to 
ward  heaven  through  the  dark  lattice  of  her  own 
broken  heart.  Into  those  doors  rushed  the  Revo 
lutionary  mobs.  On  that  roof  the  Angel  of  Death 
alighted  and  flapped  its  black  wings  on  its  way  to 
smite  in  a  day  one  hundred  thousand  souls.  Ma 
jestic,  terrible,  beautiful,  horrible,  sublime  palace 
of  the  Tuileries.  The  brightness  of  a  hundred  fete 
days  sparkle  in  its  fountains  !  The  gore  often  thou 
sand  butcheries  redden  the  upholstery  ! 

Standing  at  the  foot  of  the  obelisk,  we  have  looked 
toward,  the  north,  and  the  south,  and  the  east. 
There  is  but  one  way  more  to  look.  Stretching 
away  to  the  west,  beyond  the  sculptured  horses 
that  seem  all  a-quiver  with  life  from  nostril  to  fet 
lock,  and  rearing  till  you  fear  the  groom  will  no 
longer  be  able  to  keep  them  from  dashing  off  the 
pedestal,  is  the  Champs  Elys&'s,  the  great  artery 
through  which  rolls  the  life  of  Parisian  hilarity. 
It  is,  perhaps,  the  widest  street  in  the  world.  You 
see  two  long  lines  of  carriages,  one  flowing  this 
way,  the  other  that,  filled  with  the  merriment  of 
the  gayest  city  under  the  sun.  There  they  go ! 
viscounts  and  porters,  cab-drivers  of  glazed  hat  tak 
ing  passengers  at  two  francs  an  hour,  and  coach 
man  with  resetted  hat,  and  lavender  breeches,  his 
coat-tails  flung  over  the  back  of  the  high  seat — a 
very  constellation  of  brass  buttons.  Tramp,  and 
rumble,  and  clatter!  Two  wheels,  four  wheels, 
one  sorrel,  two  sorrels  !  Fast  horse's  mouth  by 
twisted  bit  drawn  tight  into  the  chest,  and .  slow 
horse's  head  hung  out  at  long  distance  from  the 
body,  his  feet  too  lazy  to  keep  up.  Crack  !  crack ! 
go  a  hundred  whips  in  the  strong  grasp  of  the 
charioteers,  warning  foot-passengers  to  clear  the 
way.  Click!  click!. go  the  swords  of  the  mounted 
horse-guards  as  they  dash  past  sashed,  feathered, 
and  epauletted. 

On  the  broad  pavements  of  this  avenue  all  na 
tions  meet  and  mingle.  This  is  a  Chinese  with 
hair  in  genuine  pig-tail  twist,  and  this  a  Turk  with 


I  trowsers  enough  for  seven.  Here,  an  Englishman 
built  up  solid  from  the  foundation,  buttressed  with 
strength ;  the  apotheosization  of  roast-beef  and 
plum-pudding;  you  can  tell  by  his  looks  that  he 
never  ate  anything  that  disagreed  with  him.  Here, 
an  American  so  thin  he  fails  to  cast  a  shadow. 
There,  a  group  of  children  playing  blind-man's 
buff,  and, .yonder,  men  at  foot-ball,  with  a  circle  of 
a  hundred  people  surrounding  them.  Old  harpers 
playing  their  harps.  Boys  fiddling.  Women 
with  fountains  of  soda-water  strapped  to  their  back, 
and  six  cups  dangling  at  their  side,  and  tinkling  a 
tiny  bell  to  let  the  people  know  where  they  may 
get  refreshment.  Here,  a  circle  of  fifteen  hobby 
horses  poised  on  one  pivot,  where  girls  in  white 
dresses,  and  boys  in  coat  of  many  colors  swing 
round  the  circle.  Puff  of  a  hundred  segars.  Ped 
dler  with  a  score  of  balloons  to  a  string  sending 
them  up  into  the  air,  and  willing  for  four  sous  to 
make  any  boy  happy.  Parrots  holding  up  their 
ugliness  by  one  claw,  and  swearing  at  passers-by 
in  bad  French.  Canaries  serenading  the  sunlight. 
Bagpipers  with  instruments  in  full  screech.  "  Punch 
and  Judy,"  the  unending  joke  of  European  cities, 
which  is  simply  two  doll-babies  beating  each 
other. 

Passing  on,  you  come  upon  another  circle  of 
fountains,  six  in  number — small  but  beauti 
ful,  infantile  fountains,  hardly  born  before  they 
die,  rocked  in  cradle  of  crystal,  then  buried  in  sar 
cophagus  of  pearl.  The  water  rises  only  a  short 
distance  and  bends  over,  like  the  heads  of  ripe 
grain,  as  though  the  water-gods  had  been  reaping 
their  harvest,  and  here  had  stacked  their  sheaves. 
And  now  we  find  toy-carriages  drawn  by  four 
goats  with  bells,  and  children  riding,  a  boy  of  four 
years  drawing  the  rein,  mountebanks  tumbling  on 
the  grass,  jugglers  with  rings  that  turn  into 
serpents,  and  bottles  that  spit  white  rabbits,  and 
tricks  that  make  the  auditor's  hat,  passed  up,  breed 
rats. 

On  your  way  through  the  street,  you  wander 
into  grottos,  where,  over  colored  rocks,  the  water 
falls,  now  becoming  blue  as  the  sea,  now  green  as 
a  pond,  and  now,  without  miracle,  it  is  turned  into 
wine.  There  are  maiden-hair  trees,  and  Irish 
yews,  and  bamboo,  and  magnolias,  and  banks  of 
azaleas,  and  hollies,  and  you  go  through  a  Red 
Sea  of  geraniums  and  dahlias  dry-shod.  You  leave 
on  either  hand  concert-castles,  and  party-colored 
booths,  and  kiosks  inviting  to  repose,  till  you 
come  to  the  foot  of  the  Arc  de  Triornphe,  from 
the  foot  of  which  radiate  eleven  great  avenues, 
any  one  of  which  might  well  be  a  national  pride, 
and  all  of  them  a-rumble  with  pomp  and  wealth, 
an!  the  shock  of  quick  and  resonant  laughter. 

On  opposite  sides  of  the  archway  are  two  angels, 
leaning  toward  each  other  till  their  trumpets  well- 
nigh  touch,  blowing  the  news  of  a  hundred  victor 
ies.  Surely  never  before  or  since  was  hard  stone 
ever  twisted  into  such  wreaths,  or  smoothed  into 
such  surfaces.  Up  and  down  frieze  and  spandrel 
are  alti-rilievi  with  flags  of  granite  that  seem  t« 
quiver  in  the  wind,  and  helmets  that  sit  soft  as  vel 
vet  on  warrior's  brow  ;  and  there  are  lips  of  stone 


T.     DE     WITT     TALMAGE. 


that  look  as  if  they  might  speak,  and  spears  that 
look  as  if  they  might  pierce,  and  wounds  that  look 
as  if  they  might  bleed,  and  eagles  that  look  as  if 
they  might  fly.  Here  stands  an  angel  of  war 
mighty  enough  to  have  been  just  hurled  out  of 
heaven.  On  one  side  of  the  Arch,  Peace  is  cele 
brated  by  the  sculptor  with  sheaves  of  plenty,  and 
chaplets  of  honor,  and  palms  of  triumph.  At  a 
great  height,  Austerlitz  is  again  enacted,  and  horse 
and  horsemen  and  artillery  and  gunners  stand  out 
as  though  some  horror  of  battle  had  chilled  them 
all  into  stone. 

By  the  time  that  you  have  mounted  the  steps, 
and  stand  at  the  top  of  the  Arch,  the  evening 
lamps  begin  a  running  fire  on  all  the  streets.  The 
trees  swing  lanterns,  and  the  eleven  avenues  con 
centrating  at  the  foot  of  the  Arch  pour  their  bright 
ness  to  your  feet  a  very  chorus  of  fire.  Your  eye 
treads  all  the  way  back  to  the  Tuileries  on  bubbles 
of  flame,  and  stopping  half-way  the  distance  to 
read,  in  weird  and  bewitching  contrivance  of  gas 
light,  an  inscription  with  a  harp  of  fire  at  the  top 
and  an  arrow  of  fire  at  the  bottom,  the  charmed 
words  of  every  Frenchman, — CHAMPS  ELYSEES  ! 


OUR    SPECTACLES. 

FROM   THE   SAME. 

A  MAN  never  looks  more  dignified  than  when 
he  takes  a  spectacle-case  from  his  pocket,  opens  it, 
unfolds  a  lens,  sets  it  astride  his  nose,  and  looks 
you  in  the  eye.  I  have  seen  audiences  overawed 
by  such  a  demonstration,  feeling  that  a  man  who 
could  handle  glasses  in  that  way  must  be  equal 
to  anything.  We  have  known  a  lady  of  plain 
face,  who,  by  placing  an  adornment  of  this  kind 
on  the  bridge  of  her  nose,  could  give  an  irresisti 
ble  look,  and  by  one  glance  around  the  room 
would  transfix  and  eat  up  the  hearts  of  a  dozen 
old  bachelors. 

There  are  men,  who,  though  they  never  read 
a  word  of  Latin  or  Greek,  have,  by  such  facial 
appendage,  been  made  to  look  so  classical,  that 
the  moment  they  gaze  on  you,  you  quiver  as  if 
you  had  been  struck  by  Sophocles  or  Jupiter. 
We  strongly  suspect  that  a  pair  of  glasses  on  a 
minister's  nose  would  be  worth  to  him  about  three 
hundred  and  seventy-six  dollars  and  forty-two 
cents  additional  salary.  Indeed,  we  have  known 
men  who  had  kept  their  parishes  quiet  by  this 
spectacular  power.  If  Deacon  Jones  criticized,  or 
Mrs.  Go-about  gossiped,  the  dominie  would  get 
them  in  range,  shove  his  glasses  from  the  tip  of 
his  nose  close  up  to  his  eyebrows,  and  concentre 
all  the  majesty  of  his  nature  into  a  look  that  con 
sumed  all  opposition  easier  than  the  burning-glass 
of  Archimedes  devoured  the  Roman  ships. 

But  nearly  all,  young  and  old,  near-sighted, 
and  far-sighted,  look  through  spectacles.  By 
reason  of  our  prejudices,  or  education,  or  tempera 
ment,  things  are  apt  to  come  to  us  magnified, 
or  lessened,  or  distorted.  We  all  sec  things 
differently — not  so  much  because  our  eves  are 


different,  as  because  the  medium  through  which 
we  look  is  different. 

Some  of  us  wear  blue  spectacles,  and  conse 
quently  everything  is  blue.  Taking  our  position 
at  Trinity  Church,  and  looking  down  Wall  street, 
everything  is  gloomy  and  depressing  in  financials, 
and  looking  up  Broadway,  everything  is  horrible 
in  the  fashions  of  the  day.  All  is  wrong  in 
churches,  wrong  in  education,  wrong  in  society. 
An  undigested  slice  of  corned-beef  has  covered  up 
all  the  bright  prospects  of  the  world.  A  drop 
of  vinegar  has  extinguished  a  star.  We  under 
stand  all  the  variations  of  a  growl.  What  makes 
the  sunshine  so  dull,  the  foliage  so  gloomy,  men 
so  heavy,  and  the  world  so  dark  1  Blue  spec 
tacles,  my  dear, 

BLUE     SPECTACLES ! 

An  unwary  young  man  comes  to  town.  He 
buys  elegant  silk  pocket-handkerchiefs  on  Chat 
ham  Street  for  twelve  cents,  and  diamonds  at  the 
dollar-store.  He  supposes  that  when  a  play  is 
advertised  "for  one  night  only,"  he  will  have  but 
one  opportunity  of  seeing  it.  He  takes  a  green 
back  with  an  X  on  it,  as  sure  sign  that  it  is  ten 
dollars,  not  knowing  there  are  counterfeits.  He 
takes  five  shares  of  silver-mining  stock  in  the  com 
pany  for  developing  the  resources  of  the  moon. 
He  supposes  that  every  man  that  dresses  well  is  a 
gentleman.  He  goes  to  see  the  lions,  not  know 
ing  that  any  of  them  will  bite  ;  and  that  when 
people  go  to  see  the  lions,  the  lions  sometimes 
come  out  to  see  them.  He  has  an  idea  that  for 
tunes  lie  thickly  around,  and  all  he  will  have  to 
do  is  to  stoop  down  and  pick  one  up.  Having 
been  brought  up  where  the  greatest  dissipation 
was  a  blacksrnith-shop  on  a  rainy  day,  and  where 
the  gold  on  the  wheat  is  never  counterfeit,  and 
buckwheat-fields  never  issue  false  stock,  and 
brooks  are  always  «  current,"  and  ripe  fall-pippins 
are  a  legal-tender,  and  blossoms  are  honest  when 
they  promise  to  pay,  he  was  unprepared  to  resist 
the  allurements  of  city  life.  A  sharper  has 
fleeced  him,  an  evil  companion  has  despoiled  him, 
a  policeman's  "  billy "  has  struck  him  on  the 
head,  or  a  prison's  turnkey  bids  him  a  gruff 
"  Good-night !" 

What  got  him  into  all  this  trouble  1  Can  any 
moral  optician  inform  us!  Green  goggles,  my  dear, 

GREEX    GOGGLES ! 

Your  neighbor's  first  great  idea  in  life  is  a 
dollar;  the  second  idea  is  a  dollar — making  in 
all  two  dollars.  The  smaller  ideas  are  cents. 
Friendship  is  with  him  a  mere  question  of  loss 
and  gain.  He  will  want  your  name  on  his  note. 
Every  time  he  shakes  hands,  he  estimates  the 
value  of  such  a  greeting.  He  is  down  on  Fourth 
of  Julys  and  Christmas  Days,  because  on  them 
you  spend  money  instead  of  making  it.  He  lias 
reduced  everything  in  life  to  vulgar  fractions. 
He  has  been  hunting  all  his  life  for  the  cow  that 
had  the  golden  calf.  He  has  cut  the  Lord's 
Prayer  on  the.  back  of  a  three-cent  piece,  his  only 
regret  that  he  has  spoiled  the  piece. 


CAXTON    PRESS    OB* 
SHERMAN    &    CO.,    V  H  I  L  A  D  E  L  1*  S  I  A. 


PHILADELPHIA,  8221  CHESTNUT  STREET. 
September,  1870. 


PORTER  &  COATES 

PUBLISH    THE    FOLLOWING 

LIST   OF   BOOKS 


The  Books  in  this  List,  unless  otherwise  specified,  are  bound  in  Cloth. 
All  of  our  Publications  mailed,  postpaid,  on  receipt  of  price. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

WAYERLEY  NOVELS.  Complete  in  23  vols.  Illustrated.  Toned 
paper.  Price  per  vol.,  Globe  Edition:  cloth,  extra,  $1.25  ;  half  calf, 
gilt,  $3.00.  Standard  Library  Edition  :  cloth,  extra,  gilt  tops,  bev. 
boards,  $1.75  ;  half  calf,  gilt,  $3.50  ;  half  mor.,  gilt  tops,  $3.50. 

Waverley.  Pirate. 

Guy  Mannering.  Fortunes  of  Nigel. 

Antiquary.  Peveril  of  the  Peak. 

Rob  Roy.  Quentin  Durward. 

Black  Dwarf,  and  Old  Mortality.  St.  Ronan's  Well. 

Heart  of  Mid-Lothian.  Eedgauntlet. 

Bride  of  Lammermoor,  and  A  Legend  of    The  Betrothed,  and  The  Talisman. 

Montrose.  "Woodstock. 

Ivanhoe.  Pair  Maid  of  Perth. 

Monastery.  Anne  of  Geierstein. 

Abbot.  Count  Robert  of  Paris,  and  Castlo  Dan- 
Kenil  worth,  gerous. 

Chronicles  of  the  Canongate. 

This  is  the  best  edition  for  the  library  or  for  general  use  published.  Its  conveni 
ent  size,  the  extreme  legibility  of  the  type,  which  is  larger  than  is  used  in  any  other 
edition,  either  English  or  American,  its  spirited  illustrations,  quality  of  the  paper  and 
binding,  and  the  general  execution  of  the  presswork,  must  commend  it  at  once  to 
every  one. 

TALES  OF  A  GRANDFATHER.  Uniform  with  the  "  Waverley  Novels.'; 
Illustrated.  4  vols.  Toned  paper.  Price  per  vol.,  Globe  Edition  : 
cloth,  extra,  $1.25 ;  half  calf,  gilt,  $3.00.  Standard  Library  Edition  : 
cloth,  extra,  gilt  tops,  bev.  boards,  $1.75 ;  half  morocco,  gilt  tops. 
$3.50  ;  half  calf,  gilt,  $3.50. 

The  only  edition  containing  the  fourth  series,  "Tales  from  French  History." 

IYANHOE.  A  romance.  Youth's  Favorite  Edition.  Illustrated.  Crown, 
8vo.,  $1.50. 

LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  With  twenty-five  engravings  on  wood,  from 
designs  by  Birket  Foster  and  John  Gilbert.  16mo.  Bev.  boards, 
$1.50 ;  half  calf,  gilt,  $3.00  ;  full  Turkey  mor.  antique,  $4.00. 


PORTER  &  COATES'  PUBLICATIONS. 


RUFUS  W.  GRISWOLD,  D.D. 

THE  PROSE  WRITERS  OF  AMERICA.  With  a  Survey  of  the  Intel 
lectual  History,  Condition,  and  Prospects  of  the  Country.  New  edi 
tion,  thoroughly  revised  and  completed  to  the  present  time,  with  a 
supplementary  Essay  on  the  Present  Intellectual  Condition  and  Pros 
pects  of  the  Country.  By  Prof.  JOHN  H.  DILLINGHAM,  A.M.  With 
seven  portraits  on  steel,  and  vignette  title.  Imperial  8vo.  Cloth, 
extra,  gilt  tops,  bevelled  boards,  $5.00 ;  sheep,  marbled  edges,  library 
style,  $6.00;  half  calf,  $7.50;  full  Turkey  morocco,  $10.00. 

"We  are  glad  to  possess,  in  this  form,  portions  of  many  authors  whose  entire  works  we  should 
never  own,  and  if  we  did  should  probably  never-find  time  to  read.  We  confess  our  obligations  to  the 
author  for  the  personal  information  concerning  them  which  he  has  collected  in  the  memoirs  prefixed 
to  their  writings.  These  are  written  in  a  manner  creditable  to  the  research,  ability,  and  kindness 
of  the  author."—  William  Cullcn  Bryant. 

"  An  important  and  interesting  contribution  to  our  national  literature.  The  range  of  authors  is  very 
wide :  the  biographical  notices  full  and  interesting.  I  am  surprised  that  the  author  has  been  able 
to  collect  so  many  particulars  in  this  way.  The  selections  appear  to  me  to  be  made  with  discrimi 
nation,  and  the  criticisms  show  a  sound  taste  and  a  correct  appreciation  of  the  qualities  of  the  writers, 
as  well  as  I  can  judge."—  William  H.  Prescott,  the  Historian. 

The  present  edition  has  been  thoroughly  revised,  every  page  has  been  gone  over, 
and  notices  of  authors  who  have  passed  away  since  the  previous  editions  were  pub 
lished,  have  been  revised  and  continued  to  the  period  of  their  decease,  and  long  and 
critical  articles  on  the  authors  of  the 'present  day  have  been  added,  making  the  work 
complete  in  every  respect  to  the  present  time.  It  should  occupy  a  prominent  place 
in  the  library  of  every  cultivated  American. 

GEMS  FROM  THE  AMERICAN  POETS.  With  brief  biographical 
notices.  With  a  fine  engraving  on  steel.  32mo.,  cloth,  60  cents ; 
illuminated  sides,  90  cents ;  Turkey  mor.,  extra,  $1.50. 

FREDERICK  H.  HEDGE,  D.D. 

THE  PROSE  WRITERS  OF  GERMANY.  With  Introductions,  Bio 
graphical  Notices,  and  Translations.  With  six  portraits  on  steel, 
and  engraved  title.  Imperial  8vo.  Cloth,  extra,  gilt  top,  bevelled 
boards,  $5.00  ;  sheep,  marbled  edges,  library  style,  $6.00  ;  half  calf, 
gilt,  $1.50 ;  full  Turkey  morocco,  $10.00. 

"  There  is  no  book  accessible  to  the  English  or  American  reader  which  can  furnish  so  comprehen- 
Bive  and  symmetrical  a  view  of  German  literature  to  the  uninitiated  :  and  those  already  conversant 
with  some  of  the  German  classics  will  find  here  valuable  and  edifying  extracts  from  works  to  which 
very  few  in  this  country  can  gain  access."— Prof.  A.  P.  Peabody,  in  North  American  Review. 

PROP.  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  EUROPE.  With  Introductions,  Bio 
graphical  Notices,  and  Translations,  from  the  Earliest  Period  to  the 
Present  Time.  New  edition,  thoroughly  revised  and  completed  to 
the  present  time.  With  engravings  on  steel,  and  engraved  title. 
Imperial  8vo.  Cloth,  extra,  gilt  tops,  bev.  boards,  $6.00  ;  sheep, 
marbled  edges,  library  style,  $7.00  ;  half  calf,  gilt,  $9.00  ;  full  Turkey 
morocco,  $12.00. 

"This  valuable  volume  contains  selections  from  about  three  hundred  and  sixty  authors,  translated 
from  ten  languages, — the  Anglo-Saxon,  Icelandic,  Danish,  Swedish.  Dutch,  German,  French,  Italian, 
Spanish,  and  Portuguese.  Mr.  Longfellow  himself  gives  us  translations  from  all  of  these  languages 
but  two.  Among  the  other  translators  are  Bpwring,  Felton,  Herbert.  Costello,  Taylor,  Jamieson, 
Brooks,  Adamson,  Thorpe,  &c." — Allibone'  Dictionary  of  Authors,  vol.  ii. 


PORTER  &  COATES*  PUBLICATIONS. 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE. 

COMPLETE  WORKS.  Dramatic  and  Poetical,  with  the  "  Epistle  Dedi- 
catorie,"  and  the  Address  prefixed  to  the  edition  of  1623,  a  Sketch 
of  the  Life  of  the  Poet,  by  ALEXANDER  CHALMERS,  A.M.,  and  Glos- 
sarial  and  other  Notes  and  References.  Edited  by  GEORGE  LONG 
DUYCKINK.  With  twelve  full-page  tinted  Illustrations,  designed  by 
Nicholson,  a  superb  portrait  on  steel,  from  the  celebrated  Droeshout 
picture,  and  beautiful  engraved  title,  on  steel.  976  pp.  Imperial  8vo. 
Cloth,  extra,  gilt  back,  $3.75 ;  sheep,  library  style,  $4.50. 

FINE  EDITION  OF  THE  ABOVE,  on  extra  calendered  paper,  with 
the  addition  of  a  History  of  the  Early  Drama  and  Stage  to  the  time 
of  Shakspeare,  a  full  and  comprehensive  Life,  by  J.  PAYNE  COLLIER, 
A.M.,  Shakspeare's  Will,  critical  and  historical  Introductions  to  each 
play,  and  thirty-five  full-page  tinted  engravings,  from  designs  by 
Nicholson,  a  superb  portrait  on  steel  from  the  celebrated  Droeshout 
picture,  and  beautiful  engraved  title  on  steel.  Imperial  8vo.  1084 
pages.  Half  calf,  gilt,  $8.75  ;  full  Turkey  morocco,  $10.00. 

POEMS  AND  SONNETS.  With  a  fine  engraving  on  steel.  32mo. 
Cloth,  60  cts.;  illuminated  side,  90  cts.;  Turkey  morocco,  $1.50. 

THOMAS  PERCY  D.D.,  Bishop  of  Dromore. 

RELIQUES  OF  ANCIENT  ENGLISH  POETRY:  consisting  of  Old 
Heroic  Ballads,  Songs,  and  other  pieces  of  the  earlier  poets,  with 
some  of  later  date,  not  included  in  any  other  edition.  To  which  is 
now  added  a  Supplement  of  many  Curious  Historical  and  Narrative 
Ballads,  reprinted  from  rare  copies,  with  a  copious  glossary  and 
notes.  New  edition,  uniform  with  the  above.  558  pp.  Imperial 
8vo.  Two  steel  plates.  Fine  cloth,  bev.  bds.,  gilt,  $3.75;  sheep, 
library  style,  $4.50;  full  Turkey  morocco,  $10.00. 

"  But,  above  all,  I  then  first  became  acquainted  with  Bishop  Percy's  Reliques  of  Ancient  Poetry. 
....  I  remember  well  the  spot  where  I  read  these  volumes  for  the  first  time.  It  was  beneath  a 
huge  platanus  tree,  in  the  ruins  of  what  had  been  intended  for  an  old-fashioned  arbor,  in  the  garden 
I  have  mentioned.  The  summer  day  sped  around  so  fast  that,  notwithstanding  the  sharp  appetite 
of  thirteen,  I  forgot  the  hour  of  dinner,  was  sought  for  with  anxiety,  and  was  still  found  entranced 
in  my  intellectual  banquet.  To  read  and  to  remember  was  in  this  instance  the  same  thing,  and 
henceforth  I  overwhelmed  my  schoolfellows,  and  all  who  would  hearken  to  me,  with  tragical  recita 
tions  from  the  ballads  of  Bishop  Percy.  The  first  time  I  could  scrape  a  few  shillings  together,  which 
were  not  common  occurrences  with  me,  I  bought  unto  myself  a  copy  of  these  beloved  volumes,  nor  do 
I  believe  I  ever  read  a  book  half  so  frequently,  or  with  half  the  enthusiasm." — Memoirs  of  his  Early 
Life,  by  Sir  Walter  Scott,  p>  efixed  to  Lockharfs  Life  of  Scott. 

LORD  BYRON. 

COMPLETE  WORKS.  Prose  and  Poetry.  With  five  engravings  on 
steel.  Imp.  8vo.  Sheep,  library  style,  $4.50 ;  Turkey  morocco,  an 
tique,  $10.00. 

"  If  the  finest  poetry  be  that  which  leaves  the  deepest  impression  on  the  minds  of  its  readers— and 
this  is  not  the  worst  test  of  its  excellence — Lord  Byron,  we  think,  must  be  allowed  to  take  precedence 
of  all  his  distinguished  contemporaries.  'Words  that  breathe,  and  thoughts  that  burn,'  are  not 
merely  ornaments,  but  the  common  staple  of  his  poetry  ;  and  he  is  not  inspired  or  impressive  only  in 
some  happy  passages,  but  through  the  whole  body  and  tissue  of  his  composition."— Lord  Jeffrey, 
Edinburgh.  Review. 

THE  MORAL  AND  BEAUTIFUL  IN  THE  POEMS  OF  LORD 
BYRON.  Edited  by  REV.  WALTER  COLTON.  32mo.  Cloth,  60  cts.; 
illuminated  side,  90  cts. ;  Turkey  morocco,  $1.50. 


PORTER  A  COATES'  PUBLICATIONS. 


WILSON  AND  BONAPARTE. 

AMERICAN  ORNITHOLOGY;  or,  The  Natural  History  of  the  Birds 
of  the  United  States.  Illustrated  with  plates  engraved  and  colored 
from  original  drawings  from  nature.  With  a  sketch  of  the  life  of  the 
author,  by  GEORGE  ORD,  F.R.S.,  &c.,  &c.,  with  Bonaparte's  continu 
ation,  containing  the  Natural  History  of  Birds  inhabiting  the  United 
States,  not  given  by  Wilson.  With  figures  drawn,  engraved  and 
colored  from  nature,  by  Charles  Lucien  Bonaparte  (Prince  of  Musig- 
nano).  Complete  in  three  volumes,  imperial  8vo. ;  and  a  magnificent 
folio  volume  of  carefully  colored  plates,  embracing  nearly  400  figures 
of  birds,  mostly  life  size.  Elegantly  bound  in  cloth,  extra,  bevelled 
bds.,  gilt  tops,  uncut,  $65.00 ;  half  Turkey  morocco,  marbled  edges, 
$75.00. 

A  new  and  magnificent  edition  of  this  world-renowned  work,  printed  from  new 
stereotype  plates,  on  the  finest  laid  paper,  and  bound  in  the  best  manner.  The  plates 
are  printed  from  the  original  plates  of  Wilson  and  Bonaparte,  engraved  by  Lawson, 
"the  first  ornithological  engraver  of  our  age,"  and  are  carefully  colored,  after  the 
author's  own  copies.  The  superiority  of  this  work  for  accuracy  of  description  and 
naturalness  of  drawing,  has  long  been  acknowledged.  Daniel  Webster  speaks  of  it 
in  the  highest  terms,  saying  that  of  the  salt  water  birds,  mentioned  in  Wilson,  "he 
had  shot  every  one,  and  compared  them  with  his  delineations  and  descriptions,  and 
IN  EVERY  CASE  found  them  PERFECTLY  ACCURATE  TO  NATURE."  And  the  London 
Quarterly  Review  characterized  it  as  "an  admirable  work,  unequalled  by  any  publi 
cation  in  the  old  world,  for  accurate  delineation  and  just  description.  A  moment's 
comparison  of  this  work  with  any  other  on  the  same  subject,  will  convince  the  most 
skeptical  of  its  great  superiority.  As  a  specimen  of  American  bookmaking,  it  has 
never  been  surpassed,  and,  at  the  low  price  it  is  now  offered,  should  be  in  every  public 
and  private  library  of  any  pretensions." 

CERVANTES. 

THE  HISTORY  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  DON  QUIXOTE  DE  LA 
MANCHA.  From  the  Spanish  of  Cervantes.  With  six  full-page 
illustrations,  by  Gustave  Dore.  Large  12mo,  cloth,  extra,  $1.50. 

CHARLES  KNIGHT. 

HALF  HOURS  WITH  THE  BEST  AUTHORS.  With  short  Bio 
graphical  and  Critical  Notices.  Elegantly  printed  on  the  finest 
paper.  With  fine  steel  portraits.  6  vols.,  crown  8vo.  cloth,  bev. 
boards,  gilt  tops,  $9.00;  half  calf,  gilt,  $18.00;  half  morocco,  gilt 
tops,  $18.00;  or  bound  in  3  vols.,  thick  crown  8vo.,  fine  English 
cloth,  bev.  boards,  gilt  tops,  per  set,  $7.50  ;  half  calf,  gilt,  $12.00. 

Selecting  some  choice  passage  of  the  best  standard  authors,  of  sufficient  length  to 
occupy  half  an  hour  in  its  perusal,  there  is  here  food  for  thought  for  every  day  in  the 
year ;  so  that  if  the  purchaser  will  devote  but  one  half  hour  each  day  to  its  appropri 
ate  selection,  he  will  read  through  these  six  volumes  in  one  year,  and  in  such  a 
leisurely  manner  that  the  noblest  thoughts  of  many  of  the  greatest  minds  will  be 
firmly  implanted  in  his  mind  forever.  For  every  Sunday  there  is  a  suitable  selection 
from  some  of  the  most  eminent  writers  in  sacred  literature.  We  venture  to  say,  if 
the  editor's  idea  is  carried  out,  the  reader  will  possess  more  information  and  a  better 
knowledge  of  the  English  classics  at  the  end  of  the  year  than  he  would  by  five  years 
of  desultory  reading.  The  variety  of  reading  is  so  great  that  no  one  will  ever  tire  of 
these  volumes.  It  is  a  library  in  itself. 


PORTER  A  COATES'  PUBLICATIONS. 


A  CHARMING  WORK. 

MOTHER  GOOSE  IN  HER  NEW  DRESS.  A  Series  of  Charming 
Sketches,  beautifully  chromo-lithographed.  This  book  will  create  a 
sensation.  The  distinguished  authoress  designed  the  original  of  this 
work  as  a  birth-day  gift  to  her  father,  who  occupies  one  of  the  highest 
positions  in  the  United  States  government,  but  several  connoisseurs 
happening  to  see  it  were  so  struck  by  its  merits,  that  she  was  in 
duced  to  have  it  published.  Mother  Goose  never  looked  so  charm 
ing  as  she  does  in  her  present  dress.  Cloth,  extra,  beautifully  bound, 
with  linen  guards,  $3.75;  full  gilt,  bev.  boards,  $4.50. 

MISS  JANE  PORTER. 

The  two  following  are  new  stereotype  editions,  in  large,  clear  type,  with  initial 
letters,  head  and  tail  pieces,  &c.  The  illustrations  were  designed  expressly  for  this 
edition,  and  engraved  in  the  highest  style  of  art. 

THE  SCOTTISH  CHIEFS.  Illustrated  by  F.  0.  C.  BARLEY.  Crown 
8vo.,  748  pp.  Fine  English  cloth,  gilt.  Price,  $1.50 ;  half  calf,  gilt, 
$3.50. 

"  Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  a  conversation  with  King  George  IV,  in  the  library  at  Carlton  House,  ad 
mitted  that  'The  Scottish  Chiefs'  suggested  his  'Waverley  Novels.'"— Allibone's  Dictionary  of 
Authors. 

"  This  is  a  new  and  by  far  the  best  edition  of  a  national  romance  which  has  been  as  much  read  and 
admired  as  almost  any  of  Scott's  or  Dickens's  novels.  It  is  low-priced,  well  printed,  and  handsomely 
bound.  Thousands  of  readers  will  be  glad  to  go  over  this  stirring  tale  once  more." — Philadelphia 
Press. 

ROBERT  McCLURE,  M.D.,  V.S. 

THE  AMERICAN  GENTLEMAN'S  STABLE  GUIDE.  Containing 
a  Familiar  Description  of  the  American  Stable ;  the  most  approved 
Method  of  Feeding,  Grooming,  and  General  Management  of  Horses ; 
together  with  Directions  for  the  Care  of  Carriages,  Harness,  &c. 
Expressly  adapted  for  the  owners  of  equipages  and  fine  horses. 
Cloth  extra,  illustrated.  $1.50. 

A  handy  manual,  giving  to  the  owner  of  a  horse  just  the  information  of  a  practical 
nature  that  he  often  feels  the  need  of,  and  by  an  author  who  thoroughly  understands 
what  he  is  writing  about,  and  what  is  needed  by  every  gentleman. 

"  Such  a  treatise  has  been  needed  for  years,  and  we  think  this  volume  will  supply  the  want.  The 
illustrations  are  very  good  and  timely."— Pittsburg  Daily  Gazette. 

JOHN  J.  THOMAS. 

THE  AMERICAN  FRUIT  CULTURIST.  Containing  Practical  Di 
rections  for  the  Propagation  and  Culture  of  Fruit  Trees  in  the 
Nursery,  Orchard,  and  Gardens.  With  Descriptions  of  the  Principal 
American  and  Foreign  Varieties  cultivated  in  the  United  States. 
Second  edition.  Illustrated  with  480  accurate  figures.  Crown  8vo. 
Cloth  extra,  bev.  bds.,  gilt  back.  $3.00. 

Unanimously  pronounced  the  most  thorough,  practical,  and  comprehensive  work 
published.  The  engravings  are  not  copies  of  old  cuts  from  other  books,  but  are 
mainly  original  with  the  author. 


PORTER  &  COATES'  PUBLICATIONS. 


MRS.  ANNA  JAMESON. 

LIVES  OF  CELEBRATED  FEMALE  SOVEREIGNS  AND  ILLUS 
TRIOUS  WOMEN.  Edited  by  Mary  E.  Hewitt.  With  four  Por 
traits  on  Steel.  16mo.,  beautifully  printed  on  laid  paper.  Cloth, 
extra,  $1.50. 

The  celebrated  Mrs.  Jameson,  who  wields  a  powerful,  ready,  and  pleasant  pen,  has 
taken  hold  of  some  of  the  leading  events  in  the  brilliant  lives  of  some  of  the  most 
world-noted  women,  and  depicted  them  in  very  attractive  colors.  It  is  a  lovely  book 
for  young  ladies,  and  will  give  them  a  taste  for  history. 

J.  H.  WALSH,  F.R.C.S.  ("  Stonehenge.") 

THE  HORSE  IN  THE  STABLE  AND  THE  FIELD ;  his  Manage 
ment  in  Health  and  Disease.  From  the  last  London  edition,  with 
copious  Notes  and  Additions,  by  ROBERT  McCiAJRE,  M.D.,  V.S.,  au 
thor  of  "  Diseases  in  the  American  Stable,  Field,  and  Farmyard," 
with  an  Essay  on  the  American  Trotting  Horse,  and  suggestions  on 
the  Breeding  and  Training  of  Trotters,  by  ELLWOOD  HARVEY,  M.D. 
With  80  engravings,  and  full-page  engravings  from  photographs 
from  life.  Crown  8vo.  Cloth,  extra,  bev.  bds.  $2.50. 

"This  Americanizing  of  'Stonehenge'  gives  us  the  best  piece  of  Horse  Literature  of  the  season. 
Old  horsemen  need  not  be  told  who  'Stonehenge '  is  in  the  British  Books,  or  that  he  is  the  highest 
authority  in  turf  and  veterinary  affairs.  Add  to  these  the  labors  of  such  American  writers  as  Dr. 
McClure  and  Dr.  Harvey,  with  new  portraits  of  some  of  our  most  popular  living  horses,  and  we  have  a 
book  that  no  American  horseman  can  afford  to  be  without." — Ohio  Farmer,  Cleveland.  April  24, 1869. 

"  It  sustains  its  claim  to  be  the  only  work  which  has  brought  together  in  a  single  volume,  and  in 
clear,  concise,  and  comprehensive  language,  adequate  information  on  the  various  subjects  of  which 
it  treats."— Harper's  Magazine,  July,  1869. 

THADDEUS  NORRIS. 

AMERICAN  FISH  CULTURE.  Giving  all  the  details  of  Artificial 
Breeding  and  Rearing  of  Trout,  Salmon,  Shad,  and  other  Fishes. 
12mo.,  illustrated.  $1.75. 

" '  Norris's  American  Fish  Culture,'  published  in  this  city  by  Porter  &  Coates,  is  passing  around 
the  world  as  a  standard.  Mr.  Norris's  authority  will  be  quoted  beside  the  tributaries  of  the  Ganges, 
as  already  by  those  of  the  Hudson,  the  Humber,  and  the  Thames.  The  English  publishers  of  the 
book  are  Sampson  Low,  Son  &  Co. ;  and  a  late  number  of  the  Athenaeum,  after  an  attentive  review 
of  Mr.  Norris's  methods,  concludes  thus:/' Mr.  Norris  has  rendered  good  service  to  the  important 
subject  offish  culture  by  the  present  publication  ;  and,  although  his  book  goes  over  ground  (or  water 
rather)  occupied  to  a  great  extent  by  English  writers  on  fish  culture,  it  contains  several  particulars 
respecting  this  art  as  practised  in  the  United  States,  which  are  valuable,  and  may  be  turned  to  profit 
able  account  by  our  pisciculturists.'  " — Philadelphia  Evening  Bulletin. 

THE  AMERICAN  ANGLER'S  BOOK.  Embracing  the  Natural  His 
tory  of  Sporting  Fish,  and  the  Art  of  Taking  Them.  With  Instruc 
tions  in  Fly  Fishing,  Fly  Making,  and  Rod  Making  ;  and  Directions 
for  Fish  Breeding.  To  which  is  added  Dies  Piscatoriae  ;  describing 
noted  fishing-places,  and  the  pleasure  of  solitary  fly  fishing.  New 
edition,  with  a  supplement,  containing  a  Description  of  Salmon 
Rivers,  Inland  Trout  Fishing,  &c.  Illustrated  with  eighty  engrav 
ings.  8vo.,  cloth  extra.  $5.50. 

"  Mr.  Norris  has  produced  the  best  book  on  Angling  that  has  been  published  in  our  time.  If  other 
authors  would  follow  Mr.  Norris's  example,  and  not  write  upon  a  subject  until  they  had  practically 
mastered  it,  we  should  have  fewer  and  better  works.  His  volume  will  live.  It  is  thoroughly  in 
structive,  good-tempered,  and  genial." — Philadelphia  Press. 


PORTER  &  COATES'  PUBLICATIONS. 


CECIL  B.  HARTLEY. 

LIFE  OF  THE  EMPEESS  JOSEPHINE,  Wife  of  Napoleon  I.  With 
a  fine  Portrait  on  Steel.  16mo.  Printed  on  fine  laid  paper.  Cloth, 
extra,  $1.50. 

"  Her  career  and  her  character  were  alike  remarkable ;  surrounded  by  the  demoralizations  of  the 
French  Court,  she  was  a  Roman  matron  in  stern  rectitude,  with  a  pre-eminent  fidelity  to  a  sensitive 
conscience  ;  and  blended  comprehensive  genius  with  a  warm  heart  and  a  noble  personal  presence. 
She  was  the  peer  of  Napoleon,  and  in  some  respects  his  superior.  Her  executive  force  was  less,  but 
her  foresight  was  greater.  It  is  to  her  that  the  index  finger  of  history  points,  as  an  example  of 
female  grandeur.  Napoleon  got  a  divorce  from  her  because  he  wished  his  seed  to  inherit  the  French 
Crown.  The  son  born  of  his  Hapsburg  marriage  died  crownless,  while  the  grandson  of  Josephine 

now  wears  the  purple  of  France — this  ia  more  than  poetic  justice In  the  book  before  us,  the 

story  of  her  life  is  told  in  a  simple,  classic  style,  and  possesses  a  fascination  rarely  met  with  in  biog- 
raphy."— Chicago  Evening  Journal. 

MAKGARET  HOSMER. 

Author  of  "  Cherry,  the  Missionary,"  "  Grandma  Merritt's  Stories,"  "  The  Voyage 
of  the  White  Falcon,"  &c.,  &c. 

LITTLE  ROSIE'S  FIRST  PLAY  DAYS.  Illustrated.  18mo.,  160 
pp.,  75  cents. 

LITTLE  ROSIE'S  CHRISTMAS  TIMES.  Illustrated.  18mo.,  160 
pp.,  75  cents. 

LITTLE  ROSIE  IN  THE  COUNTRY.  Illustrated.  18mo.,  160  pp., 
75  cents. 

"  Very  nice  children's  books,  indeed,  and  we  only  wish  that  we  had  more  space  to  say  so,  and  more 
time  to  say  it  in.  Any  present-giving  fathers,  mothers,  uncles,  aunts,  brothers,  or  sisters,  who  have 
a  care  for  the  little  people,  may  safely  order  these  for  home  consumption." — The  Hartford  Churchman. 

"  A  charming  series  of  stories  for  the  younger  class  of  readers,  full  of  interesting  incidents  and 
good  moral  and  religious  instruction,  brought  down  to  the  comprehension  of  a  child  in  such  a  way  as 
to  produce  a  salutary  impression.  They  are  calculated  also  to  teach  parents  how  to  keep  children 
employed  in  what  is  pleasant  and  useful,  thus  superseding  the  necessity  of  imposing  so  many  re 
straints  to  keep  them  from  evil.  This  is  apt  to  be  the  great  fault  in  the  management  of  children. 
They  are  given  nothing  innocent  and  useful  with  which  to  employ  their  active,  restless  minds,  and 
then  parents  wonder  that  they  need  be  always  in  mischief.  Rosie's  mother  better  comprehended 
the  wants  of  a  child,  and  forestalled  temptations  to  evil  by  incentives  to  good."— Springfield  Daily 
Union. 

UNDER  THE  HOLLY ;  or,  Christmas  at  Hopeton  Grange.     A  Book 

for  Girls.     By  MRS.  HOSMER  and  Miss  .     12mo.     Illustrated. 

Cloth,  extra,  $1.50. 

"  And  this  we  can  and  do  most  confidently  recommend  to  parents  who  are  faithfully  striving  to  pro 
vide  only  wholesome  food  for  the  intellectual  appetite  of  their  children.  The  tone  of  the  book  ia 
pure  and  healthful,  the  style  easy  and  graceful,  and  the  incidents  are  such  as  to  give  pleasure  with 
out  at  all  kindling  the  passion  for  exciting  fiction,  which  is  so  rampant  among  the  young  people 
of  our  day." — Maryland  Church  Record. 

"This  i's  entitled,  '  A  Book  for  Girls,'  but  it  would  interest  the  youth  of  either  sex.  It  is  a  succes 
sion  of  tales  told  at  the  Christmas  season.  We  can  recommend  them  all  for  their  interest  and  moral. 
It  is  for  'children  of  a  larger  growth,'  not  a  mere  story-book  for  the  little  ones." — Philadelphia 
Daily  Age. 

LENNY,  THE  ORPHAN;  or,  Trials  and  Triumphs.  Illustrated  by 
Faber.  16mo.  Price,  $1.25. 

"  A  story  book  of  an  orphan  boy,  who  is  thrown  loose  upon  the  world  by  a  conflagration,  in  which 
his  mother  and  only  surviving  parent  is  burnt.  The  varieties  of  experience,  both  sorrowful  and 
happy,  through  which  the  boy  passes,  are  wrought  up  into  a  story  of  no  little  power,  and  yet  are 
such  aa  often  occur  in  actual  life.  The  religious  teachings  of  the  book  are  good,  and  penetrate  the 
entire  structure  of  the  story.  We  recommend  it  cordially  to  a  place  in  the  Sunday-school  library."— 
Sunday  School  Times,  Philadelphia. 

"  The  author  of  this  book  has  written  some  of  the  best  Sunday-school  books  which  have  recently 
been  issued  from  the  press  of  the  American  Sunday-School  Union.  The  volume  before  us  portrays 
the  trials  of  a  little  boy,  who  loses  his  mother  in  early  life,  and  is  subjected  to  the  intrigues  of  a  de 
signing  person,  from  which  he  obtains  a  happy  deliverance.  The  story  is  well  planned  and  writ- 
ten,  and  its  moral  and  religious  lessons  are  good." — Weekly  Freedman,  New  Brunswick,  N.  J. 


PUBLICATIONS. 


REGINA  MARIA  ROCHE. 

THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY.     Illustrated  by  F.  O.  C.  DARLEY. 

Uniform  with  "  The  Scottish  Chiefs."     Crown  8vo.,  646  pp.     Fine 
English  cloth,  gilt.     Price,  $1.50  ;  half  calf,  gilt,  $3.50. 

"  This  classic  is  more  neatly  published  in  the  new  edition  than  we  have  ever  seen  it.  It  was  long 
a  standard,  and  had  more  favor  than  '  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw,'  and  it  deserved  better.  It  takes  a  new 
lease  of  existence  now,  and  we  almost  envy  those  who  read  it  for  the  first  time."— North  American, 
Philadelphia. 

OLIVER  BUNCE. 

ROMANCE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION.  Being  true  Stories  of  the 
Thrilling  Adventures,  Romantic  Incidents,  Hair-breadth  Escapes 
and  Heroic  Exploits  of  the  Days  of  '76.  Laid  paper,  with  six  illus 
trations.  16mo.,  cloth,  extra,  $1.50. 

"While  the  principal  events  of  the  history  of  our  glorious  Revolution  are  known  to 
every  intelligent  American,  much  remains  to  be  disclosed  of  the  inner  history  of  the 
war,  and  the  motives  and  patriotism  of  the  people.  There  were  deeds  of  individual 
daring,  heroism  worthy  of  the  proudest  days  of  Greece  and  Rome,  dashing  and 
hazardous  enterprises,  and  hardships  bravely  borne,  performed  by  subalterns  and 
private  soldiers  in  the  grand  army  of  heroes,  which  should  never  be  forgotten.  To 
collect  and  preserve  the  sketches  of  these  almost  forgotten  passages  of  the  war,  as  they 
originally  appeared  in  the  newspapers  and  private  letters  of  that  stirring  period,  and 
the  stories  told  by  scarred  veterans  round  the  blazing  hearthstone ;  these  legends  of 
the  past;  has  been-  the  object  of  this  work,  and  the  publishers  are  confident  that  none 
will  rise  from  its  perusal  without  acknowledging  that  "  truth  is  stranger  than  fiction," 
and  with  a  deeper  feeling  of  reverence  for  the  heroes  of  the  days  of  '76. 

JAMES  HOGG,  the  Ettrick  Shepherd. 

THE  MOUNTAIN  BARD  AND  FOREST  MINSTREL.  Legendary 
Songs  and  Ballads.  With  two  fine  engravings  on  steel.  32mo., 
cloth,  60  cents;  illuminated  side,  90  cents;  Turkey  morocco,  $1.50. 

"  He  is  a  poet,  in  the  highest  acceptation  of  the  name."— Lord  Jeffrey. 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 

POETICAL  WORKS.  With  a  fine  engraving  on  steel.  32mo.,  cloth, 
60  cents;  illuminated  side,  90  cents;  Turkey  morocco,  $1.50. 

ROBERT  BLOOMPIELD. 

THE  FARMER'S  BOY,  and  other  Poems.  Illustrated  with  a  fine  en 
graving  on  steel.  32mo.,  cloth,  60  cents;  illuminated  side,  90  cents; 
Turkey  morocco,  $1.50. 

"  Few  compositions  in  the  English  language  have  been  BO  generally  admired  as  the  Farmer's  Boy. 
Those  who  agreed  in  but  little  else  in  literary  matters,  were  unanimous  in  the  commendation  of  the 
poetical  powers  displayed  by  the  peasant  and  journeyman  mechanic."— Allibone's  Dictionary  of 
Authors. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 

POETICAL  WORKS.  With  a  fine  engraving  on  steel.  32mo.,  cloth, 
60  cents;  illuminated  side,  90  cents;  Turkey  morocco,  $1.50. 

"  Burns  is  by  far  the  greatest  poet  that  ever  sprang  from  the  bosom  of  the  people,  and  lived  and 
died  in  an  humble  condition.  Indeed,  no  country  in  the  world  but  Scotland  could  have  produced 
such  a  man ;  and  he  will  be  forever  regarded  as  the  glorious  representative  of  the  genius  of  his 
country.  He  was  born  a  poet  if  ever  man  was."— Prof.  Wilson's  Essay  on  Burns. 


PORTER  &  COATES'  PUBLICATIONS.  9 

WILLIAM  DODD,  LL.D. 

THE  BEAUTIES  OF  SHAKSPEARE.  From  the  last  London  edition, 
with  large  additions,  and  the  author's  latest  corrections.  With  two 
fine  engravings  on  steel.  Fine  edition,  on  toned  paper,  with  carmine 
border.  Square  24mo.  Cloth,  gilt  edges,  fl.50;  Turkey,  $3.00; 
32mo.,  cloth,  60  cents;  illuminated  side,  90  cents;  Turkey  morocco, 
$1.50. 

This  republication  of  a  book  so  universally  and  deservedly  popular  as  Dodd's 
Beauties,  makes  it  peculiarly  valuable  as  a  gift  book. 

THOMAS  HOOD. 

POETICAL  WORKS.  With  a  fine  engraving  on  steel.  32mo.  Cloth, 
60  cents;  illuminated  side,  90  cents;  Turkey  morocco,  $1.50. 

"  Hood's  verse,  whether  serious  or  comic, — whether  serene,  like  a  cloudless  autumn  evening,  or 
sparkling  with  puns  like  a  frosty  January  midnight  with  stars,— was  ever  pregnant  with  materials 

for  thought Like  every  author  distinguished  for  true  comic  humor,  there  was  a  deep  vein  of 

melancholy  pathos  running  through  his  mirth ;  and  even  when  his  sun  shone  brightly,  its  light 
seemed  often  reflected  as  if  only  over  the  rim  of  a  cloud."— D.  M.  Moir. 

THOMAS  MOORE. 

THE  MORAL  AND  BEAUTIFUL  FROM  THE  POEMS  OF.  Edited 
by  REV.  WALTER  COLTON,  author  of  "Deck  and  Port,"  &c.,  &c. 
With  a  fine  engraving  on  steel.  32mo.  Cloth,  60  cents ;  illuminated 
sides,  90  cents;  Turkey  morocco,  $1.50. 

"  The  combinations  of  his  wit  are  wonderful.  Quick,  subtle,  and  varied,  ever  suggesting  new 
thoughts  or  images,  or  unexpected  turns  of  expression — now  drawing  resources  from  classical  litera 
ture  or  of  the  ancient  fathers— now  diving  into  the  human  heart,  and  now  skimming  the  fields  of 
fancy — the  wit  or  imagination  of  Moore  (for  they  are  compounded  together),  is  a  true  Ariel,  'a  crea 
ture  of  the  elements,'  that  is  ever  buoyant  and  full  of  life  and  spirit.''—  Chambers^  Eng.  Lit. 

MISS  H.  B.  McKEEVER. 

Author  of  "  The  Flounced  Robe,  and  What  it  Cost,"  "  Edith's  Ministry,"  "  Wood- 
cliffe,"  "Silver  Threads,"  &c.,  &c. 

"  These  stories  have  the  merit  of  being  entertaining,  instructive,  and  really  much  superior  to  the 
common  run  of  Juveniles.  The  Springfield  Republican,  which  is  competent  authority,  pronounces 
them  the  best  and  handsomest  Juvenile  Books  of  the  season." — Lyons  Republican. 

"  Miss  McKeever  always  writes  with  point  and  meaning,  and  in  a  manner  to  gain  and  hold  the 
attention."— Sunday-School  Times. 

ELEANOR'S  THREE  BIRTHDAYS.  "  Charity  seeketh  not  her  own." 
Illustrated.  16mo.,  295  pp.,  $1.00. 

MARY  LESLIE'S  TRIALS.  "Is  not  easily  provoked."  Illustrated. 
16mo.,  $1.00. 

LUCY  FORRESTER'S  TRIUMPHS.  "  Thinketh  no  evil,  believeth  all 
things,  hopeth  all  things."  Illustrated.  16mo.  Price,  $1.00. 

JEAN  RODOLPHE  WYSS. 

THE  SWISS  FAMILY  ROBINSON  ;  or,  the  Adventures  of  a  Father, 
Mother,  and  four  Sons  on  a  Desert  Island.  Two  parts,  complete  in 
one  volume.  Illustrated.  Large  12mo.  Cloth,  extra,  price  $1.50. 


10  PORTER  &  COATES*  PUBLICATIONS. 

ADVENTURES  IN  CANADA  ;  or,  Life  in  the  Woods.     16mo.,  illus 
trated.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

This  is  not  a  mere  work  of  fiction,  but  the  true  narrative  of  a  bright  boy  who 
roughed  it  in  the  bush  when  Canada,  the  home  of  adventure  and  sporting,  was  much 
wilder  than  it  is  now.  The  boys,  especially,  will  be  charmed  with  the  adventures 
with  Indians,  bears,  and  wolves,  the  raccoon  hunts  and  duck  shooting ;  while  the  older 
class  of  readers  will  be  drawn  to  it  by  its  charming  description  of  the  scenery  and 
condition  of  what  may,  before  long,  become  a  part  of  the  United  States. 

ANNE  BOWMAN. 

THE  BEAR  HUNTERS  OF  THE  ROCKY  MOUNTAINS.     16mo.,  il 
lustrated.     Cloth,  extra,  $1.25. 

A  story  of  trapper  life  in  the  Kocky  Mountains.  A  better  insight  of  real  life  in 
these  uncivilized  wilds  is  gained  from  books  like  this  than  from  scores  of  the  dry  de 
tails  of  travellers. 

R.  M.  BALLANTYNE. 

New  and  beautiful  editions  of  these  world-renowned  books,  second  only  to  those  of 
Cooper  and  Marryat,  and  better  than  those  of  Mayne  Keid,  in  the  pictures  presented 
to  the  reader  of  wild  life  among  the  Indians,  the  hairbreadth  escapes  and  fierce  de 
lights  of  a  hunter's  life,  and  the  perils  of  "  Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave."  Ballantyne's 
name  is  well  known  to  every  intelligent  boy  of  spirit.  Leading  the  reader  into  the 
jungles  and  forests  of  Africa,  sweeping  over  the  vast  expanse  of  our  Western  prairies, 
"fast  in  the  ice"  of  the  Polar  regions,  or  coasting  the  shores  of  sunny  climes,  he 
ever  presents  new  and  enchanting  pictures  of  adventure  or  beauty  to  enchain  the 
attention,  absorb  the  interest,  excite  the  feelings,  and  always  at  the  same  time  in 
structing  the  reader. 

THE  GORILLA  HUNTERS.    A  Tale  of  the  Wilds  of  Africa.     16mo., 
illustrated,  cloth,  extra,  $1.25. 

"  Thoroughly  at  home  on  subjects  of  adventure.  Like  all  his  stories  for  boys,  thrilling  in  interest 
and  abounding  in  incidents  of  every  kind."— The  Quiver,  London. 

THE  DOG  CRUSOE.     A  Tale  of  the  Western  Prairies.     16mo.,  illus 
trated,  cloth,  extra,  $1.25. 

"This  is  another  of  Mr.  Ballantyne's  excellent  stories  for  the  young.  They  are  all  well  written, 
full  of  romantic  incidents,  and  are  of  no  doubtful  moral  tendency;  on  the  contrary,  they  are  invari 
ably  found  to  embody  sentiments  of  true  piety,  manliness  and  virtue."— Inverness' Advertiser. 

GASCOYNE,  THE  SANDAL-WOOD  TRADER.     A  Tale  of  the  Pa 
cific.     16mo.,  illustrated,  cloth,  extra,  $1.25. 

"Q-ascoyne  will  rivet  the  attention  of  every  one,  whether  old  or  young,  who  peruses  it."— Edin 
burgh  Courant. 

FREAKS  ON  THE  FELLS;  or,  Three  Months'  Rustication.    And  why 
I  did  not  become  a  Sailor.     Illustrated,  16mo.,  cloth,  extra,  $1.25. 

"  Mr.  Ballantyne's  name  on  the  title-page  of  a  book,  has  for  some  years  been  a  guarantee  to  buyers 
that  the  volume  is  cheap  at  its  price."— London  Athenceum. 

THE  WILD  MAN  OF  THE  WEST.     A  Tale  of  the  Rocky  Mountains. 
16mo.     Illustrated,  cloth,  extra,  $1.25. 

This  is  generally  considered  the  best  of  Mr.  Ballantyne's  famous  narratives  of 
Indian  warfare  and  border  life.  In  this  field  he  is  second  only  to  Cooper. 

SHIFTING  WINDS.    A  Story  of  the  Sea.     Cloth,  extra,  illustrated, 
$1.25. 


11 


B.  M.  BALLANTYNE-Second  Series. 


"  Indulgent  fathers  and  good  uncles  will  look  a  longtime  before  they  will  find  books  more  interest- 
ing  or  instructive  for  boys  than  these.  In  the  four  volumes  the  author  introduces  his  young  readers 
to  the  wonders  of  the  Arctic  regions,  the  wild  hunting-grounds  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company,  the 
rugged  coast  and  midnight  sun  of  Norway,  and  the  exciting  chase  of  the  monsters  of  the  deep  on  the 
pathless  fields  of  the  ocean.  He  is  quite  at  home  among  the  scenes  he  describes,  and  has  the  faculty 
of  taking  the  boys  along  with  him  in  his  narrative,  and  making  them  feel  at  home  in  his  company. 
His  object  is  to  give  information  and  to  inculcate  sound  principles  of  virtue,  and  he  mingles  enough 
of  fancy  with  the  fact  and  the  moral  lesson  to  make  both  more  impressive  and  the  more  sure  to  be 
remembered.  The  boy  who  reads  these  volumes  at  the  time  when  his  mind  is  most  susceptible  to  the 
stirring  scenes  of  peril  and  adventure,  will  cultivate  a  taste  for  more  complete  and  elaborate  works 
of  travel  and  discovery,  in  mature  years."— Rev.  Daniel  March,  D.D. 

FIGHTING  THE  WHALES;  or,  Doings  and  Dangers  on  a  Fishing 

Cruise.      With  four  full-page  illustrations.      18mo.,  illustrated,  75 

cents. 
AWAY  IN  THE  WILDERNESS  ;  or,  Life  Among  the  Red  Indians  and 

Fur-Traders  of  North  America.     ISmo.,  illustrated,  cloth,  extra,  75 

cents. 

It  is  one  of  the  most  delightful  books  this  famed  author  has  written.  "Whilst  de 
scribing  the  exciting  adventures  of  Indian  life,  he  conveys  new  and  attractive  infor 
mation  about  the  far  north  portion  of  our  continent. 

Seldom,  if  ever,  has  there  been  a  better  description  of  life  in  the  lands  of  the  Hud 
son's  Bay  Company,  than  is  found  in  this  little  work. 

FAST  IN  THE  ICE  ;  or,  Adventures  in  the  Polar  Regions.  18mo.,  il 
lustrated.  Cloth,  extra,  75  cents. 

"  Is  attractive  and  useful.  There  is  no  more  practical  way  of  communicating  elementary  informa 
tion  than  that  which  has  been  adopted  in  this  series.  When  we  see  contained  in  144  small  pages, 
as  in  •  Fast  in  the  Ice,'  such  information  as  men  of  fair  education  should  possess  about  icebergs, 
Northern  lights,  Esquimaux,  musk-oxen,  bears,  walruses,  &c.,  together  with  all  the  ordinary  inci 
dents  of  an  Arctic  voyage,  woven  into  a  clear  connected  narrative,  we  must  admit  that  a  good  work 
has  been  done,  and  that  the  author  deserves  the  gratitude  of  young  people  of  all  classes."— London 
Athenaum. 

CHASING'  THE  SUN ;  or,  Rambles  in  Norway.  18mo.,  illustrated. 
Cloth,  extra,  75  cents. 

Describing  a  country  almost  new  to  us,  the  author  tells  of  many  strange  natural 
curiosities,  of  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  people,  and  the  curious  modes  of  travel 
and  conveyance. 

DANIEL  DE  FOE. 

THE  LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  ROBINSON  CRUSOE.  Includ 
ing  a  Memoir  of  the  Author,  and  an  Essay  on  his  Writings.  Large 
12mo.  Illustrated.  Cloth,  extra.  Price,  $1.50. 

Carefully  printed  from  new  stereotype  plates,  with  large,  clear,  open  type,  this  is 
the  best,  as  well  as  the  cheapest,  edition  of  this  charming  work  published. 

"Perhaps  there  exists  no  work,  either  of  instruction  or  entertainment,  in  the  English  language, 
which  has  been  more  generally  read  and  more  universally  Admired,  than  '  The  Life  and  Adventures 
of  Robinson  Crusoe.'  It  is  difficult  to  say  in  what  the  charm  consists,  by  which  persons  of  all  classes 
and  denominations  are  thus  fascinated  ;  yet  the  majority  of  readers  will  recollect  it  as  among  the 
first  works  that  awakened  and  interested  their  youthful  attention,  and  feel,  even  in  advanced  life 
and  in  the  maturity  of  their  understanding,  that  there  are  still  associated  with  Robinson  Crusoe  the 
sentiments  peculiar  to  that  period,  when  all  is  bright,  which  the  experience  of  after-life  tends  only 
to  darken  and  destroy."— Sir  Walter  Scott. 

D.  W.  BELISLE. 

THE  AMERICAN  FAMILY  ROBINSON ;  or,  The  Adventures  of  a 
Family  lost  in  the  Great  Desert  of  the  West.  16mo.,  illustrated. 
Cloth,  extra,  $1.25. 


12  PORTER  &  COATES'  PUBLICATIONS. 

POSTER'S  TRANSLATION. 

THE  THOUSAND  AND  ONE  NIGHTS ;  or,  The  Arabian  Nights'  En 
tertainment.  A  new  edition.  With  eight  full-page  illustrations 
Large  12mo.,  cloth,  extra,  $1.50. 

"  More  widely  diffused  among  the  nations  of  the  earth  than  any  other  product  of  the  human  mind. 
While  it  is  read  or  recited  to  crowds  of  eager  listeners  in  the  Arab  coffee-houses  of  Asia  and  Africa, 
it  is  just  as  eagerly  perused  on  the  banks  of  the  Tagus,  the  Tiber,  the  Seine,  the  Thames,  the  Hud 
son,  the  Mississippi,  and  the  Ganges While  there  are  children  on  earth  to  love,  so  long  will 

the  'Arabian  Nights'  be  loved."— Appleton's  American  Encyclopedia,  article  "  Arabian  Nights." 

GRIMM. 

POPULAR  GERMAN  TALES  AND  HOUSEHOLD  STORIES.  Col 
lected  by  the  Brothers  Grimm.  With  nearly  200  illustrations  by 
Edward  H.  Wehnert.  Complete  in  one  volume.  New  edition.  Fine 
English  cloth,  bev.  bds.,  full  gilt  back,  and  side  stamp,  $2.50 ;  half 
calf,  gilt,  $4.50. 

The  stories  in  these  volumes  are  world-renowned,  and  they  will  continue  to  be  read 
as  they  long  have  been  in  different  languages,  and  to  charm  and  delight,  not  only 
the  young,  but  many  readers  in  mature  life  who  love  the  recollections  of  childhood 
and  its  innocent  diversions. 

COUNTESS  DE  SEGUR. 

TRENCH  FAIRY  TALES.  Translated  by  Mrs.  Coleman  and  her  daugh 
ters.  With  ten  full-page  illustrations  by  Gustave  Dord  and  Jules 
Didier.  16mo.,  price,  $1.50. 

The  Countess  de  Segur,  the  authoress  of  this  charming  work,  and  the  mother  of 
the  wife  of  the  French  ambassador  at  Florence,  the  brilliant  Baroness  Malaret,  is  a 
Russian  lady,  and  a  daughter  of  the  heroic  Prince  Rostopchin,  who  ordered  the 
burning  of  Moscow  when  Napoleon  captured  that  devoted  city. 

"  Not  many  of  the  fairy  stories  written  for  children  are  so  admirably  contrived  or  so  charmingly 
written  as  these."—  Worcester  Daily  Spy. 

W.  S.  GILBERT. 

THE  BAB  BALLADS;  or,  Much  Sound  and  Little  Sense.  With  113 
illustrations  by  the  author.  Square  12mo.,  cloth,  bev.  gilt  edges, 
$1.75. 

These  Ballads,  first  published  in  periodicals,  rapidly  achieved  a  whimsical  popu 
larity,  which  soon  demanded  their  publication  in  a  collected  form.  Much  of  this  is 
due  to  the  series  of  inexpressibly  funny  drawings  by  the  author,  who  is  happy  in 
being  artist  enough  to  interpret  his  own  humor  in  these  admirable  sketches  :  we  pity 
the  man  who  cannot  appreciate  and  enjoy  them.  The  Ballads  will  rank  with  the 
best  of  Thackeray,  Bon  Gaultier,  or  Ingoldsby.  Let  every  one  who  in  these  dull 
times  has  the  blues,  pi^cure  a  copy  as  the  cheapest  remedy.  While  it  is  a  nearly 
perfect  fac  simile  of  the  English  copy,  it  is  only  half  the  price. 

"  Everybody  likes,  occasionally,  a  little  sensible  nonsense.  '  Mother  Goose '  is  enjoyed  in  child 
hood,  and  something  similar,  but  more  advanced,  is  needed  to  provoke  a  smile  on  a  wearied  face  in 
later  years.  This  volume  of  comic  poems  answers  such  a  purpose  ;  some  of  them  have  a  sly  moral, 
while  others  are  simply  amusing  from  their  supreme  absurdity.  The  mirth  is  aided  by  the  author's 
original  cuts,  which  are  quite  in  keeping  with  the  poetry."— Advance,  Chicago,  the  Great  Religious 
weekly. 


PUBLICATIONS.  13 


C.  M.  METZ. 

DRAWING-BOOK  OF  THE  HUMAN  FIGURE.  With  many  Ex 
amples  from  the  best  Studies  of  the  Old  Masters,  beautifully  engraved 
in  the  first  style  of  the  art.  Folio,  half  morocco,  antique,  $1.50. 

H.  B.  STAUNTON. 

THE  AMERICAN  CHESS  PLAYER'S  HANDBOOK.  Teaching  the 
Rudiments  of  the  Game,  and  giving  an  analysis  of  all  the  recognized 
openings,  amplified  by  appropriate  games  actually  played  by  Morphy, 
Horwitz,  Anderssen,  Staunton,  Paulson,  Montgomery,  Meek,  and 
others.  From  the  work  of  Staunton.  Illustrated.  16mo.,  cloth, 
extra,  bev.  bds.,  $1.25. 

"  Among  the  great  wants  of  students  of  this  noble  game  of  chess  has  been  a  handbook  which 
should  occupy  a  middle  ground  between  the  large  and  expensive  work  of  Staunton  and  the  ten  cent 
guides  with  which  the  country  is  flooded.  This  want  is  happily  supplied  by  the  present  volume.  It 
is  an  abridgment  of  Staunton's  work,  and  contains  full  accounts  and  descriptions  of  the  common 
openings  and  defences,  besides  a  large  number  of  illustrative  games  and  several  endings  and  prob 
lems.  It  is  a  book  which  will  be  decidedly  useful  to  all  beginners  in  the  game,  and  interesting  to 
those  who  are  already  proficient  in  it." — Peoria  Transcript. 

"  Will  prove  an  invaluable  guide  for  the  admirers  of  the  great  and  strategic  game  of  chess.  It 
should  be  in  the  hands  of  every  chess-player." — Galesburg  Republican. 

"  It  is  the  best  manual  for  the  beginner  with  which  we  are  acquainted,— exceedingly  clear  and  in 
telligible."—  New  Orleans  Picayune. 

SARAH  E.  SCOTT. 

EVERY-DAY  COOKERY,  FOR  EVERY  FAMILY.  Containing 
nearly  1000  Receipts  adapted  to  moderate  incomes,  and  comprising 
the  best  and  most  economical  methods  of  roasting,  boiling,  broiling, 
and  stewing  all  kind  of  meat,  fish,  poultry,  game,  and  vegetables ; 
simple  and  inexpensive  instructions  for  making  pies,  puddings,  tarts, 
and  all  other  pastry ;  how  to  pickle  and  preserve  fruits  and  vegeta 
bles  ;  suitable  cookery  for  invalids  and  children  ;  food  in  season,  and 
how  to  choose  it ;  the  best  ways  to  make  domestic  wines  and  syrups, 
and  ample  receipts  for  bread,  cake,  soups,  gravies,  sauces,  desserts, 
jellies,  brandied  fruits,  soaps,  perfumes,  &c.,  &c.,  and  full  directions 
for  carving.  Illustrated.  16mo.,  cloth.  Price,  $1.00. 

MISS  WETHERILL. 

ROBINSON  CRUSOE'S  FARM  YARD;  or,  Stories  and  Anecdotes  of 
Animals,  illustrating  their  Habits.  By  Miss  Wetherill,  author  of 
"Wide,  Wide  World,"  "Queechy,"  "Ellen  Montgomery's  Book 
Shelf,"  &c.  With  eight  full-page  illustrations.  Square  16mo.,  228 
pp.,  cloth,  gilt,  $1.00. 

CONTENTS. — The  Cow ;  The  Horse  ;  The  Chamois  ;  The  Camel ;  The  Keindeer ; 
The  Dog;  The  Monkey;  The  Polar  Bear;  The  Buffalo;  The  Goat;  The  Wolf ;  The 
Beaver;  The  Squirrel;  The  Tiger;  The  Elephant;  The  Sheep;  The  Ermine;  The 
Lion ;  The  Seal ;  The  Stag  ;  The  Hyena ;  The  Hog ;  The  Hare ;  The  Cat. 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

THE  LIBRARY ;  or,  What  Books  to  Read,  and  How  to  Buy  Them.  A 
few  practical  hints,  by  an  old  Bookbuyer.  16rno.,  paper  cover,  10 
cents  per  copy ;  $8.00  per  hundred. 


14  PORTER  &  COATES'  PUBLICATIONS. 

Everybody  has  felt  the  want  of  a  reliable  guide  in  selecting  books  for  their  library. 
In  this  little  manual,  the  author  has  endeavored  first,  in  a  preliminary  essay,  to  point 
out  how  to  read  books  to  the  best  advantage,  and  how  to  buy  them  ;  second,  what 
books  to  buy,  by  giving  lists  of  some  fifteen  hundred  volumes  of  standard  works, 
such  as  are  necessary  to  every  well-selected  library ;  these  are  given  with  the  number 
of  volumes,  the  best  and  different  editions,  and  the  prices.  It  thus  forms  a  complete 
and  intelligent  guide,  as  to  what  is  best  to  buy  .first,  such  as  every  person  of  any  pre 
tensions  to  literary  taste  should  possess. 

THOUGHTS  OF  PEACE;  or,  Strong  Hope  and  Consolation  for  the 
Bearer  of  the  Cross.  From  the  last  London  edition.  Beautifully 
printed  on  tinted  paper,  with  carmine  border.  Square  16mo.  Fine 
English  cloth,  bevelled  boards,  red  edges,  $1.50. 

"  Remarkable  as  the  assertion  is,  that  very  many  of  the  best  works  are  the  product  of  the  chas 
tened  and  afflicted  in  society,  it  is  nevertheless  true  that  the  world  is  greatly  enriched  by  the  presence 
of  invalid  gifted  minds  in  all  ages.  This  delightful  little  volume  is  the  product  of  one  wh'o  has  felt 
the  acuteness  of  disease,  and  it  illustrates  the  experience  of  one  who  has  long  been  an  invalid.  The 
scriptural  texts,  and  poetic  selections,  evince  a  rich  acquaintance  with  the  Scriptures  and  the  poets. 
The  book  is  beautifully  printed  on  toned  paper,  red  line  border,  and  richly  bound.  Many  would 
prize  it  as  a  gift  book."— Pittsburg  Gazette. 

"  This  is  a  reprint  from  the  latest  London  edition,  and  is  a  beautiful  little  work,  both  in  style  of 
typography  and  binding,  and  in  the  sentiments  judiciously  selected  and  collated  from  the  Sacred 
Scriptures  and  poets.  It  comprises  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  of  the  most  soul-comforting  and  in 
spiring  texts  of  the  Bible— one  for  each  day  of  the  year.  Following  each  text  is  a  short  selection 
from  some  hymn,  or  sacred  poem  of  corresponding  sentiment.  No  better  souvenir  could  be  given  to 
one  having  experienced  some  of  life's  sorrows— and  who  has  not !— and  who  has  learned  to  look  for 
consolation  to  Holy  Writ."— Mauch  Chunk  Gazette. 

PAPA'S  BOOK  OF  ANIMALS.  Wild  and  Tame.  Chiefly  from  the 
writings  of  Rev.  J.  G.  WOOD  and  THOS.  BINGLEY.  With  sixteen 
large  and  spirited  drawings,  by  H.  C.  Bispham.  Small  4to.,  fine  En 
glish  cloth,  gilt,  bev.  bds.  Price,  $1.25. 

SLOVENLY  PETER;  or,  Cheerful  Stories  and  Funny  Pictures  for 
Good  Little  Folks.  With  nearly  two  hundred  engravings.  Beauti 
fully  colored.  Printed  on  heavy  paper.  Large  4to.  Cloth,  bevelled 
boards,  extra,  $1.75. 

A  new  edition  of  this  charming  book,  a  standard  among  juveniles.  Surely  lessons 
of  stern  morality  and  humanity  were  never  more  pleasantly  and  effectually  taught 
than  in  this  book.  , 

ROSE  YALLEY  LIBRARY.  6  vols.  32mo.  Illustrated.  In  neat 
box.  Per  vol.,  25  cents. 

Robinson  Crusoe.  Discontented  Tom. 

Eva  Bruen.  Edith  Locke. 

Willie  and  Ned.  Ben  Benson. 

ALLADIN  ;  or,  The  Wonderful  Lamp.  With  fifteen  large  and  beauti 
ful  illustrations,  by  F.  O.  C.  Darley,  Small  4to.,  fine  English  cloth, 
gilt,  bev.  bds.,  $1.50. 

THE  HAPPY  CHILD'S  PICTURES  OF  ANIMALS  AND  BIRDS. 
4to.  Illustrated  with  large  colored  pictures  from  drawings  of 
animals  and  birds,  by  Harrison  Wier.  Fancy  boards.  Price,  45 
cents. 

MOTHER  GOOSE'S  COMPLETE  EDITION  OF  HER  RHYMES, 
CHIMES,  AND  MELODIES.  128  pp.,  profusely  illustrated, 
colored,  square  12mo.  Fancy  boards,  60  cents ;  cloth,  gilt,  75  cts. 


PORTER  &  COATES'  PUBLICATIONS.  15 

LETTER  WRITER. 

THE  GENTLEMAN'S  LETTER-WEITEE.  Bound  in  boards,  cloth 
back.  139  pp.  Price,  35  cents. 

THE  LADY'S  LETTER- WRITER.  Bound  in  boards,  cloth  back. 
139  pp.  Price,  35  cents. 

THE  COMPLETE  LETTER. WRITER.  For  the  use  of  Ladies  and 
Gentlemen ;  containing  both  the  above  bound  in  one  volume. 
273  pp.  Cloth,  gilt.  Price,  75  cents. 

USEFUL  HAND-BOOKS. 

GOOD  MANNERS.  A  Handbook  of  Etiquette  and  the  Usages  of 
Good  Society.  Elegantly  printed,  with  red-line  border.  Square 
24mo.,  cloth,  illuminated  side,  bev.  bds.,  gilt  top,  $1.50. 

FLOWERS;  Their  Language,  Poetry,  and  Sentiment.  With  choicest 
extracts  from  Poets,  a  complete  Dictionary  of  the  Language  and 
Sentiment  of  every  Flower,  with  lists  of  Bouquets  for  every  month, 
Floral  Dial,  &c.,  &c.  The  most  complete  book  on  the  subjoct 
issued.  With  beautiful  colored  plates  of  bouquets.  Elegantly 
printed,  with  red-line  border.  Square  24mo,  cloth,  illuminated 
sides,  bvd.  bds.,  gilt  top,  $1.50. 

THE  ART  OF  PLEASING;  or,  the  American  Lady's  and  Gentle 
man's  Book  of  Etiquette.  The  latest  and  best  small  book  of  Eti 
quette  published;  containing  twice  as  much  as  any  other  book  of 
this  size.  32mo.,  cloth,  extra,  40  cents;  do.,  gilt  edges,  full  gilt, 
illuminated  sides,  50  cents. 

FLORA'S  POCKET  DICTIONARY.  A  New  Lexicon  of  the  Lan 
guage  of  Flowers,  and  of  the  Sentiment  of  Flowers.  The  most 
complete  of  this  size  ever  published.  Just  ready.  32mo.  Cloth, 
extra,  40  cents ;  do.,  gilt  edges,  with  illuminated  side,  50  cents. 

THE  GUIDE  TO  FORTUNE ;  A  Collection  of  Receipts  of  Great 
value.  Giving  full,  plain,  and  practical  directions  for  the  manu 
facturing,  putting  up,  and  selling  of  a  great  variety  of  useful  and 
saleable  articles  needed  and  used  in  every  store,  workshop,  house 
hold,  or  farm.  Intended  to  furnish  employment  to  those  out  of 
work,  a  saving  of  labor  and  money  to  every  one,  ways  to  make 
money  fast,  &c.,  &c.  16mo.,  175  pp.  Cloth,  extra.  Price,  75  cts. 


RETURN     CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

TO— +•      202  Main  Library 


LOAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 
1-month  loans  may  be  renewed  ty  catting  642-3405 

1-y««r  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing  the  books  to  the  Circulation  r>a«% 
Renewals  and  recharges  m-iy  be  made  4  days  prior  to  due  Sate 


DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORi 
FORM  NO.  DD6,  60m,  1  783          BERKELEY,  CA  947^ 


3*"g 


l«^rs;^'-^««^"ii 


f/* 

m  & 


UNIVERSITY  OF,  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


